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He makes a little bread selling his shit to kids from Jersey on 14th Street - enough to keep a room in an SRO hotel uptown. Recently, though, things haven’t been going too good for Big W. While the cop is dealing with the barmaid’s squeeze, she’ll swallow the pills and go back to tonguing before the guy knows anything. The barmaid will put her other hand in the cop’s crotch and pull her face away - pretending to cough or something. Willie will slip her a couple of Valiums. Soon she’ll curl her hand around her back and make a little cup. Sometimes if one of the barmaids in the Durkin is smooching it up with an off-duty cop, Willie will take a bar stool next to the chick and wait. For a downer salesman, Willie is a pretty sweet dude. In one of the bars next to the cuchifrito stand, Willie (“call me Big W”) is wondering if he’ll see April. They say Beat Shit’s not going to make the winter because he got thrown off a roof on East 13th Street. But, they say, that kind of beat shit comes back on you. He’d suck the juice out of a Placidyl and sell the shell. Beat Shit has been known to sell methadone that was really Kool-Aid and aspirin. He is the kind of pill-pusher who doesn’t give a shit if you take one of his tuies that isn’t even a tuie and go into convulsion right at his feet. The white boy didn’t dig getting burned and came back with friends and baseball bats. He used to claim that he was the one who sold the white boy that fatal bunch of beat shit in Washington Square Park last year. Beat Shit is one of the worst scumbags ever to stand at 14th Street and Third Avenue hustling “Ts and Vs” (Tuinals and Valium). But no one in the pill-pusher ginmills on 2nd Avenue figures Beat Shit is soaking up rays in Miami Beach. “Man, you hung.”īeat Shit Green is gone, too. Valium pushers came over, slapped five, and said. He spent some of the summer leaning on a parking meter, stark naked. But he could - and would - take his bloodshot eyeball out of his head and hold it in the palm of his hand. Joey the Eye was messed up - too fucked up to cop pills, never had a girl out on the street. Nobody in the Durkin, the creep joint with the tilted bar, has seen Joey the Eye for a while.
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#GAY MASSAGE NYC 14TH STREET WINDOWS#
“Motherfucker,” screamed the big black pross, “why you come down here and try to make fun of me?” The Chevy rolled up the windows and sped away, laughing. The big black pross slammed her pocketbook against the windshield. The pross took out the after the Chevy, breasts lurching north and south, ass bumping east and west. Whip a pross, stick her with sewing-machine needles, step on her face, but don’t call her a pig.
#GAY MASSAGE NYC 14TH STREET DRIVER#
The driver yelled out the window, “Yeah, how much you want to pay me, pig?” Some joke. She said, “Wanna go out?” It was sincere bargaining in good faith - “Wanna go out?” But the Chevy was deadbeat. A Chevy filled with beer-drinkers rolled slow by her doorway. The other day, though, it got embarrassing for the big black pross. But, then again, if you’re looking for scrubbed Tahitian babes in redwood tubs, 14th Street is not the place. Checking her, you’d figure she could open a 14th Street branch of the Fresh Air Fund. Rough winter, too, for the big black cross working the entrance of the Contempora Apartments on Third Avenue. The methadone bottles fell down the stairs. But they got into a pushing match with some of the Spanish guys drinking Night Train Express on the subway stairs. Good plan: the blond guy and his girlfriend weren’t going nowhere except to 14th Street to sell the extra shit. The methadone people gave them a week’s supply of bottles. Back to Ohio to visit the chick’s parents. They told the people at the methadone center on Second Avenue and 12th Street that they were going out of town. Rough for the blond junkie and his girlfriend. It’s always a rough winter at 14th Street and Third Avenue. Shitsure it’s gonna be a rough winter at 14th Street and Third Avenue.
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The creep’s voice squeaks up a couple of octaves, his scarred-up head sags. “Robitussin, man, Robitussin.” Robitussin? Two dollar Placidyl is low enough - that shit’ll make your breath smell like metal. He stands in front of the pizza joint on 14th and Third Avenue, begging for eye contact. Except that on East 14th Street, who has a warmer coat? One creep - a downer-selling vermin - knows the raw of it all. It’s late October, the time of the year when one night, all of a sudden, you know you better break out the warmer coat. All the popcorn pimps, penny-ante pross, nickel-and-dime pill-pushers, methadone junkies, and doorway-living winos felt the hawk wind as it blew down East 14th Street.