"Love is not a potato. You can't throw it out the window."
-old Russian proverb
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Author's Note: This is a story about control. It shows
how men try to control women through their
fantasies, and how these fantasies can
distort men's view of the world. The intent
of this story is not erotic, but it does
have a strong sexual focus. Hopefully, it
will be thought provoking about the way men
view women.
_____________________________________________________________
Spare Change
by Dafney Cecil Dewitt
Copyright [Copyright] (C) 1996
"Hi, spare change?"
"No, sorry. Not today," says Fuller not even looking down
in her direction.
"Wait, please wait" she begs.
Fuller hesitates and stops.
The other pedestrians flow around them like water around rocks.
"You can spit on me for a dollar," she offers.
Fuller stares at her speechless.
"I know you despise me."
For a minute, Fuller stops breathing. He is dressed in a
business suit standing at a busy downtown street corner across
from a park. He looks down at the panhandler. She is dressed
in old blue jeans and a man's faded, plaid, wool shirt. She's
thin with long brown hair. Her hair is parted in the middle.
Her face has a pale, innocent, almost angelic look. In other
circumstances, she could be a young college student, an artist,
or the daughter of a business associate. There is nothing
exceptional about her. Countless beggars like her loiter
around the downtown streets asking for spare change.
She is probably a drug addict, a homeless teenager, or a
prostitute. Maybe, she's one of those cocaine whores that
Fuller has read about in the X-Rated Men's magazines. The other
pedestrians flow around Fuller and the beggar girl, as if they
were rocks in the middle of a stream, oblivious to their
existence.
"You'll let me spit on you?"
"Only if you give me a dollar."
"Do you want me to spit on you?"
"You despise me, and for a dollar you can spit on me."
The girl says these last words with a conviction that defies
rebuttal. It is this last comment that causes Fuller to stop
breathing. It isn't the words. The words are innocent.
Spoken out loud on a street corner where vulgar sexual
profanities are commonly shouted. No, it isn't the words. It
is the implication.
For Fuller, the implication briefly suspends time while his
imagination runs wild with the possibilities.
He is repulsed by her offer, but attracted to the options. If
he can spit on her, what other exchanges of bodily fluids will
she consider?
"Well mister, make up your mind."
Fuller considers carefully before responding.
"No thank you, but we might think of something else."
"Like what?" she quickly throws the problem back to him.
"Well, like a kiss."
"No, sorry. I don't kiss strangers."
Confused, Fuller shifts strategies.
"You're a tease," he counters.
"Maybe. Are you man enough to find out?"
"Are you old enough?"
"I'm old enough to know how."
"I'll bet you are," answers Fuller, nodding his head.
He looks at her more closely. She doesn't appear to
be wearing any bra beneath the plaid shirt.
"Take a picture, it lasts longer," the girl taunts him.
"I'll give you a dollar."
"OK, but no drooling. You only get to spit once."
"No," says Fuller.
"You really do despise me, don't you?"
"No."
"OK, for $1.50 you can drool all over my face."
Fuller imagines doing something similar to drooling all over her
face, picturing the thick viscous fluid flow around her mouth
and drip off her chin. He imagines it dripping inside her shirt
onto her breasts.
"No," he answers.
"Forget it, cheapskate, if $1.50 is too high."
"It's not too high."
"Well, bite me!"
With an exaggerated shrug of exasperation the beggar girl flips
her long hair off to one side and looks him directly in the
eyes. Fuller responds.
"No spitting, but if you crawl for me, I'll give you two dollars."
"That's all?"
"No, you need to undo the top two buttons on your shirt first."
For the first time, the girl smiles.
"Now I get your game."
"But not here."
"Where?"
"Over by that park bench across the street."
As if they had known each other for a long time, the girl and
Fuller walk side by side across the street to the park. An old
wino with a scruffy beard sits on one end of the park bench.
He's drinking out of a wine bottle, poorly concealed in a brown
paper bag.
On the benches across from Fuller are some young secretaries
eating brown bag lunches and enjoying the sun.
Fuller stops about ten feet from the park bench and starts
laying quarters down on the bricks, dropping eight of them at
intervals of one foot. He drops the last quarter just two feet
from the end of the bench. He sits down.
Fuller watches as the girl standing in front of him casts her
eyes down and unfastens the top two buttons of her plaid shirt.
She lifts her eyes to his before removing a third button.
She flashes him a smile.
Fuller waits, feeling himself growing hard.
She gets down on her hands and knees, tosses her hair back out
of her face, and picks up the first two quarters.
The angle is wrong. Fuller can't quite see.
She crawls forward picking up the third and fourth coins.
Fuller smiles. Now he can see her. She's much fuller then he
guessed.
As she crawls closer, the view gets better.
Finally, Fuller has a full, unobstructed view of her hanging
breasts.
He is so engrossed in his fantasy that he blocks out the wino
sitting on the other end of the bench and even the young
secretaries eating lunch just 20 feet in front of him. His
whole world is focused on the girl, concentrated on one part of
her anatomy. He's getting his peep show in broad daylight. He
has no need to go to a porno store, and put quarters into a
slot. He's enjoying his peeping in the fresh air, at noon time,
with pedestrians walking all around him.
The ripe jiggling breasts are crawling across the park directly
toward him.
As the girl reaches out to pick up the second to the last of the
coins, Fuller feels a familiar tingling in his loins. He is
fully excited, fully hard. He's so hard, it would be impossible
for him to stand up and walk away from the park without it being
obvious to everyone that he had a hard cock pushing down the
side of his pants. The bulge in his pants would be noticed. It
would be painful to walk.
Suddenly, the wino lurches off the park bench. He has spotted
the girl crawling toward the last quarter. She is dragging it
out. Crawling toward the quarter in a slow motion, she is
giving Fuller his money's worth. But the wino mistakes her
slowness for opportunity. Thinking the quarter belongs to
whoever gets it first, the wino lunges forward to grab it. But
the abrupt exertion upsets his stomach, and vomit explodes out of
his mouth covering the coin.
Ashamed at his sudden illness, the wino staggers away leaving
the vomit covered quarter for the girl.
The girl remains frozen.
Fuller is repulsed, but unable to remove his eyes from the scene
unfolding in front of him. Gradually, the girl raises her eyes
from the pool of vile-smelling vomit to look at Fuller. As
their eyes meet, her face blossoms into a mischievous smile.
Lowering her eyes, she carefully pushes aside the vomit with one
finger, and picks up the last coin with her left hand.
Raising her head, she looks directly into Fuller's eyes.
"My tongue is going to clean the vomit off this quarter."
"No," says Fuller with a look of sick disbelief.
"Yes," answers the girl on her knees.
"Don't do it," Fuller begs.
Without taking his eyes off her face, repulsed but engrossed,
Fuller watches as her right hand places the quarter in her
mouth.
"Yummy," she mumbles fishing the quarter around in her mouth and
pushing it out so Fuller can see it lying on her tongue.
Fuller wanted to debase the girl, and manipulate her, but this
is out-of-bounds. This is hard-core depravity. This is beyond
humiliation.
Fuller has lost control.
His hardness shrivels away.
His fantasy is lost.
Fuller feels nauseated. Hot bile rises in his throat. With a
sour mouth, he turns toward the girl.
"Why did you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Put the vomit-covered quarter in your mouth."
"I didn't," the girl said, spitting the quarter out into her
right hand.
"Don't lie. I saw you do it."
"No, you didn't."
"What do you mean?"
"You only saw what you wanted to see."
Smiling, the girl stands up and dumps the seven clean quarters
from her right hand into her front jeans pocket. She turns her
back on Fuller, flipping her long hair around, and walks out of
the park. Fuller watches until she disappears into the other
pedestrians.
As she walks away, the vomit-covered quarter is still tightly
clenched in her left hand
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