to make a bishop kick in a stained glass window, but she got to me all the same. Her name was Sylvia. Dirty blonde. Five-foot-four, 122 pounds, thighs just shy of ample. She was quiet. Seldom looked at you straight on, but once she did, you never forgot it. Which is what happened. She looked at me. Right into me.
And I melted. I’m not the kind of guy to go around melting, mind you. I’m pushing thirty-five. I’ve been locked up a few times, and when I wasn’t Inside, I worked on the back side of racetracks. Mucking horse shit and what have you.
I’m not a melter. But Sylvia got me.
The night I met Sylvia, I was minding my own business sitting on the couch over at Sammy Diabelli’s place, staring at Tina’s ass as she served a plate of salami and cheese to the assorted denizens gathered there. I’d been getting cozy with Tina for
three weeks by then and this was it, the first night she’d brought me to her Uncle Sammy’s.
“I gotta have Uncle Sammy take a look at you,” Tina had told me the night before. We were lying on the bed. Or I was lying; she was standing nearby, not a stitch of clothing on her and that immense chest of hers a little shiny with sweat.
“Who’s Sammy?” I said.
“My Uncle Sammy. If I’m gonna keep seeing you, Sammy’s gotta inspect you,” Tina said.
I had feigned being a little nervous at the prospect of meeting the uncle, but in truth, it’s what I was there for. To get inside Sammy Diabelli’s house and see what was what.
The Feds had busted me six months earlier sponging racehorses which is
when you stuff tiny sponges up their noses, which doesn’t really hurt them, just impairs their breathing enough to make ’em run a tiny bit slower and lose the race. When I got busted, they offered me a deal. Either I did time again or I did them this one little favor. Get in with Sammy Diabelli and his clan in South Brooklyn. Not, mind you, that they were gonna have me wear a wire or do anything that might drastically impair my staying alive, no, they just wanted me to feel things out, let them know a few things, then,
they’d take it from there. So they told me go to this bar where Diabelli’s son, Little Sammy, hangs out shooting pool. I went and sure enough, I saw Little Sammy there. With him was Tina, who, I’d been informed, was Diabelli’s niece. Now, mind you, the Feds didn’t say: Go fuck Diabelli’s niece. No. But I took one look at her and figured
that’s how I’d do it. All in a day’s work.
She was a little dark-haired girl. She had on a skimpy tank top affording
a healthy view of her disproportionately large breasts. I didn’t even approach
her. Just stood at the bar, sipping a glass of seltzer and watching. Watching her chest touch against the green felt of the pool table when she leaned over to set up her shot.
Eventually, she felt my eyes on her. Looked over at me. In a few more
minutes, sauntered over.
“Have we met?” she says to me.
“No, but we should,” I say.
She giggles. She has tiny teeth. I want to touch them.
“I’m Tina,” she says, flipping her hair.
“So you are,” I say.
She does an encore on the giggle.
“You got a name?” She wants to know.
“It’s a secret?”
“I’m Benjamin,” I finally say and stick my hand out to shake hers.
“Hi, Benjamin,” she says.
About an hour later, I’m walking her home. She’s got a little place she
shares with two other girls on 43rd Street in Sunset Park. She tells me she
works at a beauty parlor a few blocks from home.
“I got a lot of family around here,” she tells me as we’re walking. “Mostly I end up just doing hair for people I’m related to.”
This concept seems to amuse her. She laughs.
I laugh too.
Her bedroom looks like a twelve year old’s. There’s a lot of pastel-
colored things and stuffed animals and I feel particularly perverted as I push her back onto her bed and shove a bunch of stuffed animals aside.
“How old are you anyway?” I ask her as I pull her shirt off and find myself face to face with that huge chest, barely contained by a bright red bra.
“How old do you want me to be, Daddy?” she says, and I wince, I mean, I’m
probably a good fifteen years older than her, but I’m not into playing any
little-girl games and I let her know this, ripping her pants off her and
grabbing hard at her little hipbones and saying: “You’re a grown woman, Tina,
don’t go playing games with me.”
She blushes a little, which gets me incredibly hard.
“I’m twenty-two,” she says, adding an “Ouch, Benjamin!” as I pinch one of her
Her panties don’t match her bra. They’re powder blue like her bedsheets,
and there’s a tiny hole in the seam at the front of the crotch and I get the
end of my finger in this little hole and rip, yanking the crotch of the
panties completely out, making Tina gasp as I reveal her quaint little black
bush, very well-manicured because I guess she applies her beautician skills to every hair on her body. And then, in no time flat, I’ve gotten a condom out of my wallet and she takes it from me and unrolls it on my cock and then climbs aboard and starts grinding away at me in this totally fierce way and I’m going to come immediately so I shove her off of me and she looks angry and puts her hand between her legs and starts touching herself, looking tortured, then says, “Gimme,” and grabs my cock, rips the condom off and starts sucking the living hell out of me. I pull out of her in time to let loose all over that chest of hers. I watch her jerk off. She makes a purring sound like an overgrown kitten as she comes.