Noah Cicero - The Collected Works of Noah Cicero Vol. I

I smiled the whole time.

She kept asking me if I felt nervous.

Prostitutes always say that to me.

After she was done washing me, she poured more hot water on me to get the soap off.

Then she had me stand up.

She dried me off slowly.

I loved it.

Oh, it was nice.

Some assholes would say that I enjoyed it because she was the slave I bought. But I never told her to do anything or forced any kind of behavior on her.

The female at the Asian Spa was paid to treat me with consideration just for an hour.

I considerately gave her money.

She considerately treated me with respect.

Maybe if everyone was as nice as the Asian Spa females the world wouldn’t be such a shitty place.

She led me to a sauna and asked if I would like anything to drink.

I said yes and asked what she had.

She said, “Cola and diet cola.”

I said I would take a regular cola.

She got one and left me alone for three minutes.

Didn’t know what was going to happen.

Had been told that girls at the Asian Spa have sex with you, but I found it hard to believe anyone during the Information Age.

I fluffed my dick trying to get hard.

Just in case there was sex at the Asian Spa.

She came back and got me, then led me to the same bedroom where my clothes were.

She laid me down on the bed, on my stomach.

She got on my back with her clothes on and started giving me a massage.

It was the best massage of my life.

Started to feel really relaxed.

Really at home.

She made me feel like a person, like all my suffering, all the hell, was worth it.

All the intolerable years of my existence were for something.

That it would be all right.

She flipped me over and massaged the front of my body.

It was so nice.

Almost life-affirming.

She finished the massage and lay down next to me.

I looked at her.

She was so pretty.

She asked what I would like; she gave the prices for a blowjob and a fuck.

I said I would like a fuck.

It was two-hundred fifty dollars.

The price was unimportant; I don’t see the difference in the irrationality of spending five hundred on a couch, twenty-five thousand on an SUV, or two-hundred fifty dollars for an hour of pretend love.

She stood up and took her clothes off.

Revealing her soft Asian body.

She lay on the bed.

I crawled on top of her.

We rubbed our nakedness all over each other.

I touched her skin with my hand.

It was so soft and nice.

I kissed her tummy.

Butt.

Legs.

Feet.

Back.

Thighs.

Oh, I kissed and kissed.

There is nothing better than touching and kissing a soft body with nice skin.

She played well with me.

She knew I was sad and alone.

She was probably suffering more because she was thousands of miles away from home.

After ten minutes of kissing and running my hands softly over her body, we had sex.

It was missionary for a while.

And then doggy style for a while.

Then I ate her pussy for a long time.

And then I ate her asshole for a long time.

She had (or maybe faked) an orgasm.

She was probably told to fake at least one orgasm during intercourse because American men enjoy playing that they MAKE or CONSTRUCT the female orgasm. Which is hysterical.

Whether she had a real one or not, it doesn’t matter.

I eventually ejaculated.

I came on her ass.

It was so pretty.

My cum lying there on her two little round butt cheeks.

I lay down next to her, smiling.

She placed her small arm over my chest for a few minutes.

She whispered nice sentences to me in the best English she could.

The hour was up and we both put our clothes back on.

I felt miserable that it was over.

She led me to the door.

Before I left though, she gave me a hug.

A gentle hug.

The way hugs should be.

Then she let go, and I left.

I got in my car and was happy.

I felt kind of mad that I had spent two-hundred fifty dollars for one hour of life and didn’t get any objects for it.

But in America, you have to spend money to smile.

I was sitting at Denny’s one afternoon.

It was winter and the sun was going down.

So I guess it was around five in the evening.

I was sitting at the counter.

I was reading About Behaviorism by Skinner.

Down a couple of seats was this strange woman.

She kept smiling all weird.

And making little disturbances that kept causing me to put my head up.

She was eating chicken tenders and drinking a soda.

She seemed like she was on crack.

Which is common at the Youngstown Denny’s.

People of all colors, genders, and ages on crack.

So it was Denny’s as usual.

While I was reading I heard in a whisper, “Hey you, come over here.”

It was the crazy lady; she wanted me to sit next to her.

I didn’t see why not.

She said in a whisper, “Somebody was supposed to pick me up. I don’t know where they are. I’m missing a party. I was supposed to dance for these guys. And they were gonna pay me one-hundred fifty dollars. No one has come to pick me up. My dude dropped me off. Yeah, a hundred and fifty dollars, can you fucking believe? I should be at that party. If you pay for my food, I’ll give you a blow job.”

My first thought was that she is one weird fucking human. Then questions arose.

1. Is she an escaped mental patient?

2. Does she really want me to pay for her food?

3. Would she really give me a blowjob for paying for her food?

4. If I pay for her food, how much of a tip should I leave?

5. Do I want a blowjob from this crazy human?

I said, “Yeah, I’ll pay for your food for a blowjob.”

She smiled.

I paid for my coffee and her food and left.

We went to the dirty motel down the street.

It was one of those motels where people live, sex is purchased, crack is smoked and spouses are cheated on.

It was perfect for this.

We went into the room.

She immediately took off her clothes and I took off mine.

She began sucking my dick.

But I couldn’t focus.

There was something terrifying about this whole event.

There was something terrifying about her.

She was crazy, on crack or something.

Something miserable about her.

Something too miserable.

I couldn’t get off.

She offered to put it in her pussy.

But she wasn’t wet enough.

I couldn’t understand her intentions.

Maybe that was the problem.

She might have been crazy and on crack but she still wanted sex, and that’s why she offered it because buying chicken tenders for somebody does not constitute prostitution.

Maybe she was schizophrenic or a feral child.

I lost the need for an orgasm and started thinking about the horror of living.

The horror of living exists for everyone. If anything ties the people of the world together, it is that unceasing horror.

I decided to leave.

Put my clothes on.

Offered her a ride home but she said she would stay in the motel all night.

She asked me if I had a lighter.

I gave her the only one I had.

She lay on the bed with one light on.

She smiled at me.

I smiled back.

Then left.

Got in my car and drove back to Denny’s to read About Behaviorism .

That was a strange experience.

One day I was really bored.

I had the urge to try something new.

Something totally weird.

I heard there was a XXX theater in the Westside of Youngstown.

I had always wanted to go.