Two Fingers of Romance, Part II

Beyond the station I made my way to the Pueblo and Olvera Street to look around. A small crowd was gathered for the Chicano band playing at the square. Pausing to listen to the band, with my luggage in tow, I caught the attention of a hustler out in the crowd, the sort who lurk around these places. You know the type, one of those slick-talking, unscrupulous scoundrels with a nose for a naive aspiring starlet or a runaway from Oklahoma or some other backwater State who hopes to lose herself in the brave new world of Southern California.

It didn't take but a minute for daddy's worst nightmare to spot me in the crowd arriving from the east, lock his slick smile on me, and aim strait toward me. Sidling up alongside me he said, "Hey baby! Need help with your bag? " His name was Ronnie and he "knew producers in the movies, and shit," or so he said, and he had an empty gold tooth grin about a mile and a half wide. He was just too, too slick, so I knew this was the guy for me.

Now don't get me wrong, I rarely fall for a hustler's rap, but then again there's something charming about a truly sleazy man, and Ronnie seemed to have a lot of promise. So I picked him up for my tour director to the city of the stars, and he took me straight to a little place he knows that rents rooms for $22.00, no questions asked. Twenty-two bucks you get a single room, a double bed and a shared bath, if you've got the stomach to use it.

The place isn't exactly the Biltmore; they don't even carpet the lobby floor, strictly well-worn gray-black linoleum. It's strictly walk-in, and I doubt you could get a reservation if you wanted one, but the place has a history, at least according to the old man who takes the money at the front desk. When I commented on the 1920's Italianate baluster rails, suggesting the place might have had a brighter past, the old man at the front desk smiled and with a sweep of his hand he said Valentino used to stay there. Valentino! Could I ask for more?

The history lesson stopped short, when I heard a little shriek somewhere above us. "Is somebody screaming upstairs?" I asked.

The old man at the desk glanced toward the stairway a moment. He shrugged, and then said, "Somebody's always screaming in this place." He flipped a room key down on and it slid over the edge of the counter, dropping toward the floor, where Ronnie caught it in his right hand. "Better take the stairs," the old man said, "the elevator gets stuck between floors."

The climb up the creaking steps to the third floor dumps you out into a long I-shaped corridor of peeling paint and exposed light bulbs dangling from the high ceilings. Back in Valentino's day this place might have been a little nicer destination, but I'd tend to doubt it. The halls smelled of bad beer and piss, and probably did back then.

The corridor was empty except for a drifter in one of the doorways. If I hadn't been with Ronnie he'd have said something lewd, but my escort didn't keep him from giving me a filthy look, all up and down, with the requisite grin, the sort of grin one man gives another, when he figures he's about to get a good fuck, and you could figure that was what it was about. Further down the halls the doors were closed but you could hear the fucking going on behind them.

Ronnie hunted down the door that matched our key number, though he just as easily picked the door out by the lack of the sound of fucking going on inside. He invited me to precede him inside, just in case I had ideas about backing out of this arrangement, I guess, then followed me inside the dark cubicle and with a firm hand on my shoulder, sat me on the bed.

In the interest of time, Ronnie unzipped his fly and demanded head while he undressed. He wasn't the sort of guy who wasted energy disrobing when he could be getting the thing he came to a place like this for in the first place. Men like Ronnie are nothing, if not efficient when it comes to sex. By the time he was undressed he was done with the preliminaries, his dick was hard, and he was ready to fuck.

If he was a little short on foreplay, he more than made up for it when it came to main event. A man like Ronnie needs a main event, and the fuck was definitely his forte. He stuck it to me deep and hard, like he wanted to let me know I was getting fucked, then drew back, all the way out and stuck it to me again. His repeated impaling, this vile penetration, only served to drive home the tyranny of nature, the truth of the sex act, the fuck, that the female body is a slot, a gateway to the pleasures of men, and Ronnie was a man who made the most of it.

But, I don't sweat it. After all I like it this way as much as that, or any other man, does. It's just a fact of life and something about the way my head is wired. So I just kicked back and let the man stick it to me, stick it to me and get that feeling he liked.

For a moment he settled down into a driving, grinding fuck, as though he's trying to knock down the walls, or thoroughly wreck the pussy hole or something, then just when I'm getting into the rhythm of the hump, he grabbed my arm and dragged me over onto my stomach, roughly, like I was just so much baggage.

Ronnie was determined by now just to fuck me in my ass. It's a kind of punishment, I guess. Something a bad girl should expect for throwing her legs back as I did, throwing them back like I just don't care.

"Fuckin' slut!" he snorts, and drills it in. Drills it in my asshole, quick and nasty, in just one thrust, one sudden thrust and his matt of wiry dick hairs are giving my ass cheeks a rug burn. His dick head is all the way in, deep. I can feel it in my guts.

Ronnie the hustler, Ronnie the sleazy fuck! Here's a man I like, I think. He's got a gift for understanding what a bitch like me gets used for. Yeah, it's true, I ain't nothin' nice, and a low down dog of a man like Ronnie is just my cup of tea for a first day out in Los Angeles.

But getting a fuck like me could never be enough for a man like Ronnie. He's an artist in a way, he needs to let the world know how he likes to fuck a bitch, so he paused to pull open the door "for air." But that isn't what he wanted, of course. He wanted an audience, he wanted to let the world see how he did it to me.

And he got his adoring public, he did, in the person of that little drifter down the hall, peering through the doorway at Ronnie on top me, pounding me with dick. "Can I get some?" the man panted in the hallway, "Can I fuck that bitch?"

"Wait your turn," Ronnie told him, "I'll be done in a minute, and you can have her."And so the day went.

Welcome to L.A!