Saturday, July 26, 2014

Original Fiction: Boston Fog by Bosley Gravel

    I come up the narrow, cobblestoned alleyway looking for my prey. It doesn’t take long, an old
crack-whore leans against the brick wall behind a dumpster. She lifts her plastic miniskirt and
empties her bowels. I hear the wastes splatter. She squats there for a moment, dumbfounded by
what has issue:d from her gut. Finally, she grabs a bit of newspaper from a trash pile and wipes
herself. She’s got a shock of salt and pepper broom-straw on her head. She’s got old mama
orangutan tits wrapped up in a shift of polyester giraffe skin.

    “Hello,” I say. Her eyes dart, and she shows me a perfect-tooth grin when she finds me.

    “Hello handsome,” she says, scratches at her cunny, then spits. The exercise causes her to
develop a craving for a cigarette. She lights one up, blows a djinn of blue smoke that dances in
the Boston moonlight.

    “Whatcha looking for anyway, honey?”

    “What are you offering?” I ask respectfully.

    “What don’t I got? I do it all. You name it, I do it. If you aren’t into that weird stuff, I got
a cunt like a fresh-baked sweet potato,” she says proudly. “I’ve got a lot. Too much, some say,”
she continues with a cackle, “But you mean how much, don’t you? Whatever you got in your
pocket is just fine, honey.”

    I have two severed fingers wrapped in an unused condom, a city bus pass, a ring of keys,
and five single bills left over from the gentlemen’s club.

    “I have five bucks,” I say.

    She takes a long pull off her cigarette, holds it and squints at me through heavy lids. She
exhales the smoke as she speaks, “Five bucks? That will get you half a blow job.”

    “I’ll take the second half,” I say. She glares. I hold out five bills.

    “Is it enough?”

    “If that’s all you got, but I never worked for so little,” she says.

    “Nothing tragic about getting old,” I say, “unless you are trying to stay young. You’re big
– big still. It’s the god-damned world that’s gotten small, isn’t it?”

    She giggles.
    “You like them old movies?” she asks. Her cigarette is gone. “I’ll be whatever size you
want me to for the next five minutes. Better get off quick for that squib of dough. Another thing,
my manager is keeping a good eye on the situation. You do anything that hurts me, he’ll be
hurting you.”

    I nod; I can smell over her wastes that there isn’t another human being around for blocks. She spits her dentures into her hands in a gob of saliva. Her face collapses around her bruised up

    “Don’t worry, what I want doesn’t hurts,” I say and put the money in her hand, right on
top of her dentures. She sticks the whole mess in her ratty, sequined purse and hangs it neatly on
the edge of the dumpster. She finds a bit of cardboard and puts it down to keep her knees from
getting scuffed up.

    “What’s your name?” I ask.


    “No, your birth name.”

    “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s impolite to ask a working lady her name?” She scolds
me as if I’d used the meat fork on my salad. I unzip my fly.

    “I don’t do this often,” I say.

    “Right. Nobody does,” she closes her eyes and opens her mouth like I’m about to deliver
a big spoonful of cod-liver oil, “All right Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.”

    I’m in. Like any other, she is soft, warm and smooth. This is a distraction, I let her think
that these last few minutes of her life were used giving pleasure. She takes pride in this empty
act. I know this, and it is beautiful.

    I become what I am – Boston Fog. I slip between her gums, and fall over her like a sheet
of warmed silk. She gags a bit at the loss of earthly flesh between her gums. It doesn’t hurt her; I
know it doesn’t. No question. Trixie is my momentary soul mate. She may have been dreaming
of a rock for her glass pipe, but this is the first pleasure her species knew, and the last she’ll
experience. I pull out. She orgasms in great waves, confused at first, she presses her hands to her
fresh-baked sweet potato, as if she is trying to stop the uncontrollable spasms. I touch her
everywhere, her eyes roll, we are Boston Fog.

    “Sharon, my name is Sharon,” she says in a gasp.

    Her eyes go void as her body is wracked with pleasure.

    “Why?” she says emptily. Her big brown eyes glisten. The question catches me off guard.


    I don’t know why, I’m offended that she has asks. I feel the chemicals in her brain flooding
the organic machine with inverted life, inverted consciousness. What is left is a shell.
Why? is stuck in my head now – not my head, we haven’t got a head when we are fog. The
question is stuck in us, like I was in her. Why? Her body evacuates fluids from every orifice.
Humans are disgustingly moist creatures.

    “Damned if I know,” I say, “but why the fuck not?” I become corporal. I look down at
her, she looks peaceful, still – I’m glad. I take her dentures from her purse, and leave the money.

    Why? Sharon’s ghost whispers in my ear as I find my way back onto the main street. Her
company is ephemeral, this I know, and I already feel lonely. I think about going home and
getting in bed with my wife, but then I check my watch. It’s early yet, I’ll go to Chinatown and
grab some clams and black beans, and see what else the night has to offer. Then maybe, just

maybe, I’ll find the answer to Why?, out in the Boston Fog.

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