The Minotauress

"Yeah. We'se finally found somethin' you do right," said the keep, naturally pronouncing the word right as "rat." Cora's face felt as though it were trying shrink behind her skull. To make the circumstance worse, the barkeep wasn't much for washing, nor—as she could now attest firsthand—was he particularly thorough about the manner in which he wiped. She could hear his masturbation, a sound like someone flapping a raw steak repeatedly on a table.

Her tongue roved through a creamy glaze and other less seemly debris. Bumps of some kind, too, seemed to encircle the puckered anus. In actuality, they were rectal warts, but it was all for the best that Cora didn't know that. At any rate, this was just a day in the life of a backwoods whore. No big deal. And as she continued, she did find solace in one consolation: ‘Least I won't have ta taste the old fucker's dick-snot.

Just as Cora had thought that, the barkeep spun around and jammed the now three-fourths erect penis into her mouth where he deposited an appreciable amount of semen.

"Ummmm... That's the ticket. Not a bad load fer an old man, huh, hon?"

Cora's eyes locked shut and she leaned back and let the penile slime slide down her throat.

"From now on, we'se'll do it that way ever' time, Cora," he informed, buckling his trousers. "Now I'd best git back inside. The Harkins boys'll set fire to the bar if'n their mugs're empty more'n five minutes," and then he loped back inside.

The smirk on Cora's face felt like a clay mask that had been baked on. Like that familiar emblem denoting drama: one smiling mask tilted next to one frowning. Cora was the frowning one, and probably would be for a while. The smell coming off her lips made her tempted to cut off her nose.

She stood up and dusted herself off. The knobby knees on bone-thin legs looked like banged up faces. But at least some drinks were covered now. It was still early, but with a little luck she'd be able to pull a couple of tricks before last call, then she could score some snort or ice.

She jerked her head at the sound of crunching gravel. Headlights swept the trees behind the bar, then in rattled an old beat-to-holy-hell pickup truck the color of tomato juice. It parked clumsily along the back, pulling a U-Haul trailer.

Please! Cora begged the Fates. Be a young guy!

An old guy got out of the truck: workboots, overalls, and a plaid shirt with sleeves and collar buttoned. His face was nebulous: another old generic redneck. His boots crunched up toward the rear entrance.

"Well, howdy there, darlin'!" came a spirited greeting.

Cora tried to sound as spirited, "Hey, there! My name's Cora! What's yers?"

"Lud. Pleased ta meet'cha."

Cora tried to stand cutesy-style, hoping the barkeep's ass-smell wasn't wafting far off her lips. "Ain't never seen you here before."

"That's 'cos I ain't never been. Not much inta drinkin' establishments, but, see, each year I'se take a road trip from Maryland ta Georgia'n back, tryin' ta bring folks ta the call."

"The call?" Cora had no idea.

"God's call, hon—"

Aw, FUCK! A holy roller...

"—and I ain't et all day so's I were hopin' I could git me some food ta go. They serve food here, hon?"

By now, Cora's interest had grown non-existent. "Well, they gots burgers mixed with deer meat that's real good."

The old man's eyes sparkled. "That couldn't be dandier. I'll get me a ta-go burger'n be on my way—but, hey?"

Cora was about to go back in. This old Bible-thumper ain't gonna want a ten-dollar cock-suck...

"I ain't in that much of a hurry," he continued. "What say you tell me what'cher doin' out back here all's by yer purdy l'il lonesome?"

"You ain't gonna be interested, mister," she said. Why not just go and say it? "I'se lookin' fer a fella who wants ta pay me ten bucks ta suck his dick or twennie—no, fifteen—fer a fuckin'."

The old man's face lit up with enthusiasm. "Is that all? Well, my word, hon. I'd say you got yerself a deal. In fact, as purdy as you is? I'll pay ya forty."

Cora's heart fluttered. He called me purdy! And, boy, had she gotten this guy's number wrong. Some holy roller, soliciting prostitutes. But Cora nearly had tears in her eyes. Not only had the old goat complimented her—an event quite rare in her life these days—but she hadn't bagged forty bucks on a solo trick... ever.

"Well, let's go, sugar!" she said and grabbed his large, work-callused hand. "We'se kin git cozy in yer truck'n I'll'se make yer balls clap together they'll be so happy."

The old man laughed good naturedly. "But the trailer's bigger inside, and I'se got a bed back there. That okay with you?"

She gave his crotch a rub and hugged him. "Anything you want," and—wouldn't you know it? She'd pronounced the word anything as "enna-thang."