Dream Girl Warehouse

After my best friend Slim died there was no reason to live in New York. The winters were remorseless. 

And, you know the I Love New York bumper stickers, LOVE? Say it again motha fucker, yeah, there're a few nickels and dimes of love there. 

I was broke, needed to pay rent, there was no ganja available in the city, something to do with a NARC crackdown, so I had to get a job.

I went to answer an ad for working security for Burns. 

I'm sitting at Captain Dick’s desk, he looks like a WWE wrestler,  with a square-shaped head, and a flat-top haircut. 

In the 80s people didn’t use computers much and Dick tells me, 

give me your social security card. 

He calls the 9th precinct and asks for detective Bud Marrow saying,

hey Bud, how's the wife, how about a drink later at Louies, anyway, can you check your files on Henry Lucowski, Social Security number— 362456876? 

Ok, Dick hold on, 

It took a long time but the detective comes back giving the OK,

the kid’s clean, Dick says thanks telling Henry, 

you look like a good kid to me, you don’t smoke that shit do ya? 

Oh, no sir, 

I’m gonna put you on the night shift to start, at Dream Girl Sex Toy Warehouse, it’s in Queens, my secretary will give you your uniforms, and lucky for you, no hats, laugh.

You'll need to relieve the day guy at 5PM, then he'll show again at 8AM to sign the workers in. 

What a motha fucken dream job and trust me I was going to take full advantage of it.

The first night I brought cocaine, weed, and Jack Daniels, walked the floor, doin my job, amazed at the different kinds of sex toys, and assorted loungery. 

Most of the sexy stuff was stored in large paper boxes but they had a lot on display— there were double-cocks, electric dildos, strap-on dildos with balls, dildos without balls, squirting dildos with syringes attached to a tube that would shoot fake cum out of the penis. 

There were all kinds of lingerie, string-like straps that wrapped around the tits and ass, pussy cut-out panties, nurse's uniforms, and maid outfits, you name it. 

I got so worked up looking at the sexy stuff that I had to sit down and cool off. I sit at my desk, snorting coke, and drinking Jack. 

The next night I bring an old pal with me, Trickie, a hooker.

Around midnight I unlock the warehouse gate and sneak her in. She was gorgeous, with a perfect body which she liked to show off wearing tight clothes. 

We were snorting and drinking at my desk and I say to Trickie,

let's play a card game, we draw from a deck, and the lowest card has to do what the winning card tells them to do.

I pulled the high card and was in for a challenge. 

Let's try the syringe dildo, the one with the hypodermic attached to a thin plastic tube that inserts in your pussy.

Trixie got turned on before we started, the idea got her really horny.

Holding on to the rubber cock and the syringe took dexterity, but I pulled it off, inserting the thin rubber tube deep into her vagina with the tip of the rubber prick inserted partially in her pussy.

Finally, I let go, inserting the fluid in the hypodermic, and when the fack cum splatters into her pussy she goes insane, screaming ungodly.

Then out of nowhere Captain Dick shows, saying, 

Lucowski, get that slut outta here, and come to the office and dropped off your uniforms in the morning. 

The party was over, laugh, but it was sensational and worth getting busted by Captain Dickhead. 

Captain Dick didn’t pay me for the 2 nights I worked. Who cares?

After a waffle at The Waffle House, I go to central park for a walk. 

It was 1980 and the calamity of John Lennon’s horrid death at the hands of a nut case wannabe, who should have had his dick and balls cut off, hadn’t happened yet.

I sit at a bench and watch the ducks, they didn’t have a care in the world— no taxes, wearing suits of feathers, all the food they wanted in the world. They'd have a dream life if it wasn’t for fucking hunters.

I knew goddamn well I was sick in the fucking head. All I could do is hawk ganja for a living.

Thankfully, the new FDA boss decided to declare war on crack, like it was Satan himself. The FDA prick couldn't do nothin about weed, it was out of the box— cops walking their beats smoked it, wall street guys, hookers, hot dog vendors, you name it.

So crack was the new devil, lucky for me, I was back in business and as if the Angels were looking, I scored a kilo of Thai stick, the one that was the size of your baby finger wrapped in tiny threads of bamboo and soaked in opium

The Thai stick sold fast, I made so much money I could live for a year without working.

I decided to take a trip up north to Vermont, buying a used RV, a small house on wheels.

Instead of parking at a proper campsite, I hooked my RV up at Vermont Freedom Campground, a nudist resort. 

There was a nice lake there you could swim in nude, and people took it for granted that everyone was nude.

I stripped down like the rest, feeling self-conscious because I uncircumcised.  

At night the nudist sat around campfires—  partying nude, there was plenty of weed and booze around. 

Another perk was wife swapping, since I was alone I got in on threesomes. 

There’s nothing like walking naked in the forest. Suddenly you feel the skin of your whole body. That's what the nudist said anyway.

I lasted  2 nights at the nudist colony,  the nudist were self-righteous, like naked Nazis. 

I parked my RV in Burlington at Fletcher’s Free Lot, nobody cared. 

The town was full of college kids from the University of Burlington, loaded with bars. 

I was broke so I got took a job at a bar, the Whiskey Room, all I did was make Irish Coffee night and day— adding one tablespoon of brown sugar to a hefty measure of Irish Whiskey, filling the class partially with a shot of hot coffee, then pouring half whipped cream over a spoon to top off the drink.

I began hitting the booze, swigging from bottles of stuff I liked— Grand Mariner and Jack Daniels, just picking them out of the rack and gulping.

I’d be loaded by quitting time and would rip off bottles hiding them in my overcoat. Eventually, I got busted and canned.

I sleep that night in my RV, still, with a bundle of cash from the Thai stick, deciding to head out to Taos, New Mexico, thinking about going to the Lama Foundation and becoming a guru. Being a guru was a good hustle.