Her perfect breasts, however badly tattooed, depended from the pose; she was leaning over painting her toenails. Every contour of her physique seemed to exist without perceptible defect. Redneck paragon... A physical pattern of excellence. Shakespeare could write a pastoral verse-sequence about her, in octosyllabic couplets...
"How do my toesies look?" she asked, then stuck her long legs out.
"Preeminent," the Writer droned.
"Does... that mean good?"
"Yes." Like slow syrup, his gaze drooled down the legs to the adorable bald triangle of creases betwixt them. Even inclined on her elbows, her stomach showed not even an inkling of a ridge.
Though touched upon previously, it must be stated in full now that the Writer was—and had been for a number of years—a self-imposed celibate. It was the sexual angst he craved, that strange edge of need unrelieved. He knew that it's what his Muse demanded: to stare into the promise of la petite-morte only to have it sift through his fingers like so much proverbial sand. Monks did it, priests did it, even Jesus Christ did it, and the Writer figured that if he could imitate just one facet of them, then his writing would be charged by the same verity that charged their systems of faith. But even in his abstinence, however, he was allowed to look. As a Writer, he was a seeker, and hence, a seer. If the human self was the only thing that could be known and therefore verified, everything that that same self saw was verifiable as well.
His penis swelled in his pants to the extent that it felt like a hamster that had died and entered rigor mortis.
"So what'cha doin' tonight?" she asked, rocking her feet.
His teeth ground as the realities bled through the ideal. The atrocious tattoos turned her into a desecrated icon. His autograph was still in plain sight above the "Smiley Face" with a nipple for a nose.
"I was doing my Dylan Thomas imitation," he said.
"Huh?"
"Drinking a lot."
She giggled. "Oh, I heard you hang out up the Crossroads." Her eyes went wide in a hopeful recollection. "I gang-banged ten fellas there once fer ten bucks a piece. Next time you're there, look fer the dark spot by the corner pocket. That's me."
The Writer stood speechless.
"So who's this villain yer talkin' 'bout? His name's Thomas?"
Whuh... "Oh, no, not villain. Dylan. Dylan Thomas. I was making a quip. He was arguably the century's greatest poet in the English language—he wrote Deaths and Entrances. He was what they call a ‘biblical symbolist.'"
Nancy's angelic face showed recognition. "I gots me a step-brother who plays cymbals—and drums, too."
"No, no, Dylan Thomas' best verse juxtaposed the exuberance of faith in God, with the cruciality of our need to redeem ourselves for our sexual sins."
Her peaches-and-cream tits bounced when she giggled again. "Oh. I guess I'se need ta read him!"
"But I was actually joking in my preliminary reference. He was a big drinker," the Writer explained. "I'm sure it was just an excuse for his alcoholism, but he would regularly contend no matter how much alcohol he consumed, he could prevent himself from getting drunk merely by thinking."
"Thankin'?" the prostitute queried.
"Yes. He believed that alcohol accelerated the quality of his creativity, so he would drink but by the force of his mind, not allow himself to get drunk." He was also an oaf and an oddball, who died from alcohol poisoning, but the Writer neglected to mention these facts.
"Just by thankin'," Nancy uttered amazed.
"Oh, yes. The human mind is quite a powerful thing, the sheer force of will."
"But'cha know?" Her face lit up. "I'se kin do somethin' with my mind! Wanna see?"
All those beers were finally sinking in. The Writer was wobbling a bit in place. "Uh, well, I really should be go—"
"Just you watch!" she advised, and adjusted her pose. She leaned up on her arms, and parted her creamy thighs with her knees bent over the bed's edge. "Watch my titties'n cunny... "
Well, I know what titties are, the Writer thought. And I presume that "cunny" is a vaginal reference... "Um, sure."
Nancy closed her eyes and leaned her head back. A delectable pink tongue glazed her lips, and she began taking slow, deep breaths though her nose. She was obviously concentrating on something with great focus. The trim stomach moved slowly in and out and, next, she was moaning ever so lightly.
The Writer's gaze switched from her breasts to her crotch, then back to her breasts. And what breasts they are, he had to note. His drunkenness began to struggle with his stubborn celibacy, as his loins began to percolate quite like a coffee pot. His gaze fixed on the nipples, pink as her tongue and roughly the size of silver dollars but then—
Hmm...
The nipples began to increase in size, a fascinating transformation, like a dried sponge dropped in water, until they'd grown to a circumference of the bottom of a soup can. Even the breasts themselves seemed to gain girth, blood vessels presumably dilating by the command of her brain. Could he even see the gentle blue ghost-lines of veins pumping more blood into the coveted tissue? My God, the Writer thought. And not only did the areolae grow in circumference; they also grew in depth, until they stuck out like pink macaroons.
And when the Writer looked between her legs—
Gracious!
The pea-sized clitoris has transmogrified into a drunkard's nose.
"There!" Nancy celebrated. "How ya like that?"
"You are woman not only of description-defying beauty, but one also of applaudable talent."
She unconsciously tweezed her papillas, which were now the size of those mini-marshmallows, strawberry-flavored, of course. "And I'se done it just by thankin.'"
"Proof of the mind's power, indeed," but the Writer had to keep wincing away from the tumid attributes.
She grinned coyly. "Wanna know whats I was thankin' 'bout?"
"Uh, well... "
"I was thankin' 'bout you fistin' my cunny'n jerkin' yer peter off on my stomach, I was. Then just rubbin' all that warm cum all over my skin... "
"My, oh my... "
Now her bare foot trailed up the inside of the Writer's leg, and suddenly the toes were wriggling like an old Magic-Fingers over his crotch. The Writer felt his penis urp up an instantaneous effusion of pre-ejaculatory fluid.
"It's a real slow night," she pointed out. "And I ain't got another trick fer another half hour... "
The Writer knew an embarrassing wet spot was surely forming against his pants. He stepped back, careful not to stagger. "Really, I must be going."
"Aw, yeah," she said, disheartened. "Guess ya gots to git back to work on yer book—"
"Yes, yes, but have a good n—" and before he could bid her a good night, a side-glance showed him something familiar on her dresser.