So, it's about a million degrees in my apartment and I'm sweating like Marlon Brando in "Apocalypse Now." I have the concierge's rancid, unwashed schlong in my mouth and his big perspiration-soaked beer gut banging against my forehead each time I thrust down onto his uncircumcised pant-turd. My tits are as red as springtime roses because he likes to slap at them mid-fellatio like they're bald Whack-a-Moles. It's so fucking hot I'd want to kill myself, even if I weren't in the act of committing a sexual war crime. I hear this Eastern European grunt and I know what's coming. Shit! That's my cue to rake the underside of his balls gently with my long fingernails. Two seconds later Igor (not his real name) grabs the back of my head and shoots about a gallon of toxic, viscid cock-puke into the back of my throat. It takes a super-human inner-strength to swallow this noxious nut liquid and not elegantly spew it all over his really hairy feet. Gulp. Bleck! At least it's finally over. Igor pats the top of my head and tells me I did well tonight and staggers off to drink even more vodka in his own shit dump of an abode across the hall. Thank God!
I lay there for awhile, naked and totally creeped-out on my worn-filthy carpet in a festering puddle of our combined bodily fluids. How had it come to this?
It all probably started the day I had this insane notion that I should stand up for what I believed in. It works for people in every movie I've ever seen - except for when they're assassinated by the CIA or Tony Soprano. Me? I was shit-canned with extreme prejudice. No severance. No referral. Apparently, being right isn't a defense in the corporate world. In fact, if makes them even more pissed at you. I was notified of my impending termination with, what I considered, a very uncalled for amount of glee.
So there I was, in the big heartless city, without a meaningful source of income and the rent due. While bivouacking on the rough in a hobo train yard had held some romantic allure in the halcyon days of my youth, upon further reflection as a fully grown adult, the rustic appeal of eating baked beans out of a rusty tin plate while being stung and nibbled on by piano-sized insects had somewhat dimmed. Even the desperately humble surroundings of my God-awful apartment looked sumptuous when contrasted with curling up around a billabong for warmth and sustenance. And believe me, my ultra-drab two rooms and a toilet were nothing to write the Queen about. Besides being cramped, damp and badly furnished, the decor was nothing short of cruel. The bad-acid-flashback floral pattern combined with its grisly, bordering-on-psychotic color scheme would have wiped the smile of a synchronized swimmer. Okay I'll admit it, I actually had a few one-night-stands, just so I wouldn't have to wake up in the morning and see that fucking wallpaper. But, even with all that said, I still coveted some sort of living arrangement that didn't require me to wear clothes fashioned out of tree bark. I'm funny that way.
Oh, I suppose I could have eaten the spiritual equivalent of cold vomit and gone back to my old firm in the hopes of reclaiming my former executive-assistant position... In fact, as the days of the month ticked down to a precious few, I did just that. I unashamedly chowed down on several large buckets' worth of the fridgiest chunk-lumps before my former "superiors" but to no avail. The inescapable problem was I couldn't take back the fact that I was right. You can apologize and cry and beg forgiveness if you were wrong but if you were right... They'd always know that you knew that they didn't know what the fuck they were talking about and that they could not forgive. Soon afterwards, I was offered and accepted an exceedingly prestigious position as a pancake waitress. My Dickensian salary barely covered all the extra syrup-removing spray I required.
As luck would have it, the exceedingly unremunerative month in question only had 30 days in it, so I was forced to knock on Ceausescu's (not his real name) door 24 hours before I was fully physically and spiritually prepared for the ordeal before me.
I had never really gotten on well with the manager of my building. Mostly because I was an attractive young woman and he was a leering, smelly, rumpot pervert. There has not yet been a soap devised, capable of washing the icky, grimy, unclean feeling off your skin after being trapped in his foul and fetid company. I am positive that my provocatively delicate underthings have many times been unspeakably violated and the helpless victims of dastardly and licentious liberties taken by that corpulent Iron Curtain troll. Not while I was wearing them, you understand. He had a key! Every morning, before putting on my unmentionables, I would have to inspect the cottony pouch for signs of greasy fingerprints. Yuck! I thought I was living in hell. But I was actually residing in a gold-plated penthouse suite at the Four Seasons compared to what was about to befall me.
Light knock. Even lighter knock. I almost turned away but I could hear one of his thunderous farts from within. It felt like I had a school of freshly-netted North Atlantic haddock flopping around in my stomach as the door slowly cracked open. God! The stink that ran out of that place and straight up my nose. It left me considerably disoriented and gasping for non-poisonous air.
"What you want? Got rent?" he politely enquired.
What kind of unholy gag-inducing goulash was he cooking in there? I couldn't really tell, because my eyes were gushing like a New Zealand geyser, but I'm sure he was staring right down my top. Not a time to get offended, though. I put on a bright, friendly smile and responded in a warm and cheery voice. "Sorry to bother you at this hour, Mr. Pankevich," (his real name) "but I'm afraid due to circumstances way, way beyond my control, that my rent money maybe a little late this month."
"Get on your knees."
This wasn't quite the charitable response I was hoping for. I was pleading to the stars that I was misunderstanding his meaning. "Excuse me?"
"You get down on knees. You suck my cock, you stay. No suck, I break down door and throw your shit out onto street myself."
Well, thanks a whole fucking bunch, stars!
I did what any self-respecting woman would do in that sort of intolerable situation. I told him to fuck off and slapped his bloated face and ran back to my apartment in tears.
It was only when I was a couple of Tuborg Golds into a six-pack that I began to rethink my appropriate but perhaps a mite strident response. If I called my father for money, he'd just sensibly tell me to come home. I'm a girl; I had a lot of shit. I didn't really want it all over the street. Tuborg Gold number 3. My friends were all broke and lived in depressingly small places. Tuborg Gold number 4. I'd make a really, really bad roommate, anyway. Tuborg Gold number 5. Surely he'd only want me to do it once for a month's rent. I mean, I'm really cute and I've received some very laudatory reviews over the years for my "gifting of head". Tuborg Gold number 6. Food probably tastes really shitty out of a billabong.
So, I staggered back across the hallway and knocked on Mephistopheles' door. When he finally swung it open, he was wearing a rather unfetching bathrobe and nary a stitch underneath and the hastily-tied, frayed and faded belt had failed to conceal his gruesome modesty. Yikes! This procedure was going to be a tad more distasteful than I had envisioned while polishing off my Scandinavian grog. .
"What the fuck do you think the time it is?" he greeted me.
"I am so sorry to bother you at this late hour Mr. Pankevich, sir. But I felt that I should not delay in saying to you my apologies for the regrettable but hopefully forgivable actions of me, earlier this evening." Okay, it wasn't perfect English, but my brain was sloshing around in a lake of lager and his stinky weenie was getting larger as I babbled on! Ewwwww!
This Snidely Whiplash smile cracked his turgid, unshaved chops and he once again leered at my feminine party favors. "So, you got no money?"
"No sir, I don't. Not at the moment." I was almost looking forward to getting down on my knees because standing in my present condition was becoming progressively arduous. "But if you were to give me just the smallest amount of time..."
"Take off clothes."
