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                                     Chapter Fourteen

                                    Into The Breech


August 16, 1945

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

7:12 PM 

 Jesus Christ! Margery Binkowski, AKA Margy Binkowski, AKA Pansy thought. Give me one’a those big, paste on red noses and big floppy shoes and I couldn’t look more like a whore clown.

 The dark pink, satin like skirt, even shorter than she’d previously thought cinching above her navel, coming to about two and a half inches below her crotch allowing a few strands of Margy’s stray pubic hair to be seen, and indeed tight enough to show the bulge of her vulva, as the light pink blouse made of the same satin like material— if made to go bra-less, would easily show the shape and flow of her heavy breasts. The flowery white anklets and the patent-leather ‘Mary-Jane’ shoes added to; in Pansy’s mind, the picture of a clown-like whore. 

  Knocking at the door… “Yeah!” ...breaking the disgusting appraisal of herself in the dresser mirror.

“Pansy, it’s me, Zinnie. Thought I’d keep you company walking onto the floor this first time.”

“Yeah thanks. Come on in and take a look at this shit she wants me to wear.”

“My God!”— Wearing skin tight, white tights. A sleeveless, near transparent, pink silk blouse; moderately busted, five foot, two, long hair too black to be natural, the twenty-seven year old, somewhat cheaply attractive woman does have startling green eyes.— “What you’ve got on supposed to turn Elmer Fudd on?” Stifling laughter “Sorry…” Zinnie said “...but maybe Gladdy’s having you wear this crap to make sure you’re able to handle the, uh, to say the least, indignity’s that goes on in a, uh…”

“Whorehouse.” Pansy said as, walking alongside Zinnie through the long hallway into the tastefully — most especially for a whorehouse— huge

‘reception room’ where there was but one rather lonely looking ‘motherly type’ strolling about the far side of the immense room robed in a, not quite, but not completely opaque robe dark enough to not allow naked flesh to show, though light enough to allow the individual movement of saggy, ‘motherly type’, unsupported forty-seven year old breasts.

 Feeling utterly conspicuous— as Gladdy indeed had intended— and thankful for the company of Zinnia as, walking towards one of the living-room type furniture settings. “Mind if we sit?”

“Yeah, sure…” sitting on the sofa, facing each other “... Rosie’l be…” as though on cue, dragging a small desk and carrying a stool, the ominous appearing man prepared to situate himself alongside a heretofore unnoticed side-street doorway in order to make sure this nights ‘House of Flowers’ business was conducted in the way of one of Milwaukee’s top quality whore houses could be conducted.

At the same time, drawing her attention, the ‘motherly looking whore’ crossed the room, and, nodding to Zinnia, in a most unladylike like manner— the not completely opaque robe open above her knees, exposing pudgy thighs, plopping onto the easy chair, “You’re the new pretend school…” studying Pansy “”...maybe not so ‘pretend’ school girl the old lady’s found for Elmer, huh!”

“Yeah, I guess. Around here…” flipping her wrist upward “... I’m, uh, Pansy.”

“ ‘Pansy’, huh! Good name for you. I’m… Well, around here, and at home, I’m, ‘Ma’.”

“ ‘Ma’? Don’t tell me, let me guess.” Closing her eyes in deep pretend thought; coming up with the only flower-like thing she could think of: “‘Marijuana’?”

“Nah. Weed ain’t allowed here; least ways the kind you smoke. ‘I’m Mary-gold’! So ‘Ma’s’ the name I answer to…” giggling “… for here an’ both my ol’ man an’ kids.”

“ ‘Home’?” Sitting straighter. “You don’t, like live here? You’ve a family?”

“Yeah, Morgan’s my ol’ man, an’ he works nights at the train yard, an’ the kids are old enough now to look after themselves, so I’m here two, three times a week, giving ‘Gladdy’ her slice.”

“Yeah,” Zinnie said. “And sometimes those nights old, ‘Ma’ here hustles more’a them perverts than I get weeds that just wanna fuck and suck.”

“Ah…” as though explaining to Pansy “...most’a those weeds are repeats that come to see me once/ twice a month.”

Staring at ‘Ma’, Pansy saw nothing remotely attractive in this average looking old woman that most guys would pay ‘anything’ to ‘fuck or suck’ with, when the ‘flowers’ that she’d met here were available.

Seeing the perplexed look on Pansy’s face. “I know what you’re thinking, kiddo…” pinching and releasing Pansy’s chin between thumb and forefingers “...but you have no idea how many perverts there are out there…” gesturing “...that just wanna fuck their mothers an’ are willing to pay good, to pretend doing it for a while.”

 Looking over her shoulder, at the far side wall where Rosie appeared to be arguing with someone. “Or just get off with an old..” Zinnia's eyes turning back to ‘Ma’. “No offence! ‘Saggy old lady’.”

“Nah, none taken.” Lifting both from beneath, then letting them fall back to where they’d been heavily resting upon her stomach. “Taken me forty-seven years to grow these floppers that some’a’those coming here find it easier to fantasise fucking an old, saggy, ma-ma like me than a pretty, young…” gesturing towards Zinnie “...lady like this here one.”

“You’re husband and kids? They don’t know that you’re, uh, screwin’’ guys for money?”

“Honey-girl, my kids are old enough an’ on their own now, an’ Morgan, my husband makes; take home, after union dues and whatever other charges the ‘yards’ boss comes up with, forty-bucks a week for forty-eight hours

work doing ‘whatever’, while I’m coming home with fifty/sixty bucks for half the time, so he knows what I’m doin’, likes the money an’ don’t care; matter’s’a’fact, he even come here once, paid twenty bucks to fuck me an’ said it was the best he’d had in years.”

Thinking how to say it, the old whore’s eyes closing. “Sometimes, with a couple’a the older guys, you know, seeing me regular for years, it ain’t just fucking for them, it’s more like, maybe, being with a wife that’s passed on, or gone to, what’ch’ya’call crazy like, or, maybe, an old girl-friend they’d loved gone from their lives forever; I hear it in the moans or words they whisper an’ see it in their faces and know that for the minutes, or even in the seconds they’re in me and feel themselves in me, they’re not in a whorehouse, fucking an old floppy whore, but are somewhere else, with someone else loving them, or being loved by them and I hear it and see it and this makes me happy an’ for those seconds or minutes, I ain’t fucking just for a few bucks, I…” looking intently at the girl called Pansy “...believe it or not, I love the feel of this old guys cock knowing that however hard his life might or still might not be, that for the seconds or minutes, I’ve— even being the whore I am, brought pure joy to someone an’ believe it or not, me, too.”

“Yeah, me, too… sometimes.” Zinnie said wistfully, “I got this one weed… uh, guy that I suck then fuck that I’d go home with— if he asked.”

Quiet a moment. “Uh, how many of us…” gesturing from Zinnie to Ma and herself “...do we have here?”

“Well, all told, including me, Missy and yourself, twelve.” Ma said. “But there’s also the flower shop that Rosie runs and the restaurant Missy runs that both do pretty good, so Gladdy’s able to keep us and everything here…” motioning about the huge, lovely furniture and floral decorated ‘reception’ area “...running so smoothly.”

7:43 PM

Appearing instantly, a number of women easily mingling with the five or six men.“Well…” seeing action on the floor at the far side room, standing, “...Rosie’s letting ‘em in now.” Zinniie said. “Gotta get to work.

7145 PM

A tremor of indecisive fear bringing Pansy’s mental pretence of eighteen years to her actual fifteen. “What do I do?” Her eyes shifting from the building numbers of men and back to ‘Ma’. “What am I supposed to do now?”

Missy and Ma what’s called Speciality's’: An older, ‘motherly’ type generally not chosen by most men willing to pay for sex to fore-fill their prurient urges and desires—‘mother-fucking’ fantasies and Missy’s breasts huge enough to bury one’s head into being something else.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

Preparing to wander onto the floor; “Baby-girl…” once again lightly pinching Pansy’s chin “...you’re not ‘salable merchandise’ tonight. So just sit here and look pretty, ‘cause Gladdys put a ‘not for sale’ sign on you that Rosie’ll make sure none of those weeds try to remove.”

“So it’s okay I just sit here?”

“Yeah. And wait for Mister Fudd.”

“How’ll I know him?”

“Don’t worry, sweety …” walking towards the others “...he’ll know you.”

8:14 PM

Sitting alone now, still feeling conspicuous, Pansy acknowledged the nods of Vi and three flowers she hadn’t as of yet met, nodding their heads as passing by, heading to their rooms and their first money making tryst of the night.

8:36 PM

  Apparently— so far on this night, none of the waiting House of Flowers weeds were in need of intercourse with their mothers and, until the first shift of flowers returned, Ma wandered the far side floor by herself, as  Slouched against the far side wall along with four or five other impatient weeds waiting the return of the first shift of flowers; fifty-eight year old,

8:46 PM

  Sven Hanson — in appearance and attitude a rough and gruff ugly man still smarting from his verbal altercation with Rosie the ’bouncer’, that in order to gain admittance to this fancy whore-house; angrily having to slip the big black guy three dollars — that he’d slipped into his pocket along with a stern worming to Sven that there was to be ‘no’ rough stuff with the flowers on this night’!

Watching that fat old whore walk aimlessly about the floor, seemingly becoming hornier and— when Rosie was distracted and not looking in his direction, secretly chugging Jack Daniels from his flask, becoming drunker by the minute— Sven Hanson’s no longer rationally functional brain lacking any reasonable thought as to why the girl on the far side room was left sitting unbothered. Ambling across the room, minus any preamble of an introduction, roughly taking hold of her arm, “ come on, baby…” attempting to drag Pansy to her feet.“Let’s you and me get acquainted!”

  Frightened. Looking to the far wall for Rosie, and more than merely hesitant to go anyplace with this repugnant person. Stalling: “I’m, uh, Pansy,” she said.
Facing the girl closely, expelling his liquor, onion and stale cigar smoked breath onto her face. “ ‘Yeah’! ‘Yeah’! You’re a fuckin’ Pansy and me? I’m fuckin’ ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ that wants’a…” glancing about, looking for Rosie, whom, at the moment was still out of sight as, painfully tightening his grip on the girl’s bare forearm, attempting to drag her closer “...shove his cock up your skanky, punk ass!”

 Not quite the way Margery Binkowski, AKA Margy, AKA Pansy envisioned this, the start her new vocation.

   Incensed at the man’s crudeness, to say nothing of ‘Jack in the Beanstalk’’ himself; painfully pulling from the man’s grasp, “You stinkin’ ugly old…” about to say ‘mother-fucker’, but her mind hitting on ‘Ma’ “... cock-sucking son-of-a-bitch!” Pansy shouted.

Conversations in this ‘reception’ room most often held in more intimate tones—Pansy’s shout drawing Rosie’s attention.

Hand poised to slap her.“Who the fuck you think are!” Hanson shouted.

In the heat of anger and fear, forgetting who and what ‘she’ now was...

This morning having done it to Sister Mary Benedict at ‘Holy Trinity Catholic School for Girl, clenching her fist ‘Margery Binkowski’ plowed it into the fifty-eight year old man’s face — breaking his nose — just as Rosie, the bouncer…

“Told you before, Jack…” grabbing the man by his shirt front, ripping three buttons off “...you treat our flowers like ladies!” Twisted and forced onto the floor, onto his ass and — bounce-walking the bleeding man to the door and, opening it with one hand as— jerking him forward, ripping two more buttons, Rosie sent Sven Hanson sprawling onto the street.

Sitting up. Swiping his bleeding nose with the back of his hand. “You Fuckin’, nigger, mother-fucker! Ain’t gonna be here no more, ‘nigger’!”

Which was far from the right thing to say to the huge black man, as reaching behind, removing the .38 police special tucked into his back belt

“Oh, my god!” As though to stop a bullet, hands crossed before his face. “Don’t you shoot me!”

“Don’t want you back here!” Pulling the hammer back. “ ‘Ever’!”

Hearing the ‘click’ of the hammer… Struggling to his knees, to his feet, running as Rosie fired one shot: purposely striking the concrete curb sending a small mist of concrete and one larger shard, aggressively but harmlessly striking, as — thinking he’d been shot in his rapidly retreating back, Sven Hanson shirked.

Approaching from the side. “Don’t seem like a very good way to hold onto customers, Rosie.”

“Mister Fudd!” Tapping the brim of a none-existent hat. “Assholes like that piece'a shit, we don’t need.”

“Hear you got someone special for me.”

“That we do, Sir.” Moving aside, opening the door for him, the man given the name of Elmer Fudd, AKA Stuart Carlin entered The House of Flowers.

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                                          Stuart Carlin