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Fiction #277
(published May 4, 2006)
by Paul Kavanagh
I like the word bordello. The word lupanar is Latin for whorehouse. The word bagnio comes from Balaneion, which is Greek. The French say maison de passe, which translates to the house of trick. A whore will call her john a trick. Proust, Kafka, and Joyce were all tricks.

You know a lot about whorehouses.

Been visiting them for a long time, I said.

In Lyon, France one can fuck a fille de joie alongside the road. For they work out of white vans. The white vans can be seen parked up alongside the road. Greeks will call a whore a hetaera. The English once called whores Doxies. The Japanese have their lovely Geisha. I really liked that. King David's mother was a whore. Her name was Rehab. With her profits Bella Cohen sent her son to Oxford to gain a good education. Solon was the first to introduce brothels to Athens. During the Middle Ages the church permitted prostitution because it was held to prevent the greater evils of rape, sodomy and masturbation.

Do you want everything?


She placed my cock in her mouth. It felt good. She held me tightly around the legs. I looked down upon her dark roots showing. I could see my cock being swallowed by her lips. Her tongue went in-between my foreskin and bellend. All uncircumcised men love this. It is a wonderful feeling. It is hard to describe to a circumcised man.

Hot house, common-house, nunnery, picked hatch were all terms used by Shakespeare euphemistically for whorehouses. Shakespeare lived in the parish of St. Helen's which was well known for its doxies. You could get a fuck while watching Othello. The Pit was a haven for drunkenness and sex. Robert Greene who called Shakespeare an upstart Crow lived with a beautiful whore. He died of the pox in a state of penury. Greene lived the same way as Genet. In Barcelona during the thirties Genet was a slattern. Slattern is slang for a homosexual whore.

I was close to spurting. She could sense it. She looked up at me and smiled. I had to reciprocate the smile. She was thin and not the best looking girl that had lined up before me. But she had that look that told me she would give me my money's worth. Her breasts sagged and her cunt was clean-shaven. It had lost some of its color.

Do you want to fuck?


She went over to the cabinet opened a draw and pulled out a condom. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. The mirror was one side of the whole wall. The room was basically a bed, a cabinet and a mirror. I told myself that I would look at my reflection the whole time. There was no wallpaper. The walls had been painted black. The room smelt of burnt rubber and chaffed bodies.

Proust and Kafka were both told to go to a whorehouse by their fathers. Joyce went on his own violation. Joyce's father when temulent could deliver derogatory appellations in his mellifluous Irish tongue with the best of them.


Upon my hard cock she dexterously rolled the condom. Next she climbed upon the bed, which was not really a bed, but an oblong box covered with a mattress and a sheet. She got on her hands and knees and motioned me to get behind her. I watched as she started to rub her cunt to get it lubricated.

In the whorehouse Proust kicked over a flowerpot. The price of the flowerpot was the exact amount his father had given him. Did Proust mean to kick over the flowerpot? We will never know. Many men have kicked over their own flowerpots in a whorehouse. Stephen Dedalus vandalized the brothel of Bella Cohen. Kafka would never have caused any destruction. He ostensibly enjoyed his visits to the local whorehouse. Much in the same way as Henry Miller, for Miller a whorehouse was a temple of the flesh.

You know a lot about whorehouses.

When I put my cock into her it didn't feel as good as the blowjob. I looked at my bony reflection in the mirror and compared my anemic body to hers. We both looked like death was just around the corner. I hardly moved. She rocked back and forth. Never once did my cock slip out. It balanced upon her lips now and again, but never once did I need to place it back in. My hands traveled up and down her protruding spine. I grabbed her saggy tits and pinched her nipples. When I came I expected to be filled with Melancholy. But I wasn't. I felt sleepy. I felt the alcohol dissipating. I was dry and sleepy. I told myself that I would find a club that was open and have a couple of late night drinks. We both got dressed quickly and in a blink she was gone. I looked at the mirror and wondered.

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