The Minotauress

"—and, gosh, I got this hankerin' ta suck yer willy on account of you're a famous writer—"

The Writer rolled his eyes. "Really, I'm not that famous—"

The insides of her knees rubbed as she cocked her hips back and forth, with the Naughty Schoolgirl grin. "See, I don't want ya ta think I'm trashy—"

"Oh, I could never think that!"

"—but, see, I'se'll just be all twisted up if I don't gets a chance to taste yer cum... "

The Writer glared. "Why on earth would you... "

"Just wanna know if a writer's jism tastes like regular."

This is bombast... But still, he considered the proposition for a blazing moment. After all, Stephen Crane's greatest creative influence had been a prostitute, and then he'd gone on to write The Red Badge of Courage and "The Open Boat." The Writer couldn't deny his gentility, a refinement born of erudition. "That's quite an offer, Nancy, but I'll have to turn it down. You must understand—abstinence is crucial to the aesthetically inclined. Like boxers."

She was a redneck Venus alive in his doorway. "You shore?"

God in Heaven, would you PLEASE go away! Your body's KILLING me! "Really, Nancy, I'd love to. You're a very beautiful young woman, but—"

Her grin widened, showing perfect teeth, a rarity in these parts. "And I gots me a beautiful cooter, too. Fellas always say so. Wanna see?"

"Oh, no, really—"

She hitched up the denim skirt. The Writer glanced down.

He wanted to cry. It looked like fresh sourdough with a curl of pink taffy: a flawless sex-tart. My God... "I can say with authority, Nancy, your cooter should be displayed in the Louvre. Nevertheless, I'm terribly busy. Another time, perhaps."

Her cringing pose loosened. "Oh, all right. But you'll at least autograph my tittie, won't'cha?" and then up came the pink T-shirt.

The Writer slumped, and extracted his Sharpie.

The breasts were comely—firm and full of the vitality of youth... and ruined by tattoos. The right was a Smiley Face—black curve for a mouth, two circles for eyes, and a big pink nose—while on the left had been branded a great eagle and the words FREE BIRD.

The Writer could've groaned. How could you vandalize yourself like that? "Which, uh, one?" he asked, pen poised.

"Smiley!"

He scribbled his signature right over the "eyes."

"I cain't wait ta show my friends!" she squealed.

Terrific...

She gave the Writer a big wet kiss, running her tongue between the seam of his lips. My God... She just licked my lips with the same tongue that's licked UNTOLD dirty, hayseed penises...

"Just you git back to work now!" she said cheerily.

"Yes, yes, thank you. Have a great... night... "

"Nightie-night... "

The Writer closed and locked the door, leaning against it in the exhaustion of his ire. The realization didn't set well. Men will inseminate her tonight... over MY signature. Flustered now, he returned to the desk, lit a cigarette, and stared at the page in the Remington.

««—»»

Hours later, he was still staring at the page in the Remington. Now the page looked like this:

WHITE TRASH GOTHIC

CHAPTER ONE

There was a knock at the door.

Writer's block again! he screamed at himself. It's HER fault!

The ashtray had become a pyramid of butts. Through the walls he could hear muffled and distorted sounds: creaking, giggles, rapid footfalls and doors slamming. A whorehouse, he chided himself. I'm trying to write the most important American novel of the Twentieth Century in a whorehouse... He'd believed the grim reality of the place and people would alight his deepest creative visions—to saturate every page with human truth, but...

Just another subjective desert, a terra dementata not worthy of artistic interpretation. Or perhaps he was being too hard on himself. It was only his first night.

I pray God...

He needed to convert this experience into the genius of a Bergman film, with the insights of a Steinbeck novel, and the imagery of a Stevens poem.

He needed... something...

He opened the smudged shade before him, to be looked back at by a desolate night. A lopsided full moon hovered over the junkyard. He cracked the window to let in some air, then without conscious impulse looked at his watch.

It was midnight.

Outside, a wolf howled.

The Writer got up from the desk and sighed. I need a drink, he thought. Then he turned out the light and left the room.

(III)