Chicken Read Online Free Page B

feel uncomfortable, and I’m already greasy and queasy from all the extra-crispy I’ve fried and eaten.
    I’m tired of eating extra-crispy. I’m tired of being broke. I’m tired of having a pain in my ass.
    I’m tired.
    â€˜You ready, boy?’ asks Sunny.
    â€˜Ready for what?’ I ask.
    â€˜Real Money.’ Sunny smiles.
    That week I deep-fried about a billion chickens. I made seventy-eight dollars after taxes. That’s chicken scratch. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I know I’m ready for some Real Money.
    Sunny tells me he’s got rich, generous, horny friends. These friends, he explains, will pay good money to party with a boy like me. I can make the Real Money and have all the pussy I can shake a stick at. Not that I’m anxious to shake a stick at any pussy, but he certainly got my attention.
    I started having sex when I was thirteen, and I took to itlike a well-watered carrot in fertile earth. I’m fluent in Sex. I take direction well. I love making women feel good, and I’ve learned the importance of a slow hand, a sweet mouth, and paying attention.
    I hear destiny calling my name.

3.
MY HYMEN & A WEDGWOOD EGG
    If love is the answer, could you rephrase the question?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â€”L ILY T OMLIN

    Â 
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    F RANNIE POPPED my professional cherry. She was my first sex job, and she turned me on to a lot of work. It’s a word-of-mouth business, and between her word and my mouth, I did very well by Frannie.
    Driving my motorbike down the palm tree streets that line the colossal estates, I feel right at home: an exiled caterpillar reborn a badboy butterfly. I’m rich and big in this world, an All-American success, rising from Dumpster fisher to humpster of the rich and famous.
    I park my bike down the street as instructed, and steal, nerves jangling, through Frannie’s reargate, past the fountain sculpture of a fat angel, and into the former servants’ quarters that’s now Frannie’s World.
    Sunny had instructed me like a black queeny ’Enry ’Iggins:
Don’t be late.
Don’t rip anybody off.
Don’t speak unless spoken to.
Be clean.
Say as little as possible.
When in doubt say even less.
The customer’s always right.
If something seems weird it probably is.
GET THE MONEY UP FRONT!
    Sunny made me look him in the eyes and repeat: GET THE MONEY UP FRONT! He calls the customers tricks. It’s my job to trick them.

    * * *
    Marie, a senior girl, is teaching me about the hypnotic power of cunnilingus. I’m fifteen. I’m in love with Gina, my sweet-hearted girlfriend who’s finally letting me go both down on and into her. I’m also friends with Sheila, a wrong-side-of-the-tracks girl who heaps massive affection on me if I’m good to her, which is easy cuz she’s funny smart and nice. I know if the girls find out about one another, the whole thing’ll collapse. So I make sure they don’t. I like the secret life. It makes the sex more exciting. The silence is familial and familiar.
    Very soon the synapses that fire like copulation cannons during fornication become synonymous with love. Replace happiness with pleasure. The whole thing is great training for being a chicken.
    Â Â Â 
    I tramp up Frannie’s stairs in my testicle-hugging elephant-bells and painted-on GRUNT T, hoping for the best and expecting the worst. Will I be a loverstudguy or a houseboy? There’s desperation in my strut.
    Entering Frannie’s too-blue bedroom with the four-poster bed, stuffy flowerprint couch, and print of what I now realize was Monet’s Water Lilies , I tremor like a scared little new boy sent to do a man’s job.
    Frannie’s mophandle, pipecleaner, stickfigure