Stacy

Stacy is pretty, with a broad, round, saucer-shaped face, genuine smile, a healthy mop of pony-tail length brunette hair, with heavy breasts, just barely short stature and slightly round. A junkie’s bad complexion. Thick thighs and very workable ass. Stacy never took outcalls, but when I called her, she put me on hold, called elsewhere, then connected back to say she’d do the outcall to Sleepy Hollow Motel, my current “den of iniquity.” Someone in her family had vouched for me, and I drove into town to pick up my bouncy, hot, stoned junkie crack ho.

It turns out Stacy is Ronnie’s sister, Anne’s sister-in-law. Anne’s baby daddy Fred is Stacy’s brother, and he’s the one who vouched for me, so I could fuck his sister for money, the same way he let me fuck his girlfriend for money. Stacy shoots heroin, smokes cocaine, and sucks dick cheerfully and accommodatingly, lets me play with her tits and her pussy, gets into it with me. Has fun doing all of those. I pay her, and we get high. We got to spend most of three days together.

I value the memories, even though mostly she was using the room wifi, and smoking my up, usually quite naked for the cocaine. But she only had eyes for her phone– society’s motivator, stare slab, the place our fingers gesture and poke, always there, lighting the face of its user with a bluish glow, lit from below like scary flashlight faces around a preadolescent campfire. If only we could have imagined those luminous blue globes, reaching for the appropriate word for cleavage when the brilliant spheres of her tits are free and hanging, with vivacious nipples swinging toward every major compass-point, bouncing from the east all the way back around to west, following the sun’s path, looking up to grin, nay sneer, at the in-vain labors of gravity itself.

he’s the one who vouched for me, so I could fuck his sister for money, the same way he let me fuck his girlfriend Anne for money.

I hear the short half of incomprehensible phone conversations, follow a Messenger thread that breaks off at the last minute. Stacy gets dressed so she can Facetime. Or she’ll text. Or call. I could not compete with the phone. Communication gets too complicated, because what the youngsters do, they watch their phones, read them, steer their lives with their phone and its never-ending present. It’s our Now, now. Stacy didn’t watch me, didn’t see me. There was no need.

Sadly, and similarly to her sister, Stacy became clingy and needy very quickly. The relatively extended length of our first encounter was facilitated partly by her being quite traumatically thrown out of her Dad’s apartment downtown. I was only slightly dismayed to find out she got thrown out for supposedly stealing the old guy’s drugs, you know, like a stoned junkie crack ho might do. It took a couple of days for a new situation to present itself to long-suffering Stacy. We did our level best to accommodate one another. We still consider each other friends. I have reason to believe she’s fine.