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Baltimore Stories (1)

west_baltimore

The riots in Baltimore are as good of an excuse as any to write some new fiction for the book.

Ok, ok. I graduated high school when I was 16, and as I wasn’t really old enough to go to college my parents weren’t really sure what to do with me. So I just sort of “hung out” (*cough* selling weed *cough*) for a year and a half, having adventures and barely avoiding serious legal jeopardy. So anyway, my buddy was going to school in Baltimore, so his parents rented him a two bedroom apartment in West Baltimore.

Yes, that West Baltimore. We were the only two white boys on the block. But the Negroes generally speaking never fucked with us, because we didn’t fuck with them. We saw all sorts of shit and would sometimes buy weed from them, but we just looked the other way from the crack, hookers, and murder.

So anyway, my buddy was an “artist” going to an “art school” for rich white girls . Let me just say that that summer in Baltimore … oh yeah. Looking back on it, all these “beta boys” would think these girls were “sluts” and that we were “getting lucky.” But it was just the opposite.

We were, essentially, male prostitutes for these rich girls. We were the Wild Boys. They would invite us over to their apartments – way nicer than ours – get us drunk, get us high, and we would do our little song and dance routine, you know, push our thick hair from our eyes, give some bull shit speech about art or poetry or politics, make a few jokes, then the girls would be like, “ok let’s fuck” and we’d fuck them. Then they would dismiss us. They didn’t want anything more than a good hard fuck. That’s just the way it was.

And my friend, I mean he was almost a professional. He would fuck older married women – and they would give him money, no shit. I mean it wasn’t like actual prostitution, but he was a “good time fella” – you know. Once down in Georgetown, in DC, we were doing – lol don’t laugh – a “poetry reading” and he’s talking about fucking some guy’s wife and wiping his dick off on the curtain afterward. This guy, I mean he had to drive the women off with a stick. Big dick I guess. We would bounce between DC and Baltimore fucking rich girls right and left. It was awesome. Sometimes I’d actually busk – you know, bring an acoustic guitar, play for money on the street. Rich girls would like, be writing checks from Daddy’s bank account, then take us home and fuck us. Rich girls that hated their parents and wanted to runaway and shit. God it was the life – whiskey, weed, and women.

I mean, honest to God, do fathers realize just how slutty their daughters really are? At least, back then it was just fucking unreal. Yes, they would fuck one of us, then the other, sometimes at the same time. Rich girls – rich white girls – they are fucking freaks, I mean unless you have lived it you have no idea. You send these hot, tight 17, 18, 19, 20 year old girls to college – what do you think they are doing between classes? Let me tell you – smoking dope, drinking, group sex, orgies, fucking one boy one night and another boy that morning. Kinky shit, too. I mean really you just have no idea.

And of course, for a barely 17 year old boy, it was pretty much heaven on earth. I mean, I don’t even remember some of them.

hooka-chicks

But I do remember Amanda. Now, see, Amanda was the first actual prostitute I ever knew. She was probably 19, not particularly attractive, kind of a punk rock type. She worked at one of the clubs down on the Block.

Now, Amanda had gone to high school with us. My first memory of Amanda is helping her break into her father’s house. Of course, her father was obviously rich as shit, judging by the house. I mean, I asked her what was up. She said she hated her father. I said why? She didn’t want to talk about it, and Amy – you know, the little Blondie slip of a thing I had been fucking since she was 15 – just gave me a look that basically said “don’t ask.” Amanda said, “the things he did to me, he owes me. I’d take every fucking cent he had just to get away from him.”

So she breaks in through a back door, and we’re all waiting in the getaway car. She finally comes out with a backpack full of shit she’s going to sell to the pawn shop in Baltimore.

So that was Amanda, and maybe a year later she’s working as a “stripper” on the Block on Baltimore street, giving handjobs to dudes under the counter. They had a system, she told me. Some guy would ask for a “bottle” and pay fifty or a hundred bucks for a cheap five dollar bottle of champagne. This was a “code” so he would go down to the end of the bar, pull his dick out, and Amanda would jerk him off under the bar. God knows how they cleaned up afterward, I never asked. There was a back room for “private dances” which apparently meant a blowjob behind the curtain.

We went down the club once to pick up Amanda, and let me tell you, it was honest to god the sleaziest looking place I had ever seen, and the girls … I mean, I’d rather jerk myself off, thank you very much. But whatever, people are crazy.

before-the-internet-it-was-a-secret

So anyway there was one place that we could buy liquor, the liquor store run by some Koreans or something. They just didn’t give a shit and my buddy looked kind of older anyway, so he could go there and buy big bottles of liquor, vodka usually. So one day, I get him to buy me a bottle of vodka and I started drinking it, waiting for my girlfriend – the lifeguard – to come up to Baltimore to see me. She brought her friend, this weird long haired hippie dude that I would have guessed was gay, except he fucked her friend one night so I dunno. They were best friends but definitely not fucking. So by the time they get there, I am fucking wasted, I mean I can barely stand up.

So Rena’s friend is fucking pissed off. He’s like, “oh great he’s drunk again.” You see, he didn’t like me very much, I’m sure you can figure out why. So anyway, he waits in the other room while Rena gives me a blow job. I am so fucking drunk but it was feeling like really really good, and right when I’m about to come I jerk back accidentally, pull out of her mouth and blow all over her face. She goes “god damn it” and slaps me on the stomach really hard. I say, “I’m sorry, baby” and I couldn’t help it I just start laughing while she’s wiping her face off on my blanket. She asks me if I want to go out to some hole in the wall club in Fell’s Point. I tell her, “I’m so fucking drunk I can’t even get out of bed.” So she she and her friend leave.

Then, the next crop of girls come over, but at this point I’m out, so my friend fucks two little teenage girls in his room. It was unreal.

baltimore_theblock

The apartment in West Baltimore – it was like the pussy house. A constant stream of art school chicks going to school in Baltimore, and girls from home that would come up to visit us because we had our own place. LOL – it was like teen orgy central. The Negroes probably thought “those freaky white boys.”

It went on like this for the whole summer. But it was obvious that one day, “the rain is gonna fall and wash all the shit off of the streets” like in that De Niro movie. I mean, it was obvious that this situation wasn’t going to last. On the West Side, you had generations of dirt poor and ignorant Negroes, and on the East side, you had all sorts of rich people around John Hopkins and a few working class white neighborhoods left, like Hamden.

So anyway, watching these riots, I’m just thinking, well duh – didn’t you know this was going to happen eventually?

Ok, so one day, me, my buddy, Amanda, Amy, Shannon – you know, my first love, the one that got away, her friend Becky – we’re all sitting around in my bedroom smoking weed and snorting coke, and the Negro that lived upstairs has his girlfriend over. We can hear him talking dirty, and he’s saying, “ok, ok it’s going in your ass now baby, yeah baby it’s going in your ass…”

So, we all get real quiet, trying to stop from laughing, then …

baltimore, contact, inner harbour

3 comments on “Baltimore Stories (1)

  1. Hipster Racist
    May 3, 2015

    Reblogged this on Hipster Racist and commented:

    Riot-inspired Baltimore stories.

  2. Pingback: The Life and Times of Hipster Racist | Hipster Racist

  3. Berry
    September 4, 2015

    I love this series. Reminds me of all my good times, right down to the inexplicable parade of girls, drugs, living in the ghetto, the punk rock hookers, etc
    Oh, and playing Motown when older black cops pull you over. Classic!!
    Cheers

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