Arthur Russell
Fellatio Salon
I used to think Japanese porn,
with its pixilated penises,
wasted the strengths
that this ethnic type
perfected,
the ultra femme
squeaky female voices
no other nationality
could do as well.
Pixilating the cocks,
the coitus, as well the uniquely
directional pubic hair
of the actors,
was a shame.
But tonight, I grazed
on a long video
about a sex worker
in a fellatio salon
giving head to five
guys in forty minutes.
There were no booths.
The guys sat on a pair
of wide banquettes,
both facing the same direction,
waiting their turns
while the others
got sucked off
one at a time.
The sex worker gave
each of them her full,
coquettish attention
for seven or eight minutes.
She started them off
with a bright caress
of the face, but no kissing.
She’d help them
get their pants and unders off
then enthuse
as though she’d
spontaneously come up
with the most delightful idea:
oral sex.
She’d entered the room
with a miniature
riding-hood basket
stocked with
individually wrapped
moistened cloth towelettes
dangling from her fingers.
When she struggled
to tear the wrapping,
her smile twisted a little.
She’d clean the guy’s groin
before, and again —
more gently —
after he’d come.
She opened
a second towelette
to wipe her lips
between patrons.
What I particularly liked
about her blow jobs
was that she’d
bring a guy off
in three, four
minutes tops,
then, after lingering
on the display and swallow
of his cum in her mouth,
which did not appeal to me at all,
she would go back
to sucking him off
while his dick
was sagging down
to limp for nearly
as long as she had
on the run up, and,
for at least one guy,
the second round of sucking
had more impact
than the first.
He turned his head aside and shrieked
into his own shoulder.
The last guy
she blew
had this cool
bass baritone grunt,
and a short, thick dick
she seemed to like,
and she made
a Tootsie pop sound
each time she popped it
out of her mouth.
She giggled
in a slightly more
delighted way for him
than she had for the others.
All the guys
were super grateful
and kind of happy,
as though they’d
just gotten
a free car wash.
No money
changed hands.
They must’ve
paid outside,
like
a movie ticket.
Inside, they faced forward
and accepted her joy.
The big surprise
for me
was that after
the first few minutes,
I didn’t mind
the pixilated dicks at all.
I didn’t
need to see
the lip-on-dick contact.
I could follow
the obvious progression
and read
the implied emotion
in her courtesan face.
Pixilated
dicks show modesty.
Her spaghetti-strap
satin top—
which she hardly
paid attention to
for the first 3 guys—
dropped off
one shoulder for the
fourth guy. Her tit
came out,
but it was an accident.
She lifted it back
with her thumb.
On the last guy,
the one with the thick dick
and the baritone grunt,
both straps came off.
Her whole torso,
with its lovely clear
skin and her youth
intact
came into view.
You might have caught
an accidental glimpse of her
as you walked
past your teenage daughter’s
open bedroom door.
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