“Would you like to have sex with Brittney Spears?” a man furtively asked me, as I passed a non descript doorway on Valencia street.
“You’d have better luck trying to sell me a piece of the true cross,” I said. I mean who would believe it, Brittney Spears inside of a grimy building in San Fransisco, selling herself as a whore.
“Come inside, take a look. I promise you won’t be dissapointed. And if you aren’t, perhaps we can come to an accomidation.”
I tried to stare him down. I have a fairly strong bullshit detector, but there was something authentic about this man, even if he was telling the truth he was nothing more than a pimp with an attractive proposition.
I nodded and went into the door he indicated, wary of someone waiting in a dark corner with tire iron. I could not tell who would be more foolish: the guy who dreamed up a mugging scam that promised sex with the most desirable woman in the world, or the idiot taken in by such a scam.
But there was no 800 pound gorilla waiting for me, just a beautiful woman bent over the arm of a couch, her ass facing me, along with a wet cunt, topped by a clitoris which was obscured by her hand as she masturbated intently. I could not tell if it was, in fact, Brittney Spears, but she had the right body. Truth be told, I hadn’t owned a TV in years and wasn’t sure if I would recognize her anymore. With that ass stuck in the air the way it was, and the wonderful smell of wet pussy filling the dank room, it didn’t matter if I was fucking Brittney or some skank who bore a faint resemblance.