The Lightning Man

The Lightning Man


“When would you like to come see me, sweetheart?”

Come? or cum?  or come cum?  cum cum, cum cum, cum cum?  cum come?   cum, cum cum?  I studied English literature at the universities and knew the interpretations—cum cum cum cum cum cum cum cum cum—were infinite. 

“Quickly!”  I blurted.  How could I?   I am above Freudian slips.   I am a master of words.  I worked for 33 years at The Washington Post.  My intellect is superior.  My intellect is unparalleled.   I did, however, speak too quickly, for I am the lightning man, and I respond to everything like lightning.   Alas, it has gotten me into trouble.  Ask the eight girls down at The Post, the eight girls who mercilessly  brought sexual harassment charges against me seven years ago, the eight girls who induced  the much-gossiped-about tortuous end to my brilliant career as a newspaper man—the bitches.

True: I drank ferociously at the Cowboy Café every night for 19 months before my dismissal; true, too: I have drunk ferociously every night for six years after my dismissal; true, too: I have fallen.

I am now a coffee server at the Barne’s and Noble bookstore café—Barne’s and Noble, which like me is soon dead.  Today, I make distinctions between chai tea lattes and chocolate chip Frappuccino’s; caf and decaf, black eyes and red eyes, and they pay me $7.25 an hour.

I was powerful.  I was a national page reporter.  I made presidents bow.  Now, I am reduced to whoredom—me, 63 and three-quarters years old; me, who hasn’t been laid in 14 desolate years.

Thirty minutes later, I knocked on the door of Room 433 at the EconoLodge.  She opened, and I stared at two brown nipples behind a Victoria’s Secret negligee.

“You can leave the donation on the table.  It is a hundred, isn’t it?”

She turned and walked toward the bed.  She wore white shorts displaying the bottom of her powerful buttocks, which were flapping.

I followed her, muttering: “I am the sum of my lust.”

“What’s that you’re saying, sweetheart?”

She turned and lifted her blouse.

She faced me proudly.  She expects me to be aroused by mere appearance, I thought.  I looked again at her brown nipples.  Being Irish and Catholic, being guilty, I turned my eyes to her face, and in the next four minutes, l learned what a dip with a escort is:

1. She made me erect, with her lips.

2.  She continued.

“Are you ready?”

“No, I want fellation.”

“What’s that you’re saying, sweetheart?”

She worked harder.

“Could I . . . ?  Could I . . . ?”   I tried to get the cunt-word out.

“That,” she said, “Would require another donation.”

I considered my $16,000 Visa bill.

“Ready now?”


3. Thud, wrote Samuel Becket.  Thud thud, thud thud, thud.

Before I collapsed, I remembered that she told me her age.  I remembered as I clutched, with both of my inadequate hands, the left sphere of her 22-year-old glorious ass.


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