Friday Night Walk

It’s Friday night.  What should I do?  I can’t stay home. I know how that ends.

“I’m going for a walk.” If anybody’s listening.

I remember driving by a strip club a few weeks ago – over that way. The way I never go.  Nice night for a walk. Fifty something bucks in my wallet.  I wonder how much they charge for beer?


(Pic by David Egan via

These streets are different at night.  No more laundromats, no more deli’s.  Just florescent lights of liquor stores.

Under the overpass and down the long road.  Factories are locked up for the night.  Even they are breaking for the weekend.

My balls won’t break.  I can already picture a lap dance.  I remember the first one.  I felt her tits against my thighs through my jeans.  That was magic.  That was the beginning of something. I never got my hands on those tits.  I rarely get my hands on any tits these days.

I pass empty lots with tall fences and barbed wire loops.  I pass some kind of dump that has bulldozers working late. This dark desolate world must be normal for them.  Wide streets. Shit sidewalks.  Stop lights for no one.  Shit sprayed all over the walls.

I get there. The guy waves me in.  Holy shit he’s fat.  I grab a spot at the bar.  Two empty seats either side of me.  A Janet Jackson look-a-like asks me what I want to drink while the tits behind her hang upside down attached to a body on a pole.

I pay seven bucks for the beer and she waits for her tip.  I’ll give her a dollar.  The tits on stage are attached to an old looking face.  Poor girl.  Just can’t quit.

Another girl walks by and jumps on the pole in front of me.  She’s got no tits.  She does one song and then walks up to the five dudes at one end of the bar.  She squeezes her chest together and takes a dollar from each of them as they shove it in between. So that’s the protocol.  No wonder I got thirteen ones in change.

Little Titties walks around to where I sit.  I don’t look like the rest of the gang in there.  My white T-shirt stands out like an empty billboard in the black light.  There’s a lapdance room she tells me.  She points.  I nod.  She wants a smoke.  She goes.

A gorgeous girl walks in.  She’s above and beyond the rest.  The other girls are mutants.  Her tits are fake and she likes looking at herself in the mirror.  I like that. She steps off the stage.  She smiles at me.  She extends her hand to me – and only me.  “I’m Rebecca.”  I shake it. “Yes you are.”  Shit she’s hot.  Love those buck teeth.

A fat fuck with a goatee and a Harley Davidson T-Shirt is following her up and down the bar putting dollars in her tits.  Her tits are soft – even though they’re fake.  She looks great.  I admire her.

She loves her work.  Her buck teeth keep jutting out of her smile.  She loves her work.  She can swing and she can roll around that poll.  How’d she do that?!  She loves her work.

Little Titties is back from her smoke break and sits down beside me.  It’s probably her job to ask me to buy her a drink so the bar can make some money.  I say “do you want a drink or do you want to dance?” She can tell I don’t want a drink. Fact is: I don’t want to buy her one.  I want the dance.  Fact is: I want more than the dance.

I’d like to get to know Rebecca though.  She seems sweet.  I wonder if Rebecca has a brain.  What will she be doing tomorrow afternoon?  I’d love to get my cock in her hands.

So I go in to the lapdance room with Little Titties. Is it too late to cancel?  I’d rather have Rebecca.  She’d love for me to rescue her from that Goatee’d Harley Dick.

Little Tittles jumps on me like she’s done this before. My jeans are so tight from the hot walk over there is no room for me to get a hard on.  She pumps her ass in my face with her head on the ground.  This is weird. I wonder where Rebecca is.

With the song change, I reach in and grab my unit so it can feel a bit of friction. This is stupid.  Rebecca is still on stage and that Harley guy is still yippin’ at her.

The song is done and so is the dance.  Lap dances might be the stupidest thing about the sex trade. Grade school all over again.  I reach into my wallet and grab a pile of ones.  Maybe 5.  She told me at the start “Its my birthday but my friend didn’t show up.”  ‘Oh, so you want me to tip you big time?’  Not tonight.

Some of the other ugly women walk by.  Poor girls.  Don’t stand a chance in here – let alone the real world. At least Rebecca loves her work. She’s a pro.  I admire her again.

I’m out the door.  Balls just wound up.  Still waiting for my hard on to subside.

Don’t feel like going home yet,  I walk deeper into the long roads of Brooklyn’s factory land.  On and on.  Boarded up entrances to factories.  I used to drive a truck and once took it to get repaired out here.  A Chinese lady spoke to me when I dropped it off.  She had a weird scar on her forehead.  I wonder if that shop was around here and if she’d jerk me off.

There’s a light on here.  Must be pussy.  There’s a shadow dancing.  Must be pussy.  There’s a woman in a car. Driving by. That means pussy too.  Pussy – whizzing all around me.

Further and further into the maze of wide roads and factories.  Closed for the night.  Some Chinese writing and a light on.  Pussy.

Keep walking – one of these doors will open and I’ll find a group of girls willing to give me what I want. There’ll be a woman who knows what I want with just a nod.  All at a reasonable cost.

I snap out of it.  How long have I been walking.  Fuck I’m tired.  I stop.  I start to hate myself.  Of course there’s no sex hut out here in… where the fuck am I?

I walk past the strip club again.  I bet Rebecca is in there having the time of her life.  What would it take to get into her house?  Into her life? Give up the stripping and just become passionate about licking up my shaft and scratching my balls with those long, sparkly fingernails.

I walk past a line of parked cars.  There’s a black woman in one.  In the driver’s seat.  She’s beefy.  The passenger seat is in the recline position. It’s empty.  She sees me walking. I bet I wouldn’t have to pay more than twenty to sit down and get my dick sucked. I bet she does it loud.

I keep walking. Down that long street. My feet are heavy.  My knees are pulsating.  I see the overpass and cross under it.  The liquor store.  Finally some people to look at.

A fat girl and her fat mom – just getting by – flop into a car.  The car’s springs take the load on impact.

A young couple walks by.  She looked pregnant.

A couple hipsters bike by on bikes.  We don’t speak.

I see an old lady standing still in the park.  Is she looking for work at this time of night?

I see apartment windows open.  Every curtain that blows has got some woman looking for a fuck.  One sees me in the streets, just walking by.  I catch her eye.  She calls me up.  I’m the one she wants.  Fuck, she’s not as well put together as I thought.

She does whatever to me. Its sloppy. But it works. There’s another curtain blowing in the breeze.  I fuck her too.  I fuck the fat one.  The ugly one.  The one with freckles.  The one that lives above the Laundromat.

The Indian crossing guard with nice eyes.  Does she live near by?  Maybe she’s out of town.  No kids in school on the weekend.

The corner store is still open and a girl with short shorts is drunk, standing with her smoke before she heads in. I don’t need to go to the shop but I might as well. She might fuck me by the fridge.

She doesn’t.  I buy some drugs to help me sleep. My key still works. My legs lift me up the stairs.

The lights are out and I like it that way.  I peel my jeans off and toss them on the chair.

My cock feels the cool breeze of the air conditioning.  I lift my weighted balls to grab the breeze.  The blood rushes to my dick.  I crawl under covers as the sweat on my back goes cold.

I push up to my wife and she feels my hard on.  She gives her signature grunt. I hear ‘ fuck off’.  Maybe in the morning.

About Mark Bethune

Mark Bethune is a writer / director recently returned to Toronto after a number of years in various countries. has more of his work. Say hello if you'd like.