A pack of Marlboros, half a pound'a provolone, and some thick, juicy cock.

Floozy. Tramp. Hoo-ah. These are words that my grandmother would have used to describe her.

I grew up in an old Italian/Irish neighbourhood in Brooklyn. Long after the Koreans, the Poles, and then the Lebanese started to come, its older roots continues to show itself on the Hudson shore landscape through the success of two specific businesses: churches and bars. Churches and bars, bars and churches, churches and bars. On some streetcorners of my childhood domain, you can spit in almost any direction and be confident to strike one or both. Churches and bars.

And delis. There's nothing quite like a New York bagel.

I was eighteen and fresh out of high school. When I wasn't wasting time getting hammered with friends or contemplating a career in the US Navy, I was earning graveyard-shift minimum wage at a 24-hour delicatessen. With shatteringly bright flourescents and massive windowpanes, the place was a beacon to the three bars within walking distance to it.

Coffee regular. Pack a'smokes. Coffee. Smokes. Gimme a roast beef with lettuce and mayo. Smokes. Six o'Bud. Regular. Is the baloney fresh? What, no knishes? Coffee. Wanna buy some weed? Six o'Coors. Regular. Got a buttered roll? Smokes. Smokes. Coffee. Plain with cream cheese. Smokes. Smokes. Got matches? Smokes.

The bars closed at 4am. After the Drunk Rush, I could usually expect some quiet until around 5:30, when the first wave of the Worker Rush would wander in. This was my break time, when I'd fix myself a killer sandwich and sneak a beer (or two) from the cooler. I had settled down behind the counter and was burying my nose in a book when the little bell above the door jangled.

She staggered in, trying to keep a little balance. Her long and kinky bleach-blonde hair tossed itself in almost every direction, partially hiding her face from my view as I looked over my Stephen King novel. She did the I'm-just-beginning-to-sober-up-I-think waver as she stood in front of the beer fridge for what seemed like a long while, occasionally chuckling to herself.

"Hey," I said.

She turned to look, smiled. "Hey." Her head bobbled just a little while she continued to look at me, her smile widening before she turned back to the cooler.

"Hey, uh, hey, can I get a pack of Marlboros?"

She closed the cooler without having taken anything and walked toward the register. As I took her money, she smiled and brushed some hair out of her half-closed eyes. Just under 5-foot, she was about ten years my senior and wore a white buttoned shirt open just below the neckline with white striped running shorts. She gently kicked at the counter and floor with her matching pair of gym shoes as she watched me. Her lips were curled in a smirky way, and I noticed that her pale pink lipstick was smeared just a little.

Kinda makes you wonder what she had been up to.

The scene broke when a few stoners came and left. I filled a few orders. She hung around.

I had started filling and stacking coffee filters in preparation of the morning rush. She wandered toward the back counter where I was and rested her arms there. In the corner of my eye, I noticed her trailing small circles on the counter with her finger, tapping it with a polished fingernail, her face lost in 4am post-drinking thought. She quietly said something, but I didn't hear and asked her to repeat herself. Her eyes darted over her shoulder, and when she saw that we were alone, she looked to the floor and faintly whispered.

"You want a blowjob?"

I spilled coffee grounds on the floor. I blinked a lot. My mouth was open.

"What?" I whispered back.

She was looking into my face now, smirking, her eyes still half-closed but alert. "Yeah..."

I didn't believe what I had heard, but that didn't stop me from locking the front door and affixing a quickly-scribbled sign. "Be right back!" She waited for me at the rear of the store, and I lifted the hinged countertop to let her past. Space was tight behind the counter, so I led us through another door and into a rear storeroom. My heart was beating like a drum in my chest.

Stacked boxes of paper coffee cups, coffee filters, grounds, and the like filled a corner. A pallet of soda cases, beer cases, Snapple cases stood nearby. Unused candy racks. Cleaning equipment. Clean rags in plastic garbage bags. One lone white, plastic, deck chair. The flourescent lighting buzzed and beamed mercilessly bright. The room smelled like coffee grinds and bleach.

She was faintly shaking, and returned my kiss gently as I leaned against a stack of cardboard boxes. Her hands roamed over my wide chest and down my legs, and I squeezed her ass as she pressed her breasts to me. She tasted like cigarettes and booze. She gripped my package in her hand, kneading my crotch and bringing me to fullness. I couldn't believe what was going on, and was terrified that my boss, the night-owl that he was, might make a surprise entrance at any moment. Sex was still reasonably new to me and I felt completely out of my league, but I wasn't going to pass this up. I was awkwardly squeezing her tits when she started tugging at my belt and undoing my jeans.

"Yeah, get these off," she said as she undid the zipper. Tugging at the waistline, she pulled me toward the plastic chair and pushed denim around my ankles before beckoning me to sit. Rough edges from slots in the chair bit into my skin. I widened my knees apart and slouched slightly, bringing my cock and balls over the edge.

There were no preliminaries. Kicking some flattened cardboard in front of me, she knelt down and immediately started to suck. She took half of my length in her mouth with her first stroke, and her lips felt dry. One or two strokes later and her saliva started to coat me, her lips encircled me smoothly, and she started to feel really good. I leaned my head back and gently held her head. I was a kid getting blown by a half-drunk woman in the back storeroom of a Brooklyn deli at 4:30 in the morning. Holy fuck.

Her hair was brittle, chaotic, and smelled like cigarettes and Aqua-net. Her head moved like a rotary piston as she drew her neck back on the upstroke and foward on the down, taking me deeper each time she sucked me in, only occasionally bobbing her head vertically. Her hands stayed at her legs, and mine held the chair as I felt and watched her. Soon, she was picking up speed and her saliva started to seethe down the length of me. She breathed quickly through her nose, and I felt heat and moisture building between her face and my crotch as she worked me.

mmm mmf mmph mmmmm mmf mmph mmf sslrp mmm yeah that's nice you've got a nice dick sslrp i like it baby mmf mmph mmmf tastes good mmf nice mff

Her spit was coating my balls now. I was gripping to the armrests of the plastic chair, holding myself up as the slots starting to cut into my skin uncomfortably. This also let me thrust upward, and she started to suck me harder and faster while I jabbed my cockhead into her mouth.

I heard knocking on the glass door out front. I ignored it. I lost track of time. She sucked me, and her sloppy wet mouth started to feel more and more intense. Her temples and the nape of her neck were moist with sweat, but she kept going.

And then I felt the back of her throat against my cockhead when she opened up for a long and deep slurp down the length of me. Pumping into her mouth, listening to her hard breathing through her nose, feeling her perspiration on her head and face, I burst my cum into her deliciously slutty, wonderfully skanky mouth. She stopped bobbing her head rapidly but continued to suck, squeezing her lips around my cockhead and feeding off of me. I collapsed in the chair. She knelt up, dazed, breathing hard, eyes closed, mouth agape, her nipples stiff in her shirt. Her lips looked swollen and wet.

She used the bathroom. Thank God, but no one was at the door when I peeked back into the deli. I was exhausted from the hour and her servicing me, and regained my composure. The sun had started to come up. It was almost 6am. I furiously started to make coffee and get my act together, and had already served one or two annoyed-looking customers when she emerged from the back room. I had completely missed the first wave of the Worker Rush and my shift would be over soon.

She left happy. I had given her a bag full of goodies: cold cuts, bagels, this and that. Sipping a coffee, I watched her teeter on a bicycle as she pedaled away with the plastic bag of delicatessen goodness in her hand.

We never exchanged names.

I got fired shortly after. I wasn't worried about it. I would later meet Diva after I essentially joined the circus.


You know, it's really hard to get a decent deli sandwich in this town.

thumb Tempting Gals, Wikipedia, Flickr