Spike and Mike: Return to Santa Cruz and SF
I was trained now. I was a crew leader. My crew in Santa Cruz consisted of Patrick. Spike would come for a while and leave again. There was none of the insanity that we’d had in Costa Mesa. We’d sneak home to Sacramento to see our friends, have breakfast at our favorite places, and maybe sneak Bryna or my brother James back with us.
Spike met James and thought he was the greatest. He immediately dubbed him Baby Huey for his baby face and considerable size and the nickname was not preliminary. It stuck. Spike hired James to drive his ass around a couple of weekends allowing me to continue working with Patrick instead being Spike’s Bitch. James loved it, getting lunch bought for him and hanging out with a loud crazy character.
Patrick, now renamed the unimaginative moniker Blue Hair for his perfect blue pompadore was not as fond of Spike but luckily they didn’t work together too often.
Other than Spike patrick had taken to the Spike and Mike lifestyle. He loved negotiating for free shit with the Spike Bucks and he did much better than Dan had when it came to meeting girls. He didn’t go any further than our hotel. Rabbit (she’d been Jessica before Spike got a hold of her name) worked the front counter and lived nearby in a funky old house that had been converted to apartments.
Our friend Ron-Jon was staying in Santa Cruz or in the hills nearby and we ran into him while having breakfast at Zacharie’s. He became a regular at our heated pools. Life in Santa Cruz was relaxing, delightful and uneventful. Days of flyering with a good friend, nights of floating around the pool and then reading for an hour or two before bed. We dressed Patrick and drag one night, and he was gorgeous. There’s not a straight man on the planet who couldn’t be tricked into checking out Patrick’s ass when he was made up. Spike freaked and locked himself in his room which was great for us.
Of course this idylic life couldn’t last. James now a full time employee, would head to San Francisco with me where we would join Frank and Homes promoting the SF Show. Patrick would stay behind, Spike’s Bitch.
James and I would be sharing a room at The Savoy Hotel. I’ve never been to New York’s legendary Chelsea Hotel, but when Leonard Cohen sings of getting head there, I picture him getting head at the Savoy. The Savoy was the kind of cool old slightly run down hotel where Leonard Cohen would get head.
We were on the second floor and I loved the old elevator with the iron gate. James and I, sharing a tiny space and getting along well was a sign that we were indeed growing up.
The hotel was around the corner from Market Street and not far from North Beach. Two locations offering nude dancing in a variety of settings. This was a part of San Francisco we’d not explored on my first visit. We were staying just outside of town on a house boat and we had plenty of distractions.
On one of our first nights in town Frank, Homes, James and I were in Northbeach passing the attractive women who tried to lure us into whatever stip club they were parked in front of. When one of them ran out onto the sidewalks screaming “Oh my god! Candy lit her nippple on fire” my first thought was, there’s at least two girls who could do our job more effectively than us.
Eventually I was left alone long enough to check out a few of these clubs. I’ve never been one to enjoy this kind of entertainment with a group of rowdy buddies. I was the pathetic goon who wanted the full sensory overload of having the attention of a beautiful gyrating naked woman, seeming in lust with me to point of losing all control, all to myself. When I got the first flash of nipple, or a particular well executed pelvic thrust I felt many needs, but the need to high five a guy pal was not one of them.
The first club I checked out was The Lusty Lady, a great place to start. My heart beat fast and my palms sweat, I got a small head ache and a dry toungue all just walking through the door. The fear of being seen, by who I don’t know and the anticipation of what might be in found inside was overwhelming. Walking past the man at the door, the guy or girl at the change counter only heightened the anxiety, knowing that they knew, that you were here to oggle naked woman, to pay for a sexual experience, and quite likely to masterbate in public. Stopping at the change counter was not considered an option for a moment. I’d enter prepared.
I locked myself into a closet with a box window that was obstructed bya black slide. Next to the window was a box of tissues which said, quite clearly, go ahead, we know whatt you’re here to do. I slide a dollar into the small box and the window covering moved out of my way permitting me to view three of four girls dancing together in a small room with poles and mirrors. I was sharing the view with a dozen or more other men in other little closets. I noticed I could see some of their faces reflecting in the mirrors covered the back wall. I moved back so that my face would be hidden in shadows. The dancers did an excellent job of giving each window attention. I was hard as a rock when a tall thin asian girl made her way to my window. As she straightened her legs and bent at the waist, sliding her hands the length of her, I began to think aobut the tissues. She turned around facing me and squatted, putting us at eye level. She looked down towards my crotch and bit her lip, raising her eyebrows. She was telling me to do what I was so badly wanting to do.
My window covering came down. I scambled for another dollar, my headache now a fever in the front of my skull warming my face and neck and ears. I got the dollar in, and I was thilled to find her waiting for me. She knew she had me. She know I wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet. A third dollar was spent and the box of tissues was used.
The blind dropped and I was back in the little closet, in the dark. Alone. Only then did I think about what I might be standing on, or in, or under. I got out, tissues in my pocket, having left no trace of my wretched filthy nature for the mop boy, and I blended back in with the crowd on the street, the cool SF air against my forehead bringing me back to a normal temperature.
I told Bryna of my adventures and she was fascinated. I thought of what a delight it would be to have her with me in the little closet. Of course in my imaginings the closet could be made of surgical steel, freshly cleaned and never before used.
I was glad I had the experience, but also concerned about it becoming addictive. I was used to a fairly active sex life living in the same town as my sweetie. Now I was sharing a tiny room with my brother. Even a quick solo flight was difficult to manage. It wasn’t long before I took a walk to Market street to check out another club. I told my self it was all exploration, research, science even, but I had a strange deal with myself not to go to the same place twice.
I entered the club near Market and 9th. It was in a much seedier neighborhood than the Lusty. As I entered there were a series of doors and a girl standing next to each door would invite you inside for a private show. I accepted an invite from a pretty, wholesome looking brunette. I slid a five dollar bill into the machine and the window came up.
“Hi!” She was on a bed that was raised to be level with the window. There were several sex toys on display which seemed to imply more for sale than I’d figured was legal, even with glass between us. Though only a couple hours drive from Sacramento this was truly a different world. “How are you?”
Oh shit. I had to talk. “Um, hi, fine I mean, I’m fine.”
“I can take off some cloths if you’d like to tip me.” She pointed at a slot in the window that would allow me to slide money straight to her. “We don’t get the money that goes in the machine. We work for tips.”
I slid five bucks through the slot and I got a smile. The smile had cost me almost three times more than I’d spent at the lusty, where I’d gotten much more than a smile even with many small closets to divide the girl’s attention.
“What’s you name?” My name? Why the hell did she want to know my name. Wasn’t anonymoty the fun part here. I wasn’t looking for a pretend girlfriend, I was looking for a for real stranger.
“John” I answered hoping the obviousness would let her know where I was coming from.
“Hi John. I’m Candy.” I wondered if she’d ever lit her niples on fire but I resisted asking. She slid her night gown off her shoulders.
“Are you religious?”
“What? No! No I’m not really, at all." Why the hell was she asking that? "Why are you asking that?”
She pointed at my t-shirt featuring many images of the Virgin Mary and various alter boys.
“Oh. I just like icons.” Please, please, please, go back to taking off your clothes.
“I’m religious. See, I wear my cross.” She showed me her cross. “Some people think It’s hypocritical to work a job like this and be Christian but I think god made my body beautiful and he wouldn’t mind people enjoying it.”
So then why don’t you allow me to enjoy it now, for the love of God! It’s not that I was disinterested in getting to know this person. I was actually fascinated by these women and would have loved to have sat down for a cup of coffee with her, but not now. Not while I was paying ten bucks for five lousy minutes.
I didn’t say much as she told me where she was from and how she’d ended up in SF. The small window blind came down.
And some stupid part of my brain took over. The fever could not be in vain. I shoved another five dollar bill in the machine. The blind went up.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk away all your time. You just seem so nice. You seem smart and you’re a good listener.”
I smiled, but I was less flattered than I might have been in a different setting. I was relieved to discover that she apparently was not completely clueless to why I was there.
“You want to slide another five dollars in.”
My eyes grew huge. She wanted another tip. I had tipped her last time, and I received nothing. If I could have made the machine spit up my five dollar bill I would have tried another window, but it was too late. In for a penny in for a pound. I continued my silence as I slid another five to her.
“My mom doesn’t know I do this. I want to tell her, and I’m sure she’d understand, but I’m worried that she’d freak out.”
She Was Continuing Her Story?! I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t decide if she was that lonely and deserved my sympathy or if she was playing me like a pro. If she was playing me, as would seem the only likely expaination, she was a damn fine actress. She should be getting millions for such a performance. Flowers, Oscars, Malibu mansions. I waited, patiently and when that window came down I got out fast. I would not be there when she returned to her perch to seduce another victim and surely to share with the other girls her tale of the moron who coughed up twenty bucks for a bit of chat.
As I left the little room I forgot which way was out. Looking right and left I noticed a series of booths in semi-circle with a 25 cents sign above them. They had a set up like the Lusty’s tucked in the back of the club. The fever would be appeased.
I walked back, and I noticed green lights above every door. I would have the lovely ladies on the stage all to myself. Three of them crowding in front of my window. I pulled out a quarter to start with, but then I though better and slid a buck in.
The blind came up. There, on the stage leaning against the mirrored wall was a midget, smoking a cigarette, a lone midget, in lingerie. She saw that the blind had come up and after stepping on her cigarette she made her way to me. I’m a nice guy. I don’t like to hurt anyone’s feelings and I realize that midget’s are just people, like anyone else. But they’re not people that I find myself physically, sexually attracted to. But because I’m a nice guy, I worried about hurting this small woman’s feelings, so I stayed, and I looked.
She reached my window and in a raspy, cigarette fueled voice reminiscent of The New York Dolls’ lead singer David Johanson she spoke to me.
“So, you wanna see me touch my thing.”
I certainly did not want to see her touch her thing, unless by think she meant her ear. That would be okay, but it seemed unlikely. I was frozen. I looked dead ahead and as she continued waiting for a response, I smiled a weak smile. She seemed to understand somewhat, but not enough to keep from gyrating her body as I stood, trapped in the box for what seemed like many more minutes of torture than a dollar should have paid for. I was twenty bucks in and wondered for a second if… maybe… I took another look. No. I was done. The blind came down, and I left. I had to walk past the damn Christian hustler on my way out but I avoided her eyes. I was done with women who get naked for money I promised myself.
Spike had gone home to take care of some business and Patrick joined us in S.F. I flew down to San Diego to drive Spike back up. I met Spike at his house and he showed me all his collectibles, making me rate each poster or toy according to how cool it was. Was the Coop print signed by Coop cooler than the Mad Magazine with the middle finger cover, less cool than the original pressing of The Stone’s “Their Satanic Majesties Request” album with holographic cover?
My favorite was the small plastic statue of the pin up girl in a skirt and tight blouse advertising girdles. Spike told me to keep it. Then of course he asked me to go to the vet and pick up his cat Bert. I was happy to do so.
I have no idea what Bert was in for but he had been drugged and was groggy and mean. Luckily he was in a carrier. I got him home and Spike suggested I let him out in the kitchen. I did so, but I kept an eye on him. He was out for blood having already drunkenly swatted at me twice. He somehow lifted his considerable bulk up onto the counter top of Spike’s kitchen and squatted. Bert squeezed out one, tiny little pebble of cat shit. And then hopped back down and passed out beneath the kitchen table.
“What’s that?” Spike asked as he entered the kitchen.
I was washing dishes after helping myself to some of Spike’s food. “Oh that’s chocolate.” I answered without turning around. I watched in the reflection of a freshly cleaned pot as Spike scooped up the ‘chocolate’ and tossed it in his mouth.
Now, I knew Spike had just put cat shit in his mouth and almost instantly Spike knew that he’d just put cat shit in his mouth. But Spike did not know that I knew, that he’d put cat shit in his mouth. He made his way to the sink, and tried to be casual as he motioned me to step aside. He leaned over the sink and started rinsing his mouth out trying to be as mellow about it as he could. I had to let him have it, if for no other reason than to let him get a proper rinsing done.
“SHIT EATER! You’re a shit eater. You just at cat shit.” I was laughing so hard tears streamed down my cheeks.
Spike rinsed with great verve now, spitting and rinsing, and spitting again. “Fuck you Jensie.” His clever retort.
We drove up to San Francisco with Scottie the next day. I did not mention the "chocolate" and I wouldn’t, at least not until we reached our destination at which point I would hurry to James and I’s room, call Patrick in and share the story in slow, glorious and perhaps embellished detail.
Patrick needed this story. He’d become Stick Boy as Blue Hair no longer fit. Spike laid into him constantly and he was not successful in his attempts not to let it get to him. As we sat at a café that night Spike asked Stick boy why anyone would take a flyer from his gloomy ass.
Stick Boy just smiled at him and asked, “What was that, Shit Eater?”
Spike was not one to dish it out without expecting payback and it is to his credit that he put up with his new nickname. In fact he showed so little response the name failed to stick. But the story provided relief for Patrick whenever things go too heavy.
Spike’s first response to the story was to decide I was a spaz and give me a new nickname, Ritalin. Durring one of our long drives I’d told him that I had refused to take my ritalin when I was a kid. He would mention this everytime he thought I was getting a bit too excited and then after we started calling him Shit Eater he made it my official moniker. I loved it.
His second response was to try and find a worse story about me that he could tell. I helped him. We were walking down Haight, Spike, James and I, Spike giving me grief about looking like a preppy.
“You need to ditch that shirt Ritalin. You look like a college boy. Who wants to go to the College Boy Festival of Animation?”
The spare change kids had changed or I had or both but the ratio of little idiots to nice happy camping kids was way out of wack. I went to flyer two Asian girls and not speaking English they didn’t understand what the hell I wanted. A crusty panhandler jumped up and yelled at them in mock Chinese, or Vietnames or some stange combination.
“Ho chi wong dong kung dung pow bitch.”
The girls ran off scared out of their wits and I confronted the crusty. “What the fuck was that you little asshole?”
“You calling me an asshole?”
“You are an asshole. That was totally lame.”
He kept yelling and carrying on as Spike and James got further down the road. I decided to just leave it be so I turned to split but the kid pushed me. I turned and punched him in the face. This put him on the ground and made me feel bad. He looked like he was fine so I kept walking. I caught up with Spike and James just as the kid caught up with me.
“I’m gonna kick your ass!” he was screaming. Spike and James are both broad shouldered intimidating looking guys and they puffed up and told him to fuck off, which he did for a moment. We started walking again, but then, as I was halfway across and intersection, standing in the street, he shoved me again. I turned with my fist ready.
“Dude, your nose is bleeding. I don’t want to hit you again.”
He tried to kick me but his baggy pants stopped his foot literally halfway to his target, my balls. I started laughing and continued walking. Than I heard a primal crazy scream. I turned to see him running up the street after me again. I had just passed another panhandling kid who jumped up and caught the crusty before he reached me slamming him against a storefront window which somehow didn’t break.
“He called me an asshole!” the kid yelled.
“Well you are an asshole.” His friend contered. I kept walking. Thing were in good hands.
Spike took the story and ran with it. “Ritalin punched some homeless kid.” Came first. Then it was, “Shit, Ritalin can’t stop punching people, employees, crippled homeless kids…” eventually it evolved to “So this homeless guy in a wheelchair tries to hand Ritalin a flower and Ritalin goes crazy and punches him right in his face.”
I took the story over from there. “Yeah, it was great. I hit him and the chair goes flying backwards down one of them steep SF streets, and he’s trying to communicate through the little speak and spell box cuz he’s like a Stephan Hawking type guy but he’s hitting the wrong button and the box keeps going ‘masterbate, masterbate, masterbate’ and I’m thinking, damn, whats he need that word for anyway.” Spike the Shit Eater gave up and just waited for the cat shit eating story to die.
One night Spike pulled out papers for everyone to sign. Jan in the office had apparently jumped ship and was now working with a Manga animation festival that would attempt to break the S&M monopoly. We were to pledge our alliance, vowing not to work for Manga for at least five years after leaving the employ of Spike and Mike. I helped Spike make copies of the document and distribute the document and retrieve the document. All my help distracted him from my not signing the document. I would never work for his competition, but I resented having to promise not to. When I was younger I’d have fought him, but instead I became an evil collaborator, keeping myself out of the process while giving up my buddies. My union man dad had evenentually become part of management. I had already held four times as many jobs as he would hold in his life, but we weren’t so different after all.
James, Patrick, Homes and Frank would be heading up to Van Couver. I was happy for James and Patrick getting to go to that amazing city and I was glad to see Patrick get away from Spike for awhile.
It was just Spike and I in S.F. for the final couple of weeks of the show. Seizing the opportunity while it still presented itself walked into The Mitchell Brother’s O’Farrel Theatre, where woman took off their clothes for money. I had never head of The Mitchell Brothers, producer’s of The Green Door. I didn’t know that one Mitchell was at that moment sitting in prison having shot the other Mitchell to death. I just knew that this was not a room full of booths and I was ready to try something else.
I had a seat and Hot Lips Hoolihan was on me in a heart beat. “Hi sweetie.” She greeted me taking the other seat at the small table. She had green short shorts, a tight green top and a resemblence to the character from the TV series MASH that had starred in almost as many of my teenage fantasies as Barabara Eden.
“Hello.” I really didn’t like taking with my dry throat and sweatie hands. A waitress approached and whispered something to hot lips, looking unhappy. The waitress left.
“I’m not supposed to talk to you until they have a chance to sell you some booze.” She told me. “Would you like me to come back.”
I told her I most certainly would. I bought a five dollar draft beer from the moody waiteress and Hot Lips was back. I noticed the younger skinnier girls giving her cold looks. I had a type and older and curvier was it. That she was pushy in order to compete with the eating disabled was okay with me.
“How would you like a dance?”
“How much.”
“Twenty bucks for one song.”
I’d spent twenty at the last place for nothing, but I’d also already spent five getting in this place and five more on the beer. This was becoming expensive. “Sure.” I handed her twenty.
She took my hand and pulled me away from the table. “What are you doing?”
“You get your dance in private.”
It was only then that I noticed the doors leading into another room. The back room was divided up by curtains into small booths each with a chair in the center. Hot lips strutted as she escorted me back. She got her top off and she showed off that gorgerous ass just barely contained by her army green shorts. The song ended with her belly inches from my face. My hand did not check with my brain before handing her another twenty. She then slid to here knees in front of and grabbed my cock through my pants!
“Give me forty bucks and I’ll suck you off right here!”
This was not a situation I’d meant to be in. I had sought out an environment where I could be safely teased and tantalized with no real temptation. Now I had a beautiful older woman on her knees in front of me, squeezing my cock and offering to suck it. Men do not say no to such offers. Not when there is forty bucks sitting in their pockets just a foot away and rent is paid.
“No. Thank you but no.”
She pouted and squeezed tighter. “I’ll suck it good.”
I certainly didn’t want to offend her. “I, um, I don’t have forty dollars.”
“What have you got baby?”
“Nothing. I have no money left. I’m flat broke. I’m sorry.” She rose quickly to her feet and continued the dance with no less enthusiasm than before. I sat there frozen. And then, as she heard the song coming to an end she leaned forward, putting my face between her breasts, and shaking back and forth she beat the shit out of me with with them.
The song ended, she stood up straight. I got one last look at he perfect pin up girl body as she pulled her little t-shirt back on. “Baby, you’ve been bopped by the best.”
I wandered out of there in a daze. I had certainly met an unsual woman. I continued to wonder if the “bopping” was meant to be hostile or a treat. I have yet to decide if it was hostile or a treat.
Being alone with Spike meant it was easy to sneak out of town in his BMW at night. I’d just about double the speed limit making it to Sacrameno in an hour. I’d spend the night pressed up against Bryna, rising at 6am to make it back to SF in time to take Scotty out for his morning dump.
Each night the same thing. “Jensie, you taking the car to Sac.”
“Spike, I hadn’t thought of that. That’s a great idea.”
“You’d better not Jensie. I know the odometer reading. I can ask the garage if they had my car all night.”
He could have done any of these things. But he didn’t. He knew what I was up to, no doubt about it. He wouldn’t give me permission but he wouldn’t stop me. It was a typical Spike arrangement and I did my part. I took Scottie for walks, and picked up poop, without bitching, and I stayed out way later than I wanted to on the nights when Spike was flirting with some poor girl.
The boys in Van Couver would be pulled out and Spike needed me to go up alone and see to the shows final weekend. I would have four days to sell shirts, collect money from the theatre and MC the show. No promoting necessary and my days free to explore. I couldn’t wait.
>>>Go to next story, Shit Eater and Mike, Vancouver (again)>>>
Spike met James and thought he was the greatest. He immediately dubbed him Baby Huey for his baby face and considerable size and the nickname was not preliminary. It stuck. Spike hired James to drive his ass around a couple of weekends allowing me to continue working with Patrick instead being Spike’s Bitch. James loved it, getting lunch bought for him and hanging out with a loud crazy character.
Patrick, now renamed the unimaginative moniker Blue Hair for his perfect blue pompadore was not as fond of Spike but luckily they didn’t work together too often.
Other than Spike patrick had taken to the Spike and Mike lifestyle. He loved negotiating for free shit with the Spike Bucks and he did much better than Dan had when it came to meeting girls. He didn’t go any further than our hotel. Rabbit (she’d been Jessica before Spike got a hold of her name) worked the front counter and lived nearby in a funky old house that had been converted to apartments.
Our friend Ron-Jon was staying in Santa Cruz or in the hills nearby and we ran into him while having breakfast at Zacharie’s. He became a regular at our heated pools. Life in Santa Cruz was relaxing, delightful and uneventful. Days of flyering with a good friend, nights of floating around the pool and then reading for an hour or two before bed. We dressed Patrick and drag one night, and he was gorgeous. There’s not a straight man on the planet who couldn’t be tricked into checking out Patrick’s ass when he was made up. Spike freaked and locked himself in his room which was great for us.
Of course this idylic life couldn’t last. James now a full time employee, would head to San Francisco with me where we would join Frank and Homes promoting the SF Show. Patrick would stay behind, Spike’s Bitch.
James and I would be sharing a room at The Savoy Hotel. I’ve never been to New York’s legendary Chelsea Hotel, but when Leonard Cohen sings of getting head there, I picture him getting head at the Savoy. The Savoy was the kind of cool old slightly run down hotel where Leonard Cohen would get head.
We were on the second floor and I loved the old elevator with the iron gate. James and I, sharing a tiny space and getting along well was a sign that we were indeed growing up.
The hotel was around the corner from Market Street and not far from North Beach. Two locations offering nude dancing in a variety of settings. This was a part of San Francisco we’d not explored on my first visit. We were staying just outside of town on a house boat and we had plenty of distractions.
On one of our first nights in town Frank, Homes, James and I were in Northbeach passing the attractive women who tried to lure us into whatever stip club they were parked in front of. When one of them ran out onto the sidewalks screaming “Oh my god! Candy lit her nippple on fire” my first thought was, there’s at least two girls who could do our job more effectively than us.
Eventually I was left alone long enough to check out a few of these clubs. I’ve never been one to enjoy this kind of entertainment with a group of rowdy buddies. I was the pathetic goon who wanted the full sensory overload of having the attention of a beautiful gyrating naked woman, seeming in lust with me to point of losing all control, all to myself. When I got the first flash of nipple, or a particular well executed pelvic thrust I felt many needs, but the need to high five a guy pal was not one of them.
The first club I checked out was The Lusty Lady, a great place to start. My heart beat fast and my palms sweat, I got a small head ache and a dry toungue all just walking through the door. The fear of being seen, by who I don’t know and the anticipation of what might be in found inside was overwhelming. Walking past the man at the door, the guy or girl at the change counter only heightened the anxiety, knowing that they knew, that you were here to oggle naked woman, to pay for a sexual experience, and quite likely to masterbate in public. Stopping at the change counter was not considered an option for a moment. I’d enter prepared.
I locked myself into a closet with a box window that was obstructed bya black slide. Next to the window was a box of tissues which said, quite clearly, go ahead, we know whatt you’re here to do. I slide a dollar into the small box and the window covering moved out of my way permitting me to view three of four girls dancing together in a small room with poles and mirrors. I was sharing the view with a dozen or more other men in other little closets. I noticed I could see some of their faces reflecting in the mirrors covered the back wall. I moved back so that my face would be hidden in shadows. The dancers did an excellent job of giving each window attention. I was hard as a rock when a tall thin asian girl made her way to my window. As she straightened her legs and bent at the waist, sliding her hands the length of her, I began to think aobut the tissues. She turned around facing me and squatted, putting us at eye level. She looked down towards my crotch and bit her lip, raising her eyebrows. She was telling me to do what I was so badly wanting to do.
My window covering came down. I scambled for another dollar, my headache now a fever in the front of my skull warming my face and neck and ears. I got the dollar in, and I was thilled to find her waiting for me. She knew she had me. She know I wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet. A third dollar was spent and the box of tissues was used.
The blind dropped and I was back in the little closet, in the dark. Alone. Only then did I think about what I might be standing on, or in, or under. I got out, tissues in my pocket, having left no trace of my wretched filthy nature for the mop boy, and I blended back in with the crowd on the street, the cool SF air against my forehead bringing me back to a normal temperature.
I told Bryna of my adventures and she was fascinated. I thought of what a delight it would be to have her with me in the little closet. Of course in my imaginings the closet could be made of surgical steel, freshly cleaned and never before used.
I was glad I had the experience, but also concerned about it becoming addictive. I was used to a fairly active sex life living in the same town as my sweetie. Now I was sharing a tiny room with my brother. Even a quick solo flight was difficult to manage. It wasn’t long before I took a walk to Market street to check out another club. I told my self it was all exploration, research, science even, but I had a strange deal with myself not to go to the same place twice.
I entered the club near Market and 9th. It was in a much seedier neighborhood than the Lusty. As I entered there were a series of doors and a girl standing next to each door would invite you inside for a private show. I accepted an invite from a pretty, wholesome looking brunette. I slid a five dollar bill into the machine and the window came up.
“Hi!” She was on a bed that was raised to be level with the window. There were several sex toys on display which seemed to imply more for sale than I’d figured was legal, even with glass between us. Though only a couple hours drive from Sacramento this was truly a different world. “How are you?”
Oh shit. I had to talk. “Um, hi, fine I mean, I’m fine.”
“I can take off some cloths if you’d like to tip me.” She pointed at a slot in the window that would allow me to slide money straight to her. “We don’t get the money that goes in the machine. We work for tips.”
I slid five bucks through the slot and I got a smile. The smile had cost me almost three times more than I’d spent at the lusty, where I’d gotten much more than a smile even with many small closets to divide the girl’s attention.
“What’s you name?” My name? Why the hell did she want to know my name. Wasn’t anonymoty the fun part here. I wasn’t looking for a pretend girlfriend, I was looking for a for real stranger.
“John” I answered hoping the obviousness would let her know where I was coming from.
“Hi John. I’m Candy.” I wondered if she’d ever lit her niples on fire but I resisted asking. She slid her night gown off her shoulders.
“Are you religious?”
“What? No! No I’m not really, at all." Why the hell was she asking that? "Why are you asking that?”
She pointed at my t-shirt featuring many images of the Virgin Mary and various alter boys.
“Oh. I just like icons.” Please, please, please, go back to taking off your clothes.
“I’m religious. See, I wear my cross.” She showed me her cross. “Some people think It’s hypocritical to work a job like this and be Christian but I think god made my body beautiful and he wouldn’t mind people enjoying it.”
So then why don’t you allow me to enjoy it now, for the love of God! It’s not that I was disinterested in getting to know this person. I was actually fascinated by these women and would have loved to have sat down for a cup of coffee with her, but not now. Not while I was paying ten bucks for five lousy minutes.
I didn’t say much as she told me where she was from and how she’d ended up in SF. The small window blind came down.
And some stupid part of my brain took over. The fever could not be in vain. I shoved another five dollar bill in the machine. The blind went up.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk away all your time. You just seem so nice. You seem smart and you’re a good listener.”
I smiled, but I was less flattered than I might have been in a different setting. I was relieved to discover that she apparently was not completely clueless to why I was there.
“You want to slide another five dollars in.”
My eyes grew huge. She wanted another tip. I had tipped her last time, and I received nothing. If I could have made the machine spit up my five dollar bill I would have tried another window, but it was too late. In for a penny in for a pound. I continued my silence as I slid another five to her.
“My mom doesn’t know I do this. I want to tell her, and I’m sure she’d understand, but I’m worried that she’d freak out.”
She Was Continuing Her Story?! I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t decide if she was that lonely and deserved my sympathy or if she was playing me like a pro. If she was playing me, as would seem the only likely expaination, she was a damn fine actress. She should be getting millions for such a performance. Flowers, Oscars, Malibu mansions. I waited, patiently and when that window came down I got out fast. I would not be there when she returned to her perch to seduce another victim and surely to share with the other girls her tale of the moron who coughed up twenty bucks for a bit of chat.
As I left the little room I forgot which way was out. Looking right and left I noticed a series of booths in semi-circle with a 25 cents sign above them. They had a set up like the Lusty’s tucked in the back of the club. The fever would be appeased.
I walked back, and I noticed green lights above every door. I would have the lovely ladies on the stage all to myself. Three of them crowding in front of my window. I pulled out a quarter to start with, but then I though better and slid a buck in.
The blind came up. There, on the stage leaning against the mirrored wall was a midget, smoking a cigarette, a lone midget, in lingerie. She saw that the blind had come up and after stepping on her cigarette she made her way to me. I’m a nice guy. I don’t like to hurt anyone’s feelings and I realize that midget’s are just people, like anyone else. But they’re not people that I find myself physically, sexually attracted to. But because I’m a nice guy, I worried about hurting this small woman’s feelings, so I stayed, and I looked.
She reached my window and in a raspy, cigarette fueled voice reminiscent of The New York Dolls’ lead singer David Johanson she spoke to me.
“So, you wanna see me touch my thing.”
I certainly did not want to see her touch her thing, unless by think she meant her ear. That would be okay, but it seemed unlikely. I was frozen. I looked dead ahead and as she continued waiting for a response, I smiled a weak smile. She seemed to understand somewhat, but not enough to keep from gyrating her body as I stood, trapped in the box for what seemed like many more minutes of torture than a dollar should have paid for. I was twenty bucks in and wondered for a second if… maybe… I took another look. No. I was done. The blind came down, and I left. I had to walk past the damn Christian hustler on my way out but I avoided her eyes. I was done with women who get naked for money I promised myself.
Spike had gone home to take care of some business and Patrick joined us in S.F. I flew down to San Diego to drive Spike back up. I met Spike at his house and he showed me all his collectibles, making me rate each poster or toy according to how cool it was. Was the Coop print signed by Coop cooler than the Mad Magazine with the middle finger cover, less cool than the original pressing of The Stone’s “Their Satanic Majesties Request” album with holographic cover?
My favorite was the small plastic statue of the pin up girl in a skirt and tight blouse advertising girdles. Spike told me to keep it. Then of course he asked me to go to the vet and pick up his cat Bert. I was happy to do so.
I have no idea what Bert was in for but he had been drugged and was groggy and mean. Luckily he was in a carrier. I got him home and Spike suggested I let him out in the kitchen. I did so, but I kept an eye on him. He was out for blood having already drunkenly swatted at me twice. He somehow lifted his considerable bulk up onto the counter top of Spike’s kitchen and squatted. Bert squeezed out one, tiny little pebble of cat shit. And then hopped back down and passed out beneath the kitchen table.
“What’s that?” Spike asked as he entered the kitchen.
I was washing dishes after helping myself to some of Spike’s food. “Oh that’s chocolate.” I answered without turning around. I watched in the reflection of a freshly cleaned pot as Spike scooped up the ‘chocolate’ and tossed it in his mouth.
Now, I knew Spike had just put cat shit in his mouth and almost instantly Spike knew that he’d just put cat shit in his mouth. But Spike did not know that I knew, that he’d put cat shit in his mouth. He made his way to the sink, and tried to be casual as he motioned me to step aside. He leaned over the sink and started rinsing his mouth out trying to be as mellow about it as he could. I had to let him have it, if for no other reason than to let him get a proper rinsing done.
“SHIT EATER! You’re a shit eater. You just at cat shit.” I was laughing so hard tears streamed down my cheeks.
Spike rinsed with great verve now, spitting and rinsing, and spitting again. “Fuck you Jensie.” His clever retort.
We drove up to San Francisco with Scottie the next day. I did not mention the "chocolate" and I wouldn’t, at least not until we reached our destination at which point I would hurry to James and I’s room, call Patrick in and share the story in slow, glorious and perhaps embellished detail.
Patrick needed this story. He’d become Stick Boy as Blue Hair no longer fit. Spike laid into him constantly and he was not successful in his attempts not to let it get to him. As we sat at a café that night Spike asked Stick boy why anyone would take a flyer from his gloomy ass.
Stick Boy just smiled at him and asked, “What was that, Shit Eater?”
Spike was not one to dish it out without expecting payback and it is to his credit that he put up with his new nickname. In fact he showed so little response the name failed to stick. But the story provided relief for Patrick whenever things go too heavy.
Spike’s first response to the story was to decide I was a spaz and give me a new nickname, Ritalin. Durring one of our long drives I’d told him that I had refused to take my ritalin when I was a kid. He would mention this everytime he thought I was getting a bit too excited and then after we started calling him Shit Eater he made it my official moniker. I loved it.
His second response was to try and find a worse story about me that he could tell. I helped him. We were walking down Haight, Spike, James and I, Spike giving me grief about looking like a preppy.
“You need to ditch that shirt Ritalin. You look like a college boy. Who wants to go to the College Boy Festival of Animation?”
The spare change kids had changed or I had or both but the ratio of little idiots to nice happy camping kids was way out of wack. I went to flyer two Asian girls and not speaking English they didn’t understand what the hell I wanted. A crusty panhandler jumped up and yelled at them in mock Chinese, or Vietnames or some stange combination.
“Ho chi wong dong kung dung pow bitch.”
The girls ran off scared out of their wits and I confronted the crusty. “What the fuck was that you little asshole?”
“You calling me an asshole?”
“You are an asshole. That was totally lame.”
He kept yelling and carrying on as Spike and James got further down the road. I decided to just leave it be so I turned to split but the kid pushed me. I turned and punched him in the face. This put him on the ground and made me feel bad. He looked like he was fine so I kept walking. I caught up with Spike and James just as the kid caught up with me.
“I’m gonna kick your ass!” he was screaming. Spike and James are both broad shouldered intimidating looking guys and they puffed up and told him to fuck off, which he did for a moment. We started walking again, but then, as I was halfway across and intersection, standing in the street, he shoved me again. I turned with my fist ready.
“Dude, your nose is bleeding. I don’t want to hit you again.”
He tried to kick me but his baggy pants stopped his foot literally halfway to his target, my balls. I started laughing and continued walking. Than I heard a primal crazy scream. I turned to see him running up the street after me again. I had just passed another panhandling kid who jumped up and caught the crusty before he reached me slamming him against a storefront window which somehow didn’t break.
“He called me an asshole!” the kid yelled.
“Well you are an asshole.” His friend contered. I kept walking. Thing were in good hands.
Spike took the story and ran with it. “Ritalin punched some homeless kid.” Came first. Then it was, “Shit, Ritalin can’t stop punching people, employees, crippled homeless kids…” eventually it evolved to “So this homeless guy in a wheelchair tries to hand Ritalin a flower and Ritalin goes crazy and punches him right in his face.”
I took the story over from there. “Yeah, it was great. I hit him and the chair goes flying backwards down one of them steep SF streets, and he’s trying to communicate through the little speak and spell box cuz he’s like a Stephan Hawking type guy but he’s hitting the wrong button and the box keeps going ‘masterbate, masterbate, masterbate’ and I’m thinking, damn, whats he need that word for anyway.” Spike the Shit Eater gave up and just waited for the cat shit eating story to die.
One night Spike pulled out papers for everyone to sign. Jan in the office had apparently jumped ship and was now working with a Manga animation festival that would attempt to break the S&M monopoly. We were to pledge our alliance, vowing not to work for Manga for at least five years after leaving the employ of Spike and Mike. I helped Spike make copies of the document and distribute the document and retrieve the document. All my help distracted him from my not signing the document. I would never work for his competition, but I resented having to promise not to. When I was younger I’d have fought him, but instead I became an evil collaborator, keeping myself out of the process while giving up my buddies. My union man dad had evenentually become part of management. I had already held four times as many jobs as he would hold in his life, but we weren’t so different after all.
James, Patrick, Homes and Frank would be heading up to Van Couver. I was happy for James and Patrick getting to go to that amazing city and I was glad to see Patrick get away from Spike for awhile.
It was just Spike and I in S.F. for the final couple of weeks of the show. Seizing the opportunity while it still presented itself walked into The Mitchell Brother’s O’Farrel Theatre, where woman took off their clothes for money. I had never head of The Mitchell Brothers, producer’s of The Green Door. I didn’t know that one Mitchell was at that moment sitting in prison having shot the other Mitchell to death. I just knew that this was not a room full of booths and I was ready to try something else.
I had a seat and Hot Lips Hoolihan was on me in a heart beat. “Hi sweetie.” She greeted me taking the other seat at the small table. She had green short shorts, a tight green top and a resemblence to the character from the TV series MASH that had starred in almost as many of my teenage fantasies as Barabara Eden.
“Hello.” I really didn’t like taking with my dry throat and sweatie hands. A waitress approached and whispered something to hot lips, looking unhappy. The waitress left.
“I’m not supposed to talk to you until they have a chance to sell you some booze.” She told me. “Would you like me to come back.”
I told her I most certainly would. I bought a five dollar draft beer from the moody waiteress and Hot Lips was back. I noticed the younger skinnier girls giving her cold looks. I had a type and older and curvier was it. That she was pushy in order to compete with the eating disabled was okay with me.
“How would you like a dance?”
“How much.”
“Twenty bucks for one song.”
I’d spent twenty at the last place for nothing, but I’d also already spent five getting in this place and five more on the beer. This was becoming expensive. “Sure.” I handed her twenty.
She took my hand and pulled me away from the table. “What are you doing?”
“You get your dance in private.”
It was only then that I noticed the doors leading into another room. The back room was divided up by curtains into small booths each with a chair in the center. Hot lips strutted as she escorted me back. She got her top off and she showed off that gorgerous ass just barely contained by her army green shorts. The song ended with her belly inches from my face. My hand did not check with my brain before handing her another twenty. She then slid to here knees in front of and grabbed my cock through my pants!
“Give me forty bucks and I’ll suck you off right here!”
This was not a situation I’d meant to be in. I had sought out an environment where I could be safely teased and tantalized with no real temptation. Now I had a beautiful older woman on her knees in front of me, squeezing my cock and offering to suck it. Men do not say no to such offers. Not when there is forty bucks sitting in their pockets just a foot away and rent is paid.
“No. Thank you but no.”
She pouted and squeezed tighter. “I’ll suck it good.”
I certainly didn’t want to offend her. “I, um, I don’t have forty dollars.”
“What have you got baby?”
“Nothing. I have no money left. I’m flat broke. I’m sorry.” She rose quickly to her feet and continued the dance with no less enthusiasm than before. I sat there frozen. And then, as she heard the song coming to an end she leaned forward, putting my face between her breasts, and shaking back and forth she beat the shit out of me with with them.
The song ended, she stood up straight. I got one last look at he perfect pin up girl body as she pulled her little t-shirt back on. “Baby, you’ve been bopped by the best.”
I wandered out of there in a daze. I had certainly met an unsual woman. I continued to wonder if the “bopping” was meant to be hostile or a treat. I have yet to decide if it was hostile or a treat.
Being alone with Spike meant it was easy to sneak out of town in his BMW at night. I’d just about double the speed limit making it to Sacrameno in an hour. I’d spend the night pressed up against Bryna, rising at 6am to make it back to SF in time to take Scotty out for his morning dump.
Each night the same thing. “Jensie, you taking the car to Sac.”
“Spike, I hadn’t thought of that. That’s a great idea.”
“You’d better not Jensie. I know the odometer reading. I can ask the garage if they had my car all night.”
He could have done any of these things. But he didn’t. He knew what I was up to, no doubt about it. He wouldn’t give me permission but he wouldn’t stop me. It was a typical Spike arrangement and I did my part. I took Scottie for walks, and picked up poop, without bitching, and I stayed out way later than I wanted to on the nights when Spike was flirting with some poor girl.
The boys in Van Couver would be pulled out and Spike needed me to go up alone and see to the shows final weekend. I would have four days to sell shirts, collect money from the theatre and MC the show. No promoting necessary and my days free to explore. I couldn’t wait.
>>>Go to next story, Shit Eater and Mike, Vancouver (again)>>>
1 Comments:
At 1:16 PM, Phelpsy said…
Just when I thought I had heard it all...
You Find more stories from this man and are entertained all over again
Post a Comment
Links to this post:
Create a Link
<< Home