textfiles/magazines/UXU/uxu-507.txt

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                         Underground eXperts United

                                 Presents...

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         [  Toes, Man!  ]                           [  By Max West  ]


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                         T O E S,  M A N !
                          By Max West

     O.K., it's Friday afternoon, I'm in the Covered Wagon working on my
  second pint and a shot, when Fried Frank sat on the stool next to me,
     "Hey Max, I read yer book... really into all that weird stuff aren't
  ya?, Twisted sex, bad whiskey and guns going off and shit...? ".  At that
  time of day, there were only a couple of bike messengers at the end
  downing Sierra's  and the uninterested bartender, who'd put Frank's
  draft in front of him and left, leaving me to deal with Frank's
  bullshit, alone; Considering the amount of crap I'd already dealt with
  over it, I didn't feel like another conversation about that fucking book
  either.
     I tried to tell him I wasn't necessarily into the shooting, it just
  makes me laugh. "Ya wanna write about me...I do weird stuff?" I checked
  him in the mirror over the bar: Well greased poodle hair; Rubbery
  expressions moved over his face constantly. At this moment, he was
  licking his lips and grinding his teeth just loud enough to hear it,
  while his eyeballs, with the intensity of a couple of brown ball
  bearings fixed on a tall bottle of Metexa directly in front of him.  I
  figured he must've made his Coke connection.
     "What's special about you?" I don't think I really meant to say
  anything, but it was too damn late, my lips had a mind of their own..
     "Toes man. I'm into women's toes." Frank really knew how to toss out
  the bait, and though I tried not to look interested, he'd already
  sniffed it,
     "...Buy me a beer, man?" I tossed some money on the counter while he
  shot down what was left in his glass, I didn't have anything to lose, I
  owed him one.
     "Ya see that girl over there?" he pointed his nose at one of the
  waitresses in sandals and a short blue skirt bending over a table,
  showing a lot of leg. "I like, love her feet man. I mean that's one of
  the reasons I come in here so much, ya know?"  I didn't really know.
  Outside of a mild love affair with drugs and alcohol, I don't think I'm
  obsessive. Women's feet and the western media's subtitled preoccupation
  with them, blows right by me, man. When you look down you could see just
  about anything, but I don't spend that much time thinking about it; I
  just know that the world of beauty demands a lot and just so no one
  feels left out, Men's toes don't do it for me either. Meanwhile Frank
  was giving me the low down on his personal option list, I caught him
  mid-sentence.
     "...I like 'em long man, almost prehensile" - now he had my full
  attention; the fact that he knew a word like, "prehensile" and actually
  used it in a bar, had to be worth something. " ...and I like the red
  polish, though this new deal with the black or dark blue ain't too bad
  either. Reminds me of vampires, ya know?" I thought about this over the
  rest of my stout while he went to the toilet.
     "Ya wanna go over to my place..." He started talking as soon as he came
  out of the Men's at the back of the room, maybe sooner, still pulling on
  his zipper. "... it's around the corner and I got some good bud. It's
  sort of getting on my nerves in here, ya know ?" I thought it was pretty
  quiet myself but I could see his favorite waitress was going off her
  shift, so I guess that's what he meant.
     I bought a pint of Jack Daniel's and a six of Pyramid pale ale at the
  corner liquor store already deciding I was leaving after the booze ran
  out, story or no story. There is a limit to how long you can hang in the
  company of guys like Frank, even with good bud.
     He kept up a steady commentary, chain smoking Lucky Strikes, as we
  turned the block to his place in Shiply ally. No doubt flying high on
  thoughts of alcohol, he clued me in on his various philosophies both
  local and world wide, though some of his comments were so stupid I had
  to wonder. Five minutes later, in front of a chipped white painted metal
  gate I'm watching him fumble with his key. I looked up at a patchy gray
  sky between the buildings and then at the rundown street, getting a
  couple of flutters in the pit of my stomach, but then Frank shot me the
  patented goofy look over the shoulder thing, as if to say, "..It don't
  get any more chilled out than this Bro..."  You had to admire his
  uncompromising insincerity.
     There was another door just behind the gate which he yanked open,
  disappearing through it. From the dusty landing at the second floor, I
  saw him half way down a gloomy hall waiting for me.
     We flopped on his old couch passing a blue Plexiglas bong back and
  forth. Frank ,always the host, had Black Sabbath cranking out of a
  Ghetto Blaster in the fireplace. The room was dark and cool, smelling like
  dust, incense and wax from the candles in drip covered bottles on the
  floor. The decor included some travel posters - naked girls on bicycles
  with SEE DENMARK across the bottom, and another with a view of the
  Bavarian Alps - on either side of an elaborate, mantle full of interesting
  junk: Pink quartz; bones; a couple of curved knives; some old bottles and
  a ripped carton of cigarettes among other things. The discolored, beveled
  mirror in the middle looked like an antique, still reflecting dusty
  haunted lava lamps and black lights, from back when Hippies ruled the
  Earth.
     Through his irritating conversation about this guy I didn't know who
  he was sure I did know, I thought I heard something behind one of the
  closed doors on my right. When he stopped rambling long enough to drain
  what was left of the pint I asked,
     "Roommate?"
     He was gargling  through my liquor like he'd never see a drink again,
  and obviously too busy to answer me; I tried again:
     "So, what about this toe detail. Like I said: What's so special about
  your obsession or perversion or whatever....?"
     "I'm not a pervert man.." he said it red-eyed seriously. After
  another big hit on the bong, Frank got an inspiration, "Hey, I don't
  have to tell ya, why don't I just show you!" Frank was up doing his
  happy puppy dance before he marched over to the bedroom where he cracked
  the door and stuck his head in. I heard him ask, "Ya ready?" there was
  some mumbled reply.
     The bedroom was set up like a movie studio, black floor length
  curtains on all the walls, with a big rumpled bed for the stage. I took
  in the video camera and lights on tripods and the boom mikes suspended
  over the main event. Lying in the middle of it dressed in a black
  leather cut-out bra, garter belt, and murderous looking spiked heels was
  a skinny Brunet  with a big hairy bush. I mean a BIG bush! You could've
  hidden a whole regiment of lust lubricated Teutonic warriors in there,
  no problem. The smoke from her cigarette curled up, blue under the
  spotlights that mercilessly showed every detail of her lank anatomy; My
  stoned gaze roamed from the chewed looking tips of her pointy breasts,
  down to that national forest between her legs, up to the Nazi eagle and
  swastzstika tattooed on one shoulder, over to the needle tracks inside
  her left arm....Arian sex toy, Sieg heil! The girl looked like she was on
  break between shots--smelled like it too--and though I didn't see anyone
  else besides us in there, something was more than a little weird about
  the whole scene.
     "This what you guys do for a living? Porn?"
     "Well, yeah, sometimes." Frank was all business,  "It pays pretty
  good, right Shantol?" He was taking his clothes off while he talked, and
  I wasn't one hundred per cent sure what they were expecting from me, but
  I'd be damned if I was going to get in the middle of that shit! No way.
     "Umm, you got it honey..." Shontol speaks, taking another deliberate
  pull on her cigarette without moving anything except her lips and one
  hand.
     Frank was down to his bulging underpants in record time, rummaging
  around in a cardboard box on the floor, where he dragged out a black
  leather mask and some handcuffs. Pointing to a chair at the foot of the
  bed, he told me to take a seat. He was going to give me the story. I
  sat, took another swig on my beer and told them to go for it, though
  truth to tell, my input had not been required.
     Shantol cuffed Fried Frank, whose skin was pale like a troglodyte
  insect and hairy --then tied the mask over his eyes while he maneuvered
  himself onto the bed where he lay back, spread legged and ready. When
  she stood up, kicking off her shoes, I could see that with her long
  toes - blood red toenail polish--she must have been as close to heaven as
  ol' Frank would ever get. She stood on the bed looking bored. While he
  wiggled happily, she hooked the elastic band of his briefs with one foot
  and pushed them over what could've been an erect and sort of damp, Gallo
  salami, then down his legs where they dangled for a second before she
  flicked them, with a sneer, across the bed, out of sight. Matter-of-
  factly, the girl stuck her toes in his mouth and stood like that, hands
  on her hips balancing herself on one leg while Frank did what he had to
  with one hand. I heard him gobble around what he was sucking on,
       "Oh man! This is great!..." Looking directly at me, oblivious of
  Frank she asked.
       "Don't I know you?" I shrugged. A lot of people think they know me;
  it happens all the time. "Your Max West right?" Normally I guess I
  should've been happy someone remembered, except this wasn't normal, at
  least not to me, and I didn't like the way she said it, kind of
  sarcastic and snotty, I mean she wasn't that good looking even half
  naked, to get away with it.
       "...You know, me and my girl friends saw you do your performance at
  the Embulum last Saturday..." I didn't remember, but she must've thought I
  did.
       "...Don't be flattered. We don't like you. We think you're book is a
  piece of fuckin' sexist shit by a fuckin' sexist asshole!.... "  Toasted
  or not, I wasn't really expecting that kind of reaction, I thought she
  was being coy.
       "Really?... That stuff is supposed to be surrealism. It's absurd
  because I am deeply concerned, some might say scared shitless, of the
  mindless CHAOS, breathing down my neck day and night like some stinking
  wind blowing off the forbidden plains of Leng ..."  What the hell was I
  trying to say? She wondered also.
       "What the fuck are you talking about?" She looked and sounded
  totally pissed. Frank's economy sized boner, sticking out of his fist,
  was starting to twitch; Old Faithful was ready to blow, and I moved my
  chair to the side, out of harm's way.
       "You don't know what I'm talking about?" I just couldn't understand
  why people don't get this, it seemed perfectly obvious. Think about
  throwing a dime into a swimming pool full of shit: The dime is what we
  think of as the 'World' - jobs, food, sex, your car, jock-strap, those big
  foam rubber "#1" fingers idiots wave at ball games, etc.---and the shit
  is the rest of the Universe; how much more simple can it be? After she
  shook her head, two things happened: Fried Frank shot his load all over
  the back of Shantol's leg and my world exploded into the Fourth of July,
  except it was August. The sound of breaking glass and nasty laughter
  followed me like a cartoon, into the dark.
        Eventually I came out of it but it took a long, long time. Lying
  in a piss reeking ally by a greasy Dumpster box, my location was a
  blank, for a second I didn't know who I was either. The only real thing
  was my pounding skull, like I had the worst Tequila hangover of my life,
  only about a thousand times worse than that. When I tried to sit up I
  discovered a whole pile of aches and pains I didn't remember having
  before that semi-truck or whatever, crashed into the back of my head,
  and then I threw up; Messy.
       Shantol and her girl friends evidently weren't kidding when they
  said they didn't like my work - before I was completely gone I heard them;
  those babes were the toughest critics I ever had.
       I lay in bed for a few days, murder in my heart. When I felt like
  it, I took occasional weak swings with a ball bat pretending to connect
  with Shantol or Fried Frank's head but my ribs hurt too much to really
  give it my all; Where had those people come from? There must've been
  some doors hidden behind the curtains but I sure didn't hear anyone
  sneaking up on me. I couldn't figure it out, so I ate more painkillers,
  then I didn't care.
       There was plenty of time to put together a rough scenario: It was
  an obvious set up. Who'd been behind door #1 was half confirmed by my
  friend Tim - he gets around--when he told me how he'd talked to a couple
  of Leather Dykes over at Sid's, who told him about fucking up some dude
  a few days ago. When he asked them what happened they'd told him the guy
  deserved it, he'd hurt Macy's feelings and he was a shitty writer. The
  only thing I could remember that related, was the party last Saturday
  where the big ugly motorcycle gal with an ass the size of a compact car,
  tried to put the moves on my date. At first I thought I'd hallucinated
  her.
       I'm not sure how, since it was like grappling a baby elephant but
  I'd got her by the back of the collar and pulled her down on one knee.
  It must've been the broken bottle I was using for a weapon that got mien
  hostess to step in and keep the She-Beast and her lesser beastettes from
  sitting on me or something. I didn't remember hurting it's feelings, but
  if it was her and I did, I am sorry she is so sensitive. As far as that
  crack about my writing: Fuck her!
         Two weeks later, the six stitches across the back of my head,
  where they'd hit me with a bottle, were itching. All my fading bruises
  were just a memory that I didn't really remember, but I still moved slow
  as a ninety year old woman with a ten foot hemorrhoid. This particular
  day I was aiming toward the CW Saloon, when I saw old Fried Frank
  himself getting the crap beat out of him by a couple of skinheads and
  you know, I didn't even stop to watch. But I felt better.

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 uXu #507              Underground eXperts United 1999              uXu #507
                     ftp://ftp.etext.org/pub/Zines/UXU/
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