Cacique
I don't know why Sally didn't tell me that she was gay before 16 years of marriage had turned me into a fat old man with a barely-functioning dick. I don't know why I had let Danny drag me to a brothel to cheer me up. And I don't know how to pronounce the name of this goddamn drink.
"Kah-THEE-Kay," she says, "it's Venezuelan, like me."
I have seen girls like her before, but never one without a premium-rate number printed under her. She smiles and I feel like I’ve just been tasered.
The bottle of Kah-THEE-Kay disappears between us. She says nothing, just grabs me by the wrist and hauls my drunk ass to a room in the back. Inside it’s all business – she strips us both and pushes me on the bed. The room is whirling around me now, and she seems to be flying around my head like a naked angel. Somewhere in the real world, she’s reaching down south, trying to breathe a spark of life into a useless lump of clay.
The spinning is too much. The centrifugal force will throw me into outer space, naked. I try to get up, she pushes me down. I’m too drunk to even tell her that I really, have to, have to go. She kneels down and makes one last effort to give me value for money.
Then I have this kind of out-of-body thing, and I see this as it is. What could be more humiliating than a goddess trying to coax a hard-on out of an old man?
The old man throwing up on her hair, is the answer. Half a bottle of Kah-THEE-Kay on her black hair.
It doesn’t make her too sad. Assholes like me are an occupational hazard, I guess.