Ennui–I really feel nothing however ennui as Saturday evening approaches.
I’m enervated, the product of over-stimulation. Each weekend my good friend Emil leads me on a tour of Boston’s fleshpots, the place we pattern the courtesans, the women of the evening, the demi-mondaines who’re so readily obtainable on this metropolis that the remainder of American thinks of as “uptight.” Pah–I want!
What do they know, the ignorant boobs. Anybody who possessed even a halting familiarity with soul hits of the ’60′s would know that “uptight” in its authentic utilization meant the very reverse of “repressed.” No, “Uptight (Every thing’s Allright)” by Little Stevie Marvel (Components I and II) is a cry of exultation; if issues are “uptight,” they’re “out of sight” and “all proper.”
However an excessive amount of of a great factor can go away a person exhausted–this I’ve discovered the arduous manner. I’m as limp as a moist dish rag and–fairly frankly–uninterested in the prospect of one other Saturday evening on Beantown once I hear the knock that I do know means Emil’s able to go.
“All set, sport?” he calls out from the door. As in Seinfeld and different scenario comedies set in city areas, entry to my house could mysteriously be gained with out using a key.
“I don’t know–I feel I’m going to move,” I say wearily.
“You possibly can’t try this. You’re my wing man.”
“I’m . . . drained.”
“We’ll have dinner. Baked beans–the dish that America thinks we subsist on–have loads of protein with little or no fats. It’ll buck you proper up.”
“I worry the flatulence,” I say evasively.
Emil appears squarely at me. He is aware of me too effectively, and isn’t shopping for what I’m promoting. “C’mon–out with it.”
“I don’t know. You’ve proven me so many types of eroticism . . .”
“Range is nice.”
“I really feel there may be nothing left for me to expertise–sexually.”
Emil’s left eyebrow arches ceiling-ward, if that’s a phrase. “Pay attention, sport,” he says raffishly. “If you happen to’ll get your be-larded butt up off the sofa, I promise I’ll present you a completely new dimension of sensual pleasure tonight.”
I do know him to be a person of my phrase, however nonetheless–I hesitate. “I actually am drained,” I say.
“Right here–strive one in every of these,” Emil says as he takes a pillbox out of his vestpocket.
“Fizzies Prompt Glowing Drink.”
“I assumed the FDA banned them years in the past,” I say as I pop one of many effervescent tablets in my mouth.
“They did–twice,” Emil says with a leer. “However they had been invented by a good friend of President Kennedy, and you’ll think about the strain they will placed on a poor GS-14 federal bureaucrat.”
“Wowth, ah sthould thinkth tho,” I say as orange foam cascades out of my mouth.
“Let’s roll,” Emil says plopping his Winston Churchill-style Homburg hat on his head.
We make our manner right down to Revere Road, the again facet of Beacon Hill the place the Boston Brahmins’ slaves lived in days of outdated. The neighborhood is a rat’s maze of darkish streets and alleyways which have been transformed into high-priced silk purses from cobblestoned sow’s ears.
Emil geese down one such cul-de-sac, however I hesitate.
“C’mon,” he says anxiously. “What’s the issue?”
“I . . . I don’t know tips on how to go down an alley in French.”
He shakes his head. “So provincial,” he clucks. “I’ll translate as we go.”
We step rigorously down the brick path, sidestepping trash set out for assortment. The place I come from, the County Psychological Well being Division involves examine on you should you go away your Christmas tree up previous Easter, however Boston is extra tolerant that manner.
We cease on the final door arduous up towards a brick wall, and Emil leans his ear in direction of it to pay attention. Listening to nothing suspicious, he raps the wooden calmly, so that neighbors on this tightly-packed hall don’t hear.
A panel slides again exposing a window–a gimlet eye appears out and, seeing Emil, asks for the password.
“Swordfish,” he says, recalling a Marx Brothers gag–however he’s apparently appropriate because the window shuts and the door opens, revealing . . .
. . . an optician’s dream.
Ladies. Ladies with out contacts. Ladies with honking huge, stunning glasses! Many using 5 Smart Makeup Tips for Women Who Wear Glasses they discovered on magforwomen.com.
I gulp involuntarily, as if I’ve been seized by the throat. Emil provides me a figuring out look. “To your satisfaction, I presume?”
“Sure, sure–thanks. I by no means ought to have doubted you.”
We’re approached by the madam of this four-eyed cathouse, and Emil palms her a card of introduction. She examines it with grave scrutiny, makes a bit of moue together with her mouth, nods her head and says “Let me introduce you to among the women of the spectacles.”
We enter a room that’s just like the vestibule to heaven–so many pairs of glasses, so little time!
“Would you prefer to see one thing in tortoise shell?” the madam asks discreetly.
Emil nods with approval as a bookish younger ingenue approaches, her breasts enveloped by a armful of books. “It’s $50 additional for role-playing,” the madam says.
“Can she do . . .” Emil hesitates.
“Sure?” the madam says, inviting him to proceed.
“Can she do each Dewey Decimal and Library of Congress . . . in a single evening?”
“The so-called ‘Across the World’?” the madam asks.
“Sure,” Emil says. “That’s what I need.”
“Utilizing two separate library cataloging methods in a single uninhibited sexual escapade can put on a woman out for the remainder of the weekend,” the madam says. “I should cost you $100 plus two cents for day by day she is out of fee.”
“You recognize . . . reshelving retains the breasts agency.”
Emil hesitates for one thing lower than the time it might take for a tadpole to swim throughout a tablespoon, nods in settlement and is escorted to a personal room by a lady who appears like she received her Grasp of Library Science diploma the arduous manner.
“And for you?” the madam says to me in my flip. “What’s your pleasure? Tremendous 70′s droopy drop frames? Vintage retailer proprietor half-glasses? Granny glasses?”
I do know what I need however . . . I’m ashamed to confess it–out loud. “Can I . . . write it on a bit of paper?” I ask hesitantly.
“Positive,” she says as she palms me a “Whilst you had been out strolling the streets . . .” message pad and a pen.
I take pen and pad in hand and start to jot down, solely to stumble. “How do you spell ‘harlequin’?”
“I don’t know. Let me ask one of many ladies. Anyone received a romance novel on ‘em?” she shouts to the assembled stock.”
“I do,” a woman in full-bore “whore glasses” replies.
“Is it a Harlequin?” the madam asks.
“How do you spell it?”
I take down the letters, fold the word in half and move it as unobtrusively as I can to the madam.
“Yep–I feel we received a kind of,” she says as she reads the word. “Vicki Steptoe–entrance and middle!”
A gorgeously-glassed younger woman emerges from the shadows with the eyeglass fashion that swept the nation within the fifties; so alluring and but–so dorky. It is that mixture of contrasts that stirs my passions.
“Stroll this manner,” the younger girl says, and I can not resist.
“If I might stroll that manner, I wouldn’t purchase boxer shorts.”
“You–you’re a foolish one,” she says as she takes me by the hand and leads me right into a again room, the place we’re alone.
We take off all the pieces however our glasses. I’m into eyeglass foreplay and in order she turns to face me I lick two fingers and run them down her lenses. “That’s so you possibly can’t see my enlarged pores,” I say and he or she giggles, so innocently, like Mary Pat Oehrke after she cleaned my clock within the seventh-grade spelling bee. She begins to take away the final merchandise that separates us from a state of nature, however earlier than she will be able to accomplish that I seize her firmly by the wrist and say . . .
“You possibly can go away your glasses on.”