Whore – a short story by John Ian Bush

Part One

 

I’m willing to admit that my interest in Goldie isn’t healthy. I started watching her last summer when she moved in the house across the street. Before last summer I use to spend my nights watching this documentary show about life inside prisons, but she’s more interesting to me now.

She’s short, and I like short girls, and she’s got long golden blond hair, and I like that too. She’s always wearing really revealing clothes, though, and I hate that. I hate to think that other guys get to see that much of her.

The first summer I started watching her, she wore these really short jean shorts and tank tops that showed her stomach and hip bones. I like her stomach and her hip bones, and I’ve never thought about those parts on any other girl before.

I should mention that she’s a known whore, like a prostitute I mean. I don’t wake up during the summers anymore until one in the afternoon because I usually stay up until four or later to watch her bring her customers back and forth to her house from the train tracks, that’s where the whores normally set up shop here in town.

I watch her at night partly from jealousy, I hate every old bastard that gets to have her  while I sit in my room lusting after her and fantasizing in my underwear, and partly I do it to make sure none of those perverted old johns hurt her or try anything rough with her.

 

 

Part Two

 

I finally did it. See, I’ve been selling my ADHD meds to a dealer friend of mine down the street, he gives me thirty bucks for every bottle. I saved the money for six whole months so I could pay for a turn with Goldie.

I wanted to look good for it. I got my hair cut, I shaved, I trimmed, I went to the store and picked up the best smelling cologne I could find, and when I got back home, I picked some flowers from my mom’s rosebush in our back yard.

I went to her house after dinner, she answered the door dressed, but with wet hair and legs and feet. The first thing she asked me was if I was looking to have some fun, and I said I was and she waved me into the living room.

“Are you wearing perfume?” she asked.

I told her I was and I handed her the flowers.

“Sweet heart, this isn’t a date,” she said politely. “I cost a hundred.”

I handed her the money and she gently pushed me to her couch and kissed me. “You look familiar,” she said.

“I’ve been watching out for you,” I said.  “I live across the street and I’ve been watching out for you.”

“You’re sweet,” she said. She started undressing. She wasn’t wearing the short jean shorts of the summer before, but this little black skirt that barely covers her ass, and instead of tank tops, she was wearing a tight little t-shirt. She wasn’t wearing any underwear or a bra, but that was okay by me.

When she took off her shirt, the first thing I noticed was that she had a belly button ring.

“I’d like your stomach more without the piercing,” I said. “I’ve always liked your stomach.”

 

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jianbush

Modernist writer and poet.