digital collage by AleXander Hirka

Post-coital Monologue

Don’t Ever Tell Them You’re An Actress

The following is a selection from Lady Yardley’s volume “Off-Course Intercourse”— a collection of the famous courtesan’s misadventures in the sex trade in New York City.

Andrew was a lawyer in town on business. He had called my service and invited me to dine with him. A delicious dinner, some fancy cocktails, and pleasant conversation. He talked about his legal career and some upcoming cases and I about my aspirations of being an actress and upcoming auditions.

Then back to his room for an hour of the perfunctory duties. When they book a room at the Trump Tower it’s always like that—certainly not hours of nonstop outrageously wild fucking.

I relaxed in bed next to him after his orgasm.

The trouble began when he said—”I used to do some acting.”

A minute later he stood at the edge of the bed, shining his cellphone flashlight on his face for theatrical affect, and bellowed forth Macbeth:

Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee!

(Was it intentional that he was holding his flaccid penis in his other hand?)

I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but

(Intentional or subconscious—he had began stroking it.)

A dagger of the mind, a false creation
Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain.

Had I been in denial up until then and not noticed, in his open suitcase on the dresser, the top of a red Make America Great Again cap?!

A long pause (his penis erect now) . . . and then from Hamlet:

The glowworm shows the matin to be near
And gins to pale his uneffectual fire.
Adieu, adieu, adieu. Remember me.

And with that same over-dramatic voice, no longer Shakespeare, now pure Andrew:
I must now go and shower off the impurities of body and soul!

Then, holding the cellphone like a tipped straw hat, he shuffled sideways into the bathroom and I heard the water running.

Having been paid cash in advance, I slipped into my clothes and was out the door before a wet Anton Chekov or Eugene O’Neill could emerge in a towel.

It was still quite early so I decided to go for a walk up Fifth Avenue before catching a cab home. I dropped the red cap into a trash bin by St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

digital collage by AleXander Hirka


© AleXander Hirka 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Writer, visual artist, philosopher, autodidact, curmudgeon. More than half of what i do is make believe.

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