Seeds of Fear

probably sounds pretty hypo critical of me, since I just got done telling you I chowed down on 'Rome's insides. I just figured it was the thing to do, that's all. I got tired of being used by this scumbag, so I did the job on him. It wasn't like his guts tasted any better than anything else — grubs don't have a sense of taste.

One good thing about being a grub hooker, though, you start to stick up for yourself. You get a case of the ass and you don't take shit anymore. The rule had always been no girl works solo. You wanna work the street, you gotta have a pimp. Ask any hooker in any city in the world. You try to work solo, you get your face beat to mush or wind up in some Dumpster with your throat cut. We'd always be too afraid to fight back, stand up for ourselves, you know? Shit, most girls are strung out anyway. I was. Back when I was pink, I was firing up scag four times a day, had to shoot up into my foot 'cos the veins on my arms all collapsed and turned black. I'd turn over my take to 'Rome every night like clockwork, and he'd keep me in junk, and that was all I cared about. When you're strung out, you really don't have a soul anymore. Yeah, turning my tricks, keeping 'Rome happy, and getting my fix — that's all there was for me. It was hell, let me tell you. But after I got grubbed, I didn't need the scag anymore, and it finally dawned on me that I didn't need 'Rome, either. All the other grubs working the street got the same gist, and all of a sudden a lot of pimps were winding up in body bags. The pink girls, sure, they're all still in their stables, but their pimps don't fuck with us grubs 'cos they know that if they do, they'll wind up just like 'Rome. Fuck 'em.

Shit, man. I can't hardly tell the difference. Some times I'm not sure if there is a difference. Pussy's pussy, and cock is cock. And when I'm sucking a nut outa some john in his car, it don't make no difference if my mouth is alive or dead, and it's better in a way 'cos I don't taste his jizz when he comes, and if he's a stinker, I can't smell him. And best of all, cash is green whether you're a grub or a pinkie, you know?

I go shopping, I buy clothes, I watch TV, I got myself a decent little apartment. Shit, I'm just like anyone else out there trying to make it.

All right, I can tell you're new in town, and you're probably thinking, shit, this chick's fuckin' dead, but those girls across the street are alive. Well, let me tell you something, man. That little blondie there with the glasses, the one by the MOST machine — she'll rip you off. And those two black chicks at the corner of Calvert, both of 'em got AIDS. And how do you know any one of 'em won't take you to some alley where they got their pimp waiting to bust your head, take your cash, jack your car, maybe even kill you?

You wanna take a chance like that?

So come on, man. Let's party. Shit, I'll give you the cock-suck of your life, and you can take all the time you want to come. And I won't fuck you over like those pinkie bitches across the street. Straight up, man — ten bucks for a blow job so good, I guarantee you'll be comin' back for more, and I'll swallow it, too, no bullshit. Whaddaya say?

All right!

Hey, nice car. Just keep going, and I'll tell you wh — okay, turn here, pull into this little alley right here. Yeah, good, now turn off your lights.

And pull your pants down, partner.

Hmm, let's see what we got here, yeah. Hard already, that's what I like. Lotta times at this hour most guys are on their way home from the bars and they're shitfaced. Takes 'em forever to get it up, you know?

All right, time for me to do my thing. Just lay back in the seat and relax..

Wait a minute, what the f —

Hey, look, buddy, I'm sorry, but..

I didn't do anything wrong, shit! It ain't my fault the skin came off your dick! I was just —

What gives here, man? What the hell's wrong with you?

You — you're a. what?

Oh, man! What a trip! You're a grub too! Just like me!

Calm down, will ya? Lemme fix ya up here, the skin only came off at the base. Don't worry, I'll get it back on, no sweat.

There, see? Still works.

Okay, okay, just lay back and relax. A grub, huh? That's really cool.

I'll give you this one for free.

HUNGER Kathryn Ptacek

Sex is power.

Or is it the reverse: Power is sex?

Whichever is true, I ought to be — by that definition — a powerful woman. I've had a lot of commerce, shall we say, with the opposite sex. A lot.

And wanting too much of some thing, we're told by heads thought much wiser than ourselves, points to a little something called addiction.

There are many varieties of addictions, those guys with the string of fancy degrees inform us. And I guess they're right. I don't have much education — I finished high school with average grades and no particular distinction, took a few courses at a local community college, but I know about some things that just aren't learned from textbooks. There's addiction to nicotine and your thirty-one flavors of mind-bending chemicals and exercise and sugar and mental abuse and alcohol and power and sleep and food and danger and flattery and —

Sex, too.

No kidding.

It's a real addiction. Believe me.

Do you know what it's like to be hooked on sex?

I didn't think so.

It pierces and stings, throbs and aches.

Among other things.

You know that old-time song by Peggy Lee? 'Fever?' That's pretty damned close to an accurate description of what I go through. It's a fever that has to be reduced, a hunger that has to be fed, a thirst that has to be quenched.

Sometimes I'm just sitting in my office, staring at boring grocery accounts, my mind filled with numbers that need sorting, and suddenly that one particular sensation comes over me. It's halfway between a cramp and an itch, and it's more than a little painful, and it's all inside where I can't reach. I can't scratch; I can't relieve it except one way. And I sure can't ignore it.

Usually I have to wait until my lunch hour, sitting there at my desk with my legs squeezed together, trying not to gasp aloud. I squirm, try to concentrate, fail. My face is flushed, my breath rapid, and ripples of pain and pleasure roll through me as the gnawing inside increases. I watch the sweep hand on the huge white face of the clock, watch it going around and around all too slowly, the minute and hour hands inching upward. Finally, when the hands get straight up, I grab my purse and leave the office. I half run, half walk down the street to a bar I pass every morning on my way to work.

It's not a great lounge; that is, you probably won't find many yuppies hanging out there with their white wine-drinking pals, but it suits me fine. You can get a tolerable sandwich or two, some draft, and something more than that. A lot of guys hang out there. A lot of guys who are just as hot as I am.

I've been here before. They know me, I suppose, but I don't care.

I stroll into the cool darkness; my heart still seems to be fluttering inside my rib cage, and I wonder if any of the men seated along the bar can hear that or see my flushed skin. Apparently not. I lick my dry lips and nod casually to the bartender, a fellow some years older than myself and fairly stocky; he has a nose that looks like it was broken a long time ago, over and over. I find a booth toward the back of the room. I look down at the scarred wooden surface of the plank table, at the wet rings left by someone's glass. I'm wet, too.

I have an old-fashioned figure — large breasts, nipped-in waist, and curving hips — and blond hair halfway down my back and a face that, while not glamorous, is attractive. They've served me well.

I wait.

Not long, though.