by myron x
myron x on a bender in new york city
|NORA THE PINCUSHION
"Then again, you may be the Anti-Christ", I said to Nora the Pincushion, this half-German fetish model I'd met at Club Berlin, an East Village techno leather bar. The fashion editor of Velocity Magazine suggested I re-evaluate my position on the big wheel of journalism and dig deeper into my feminine side. He said if I took pictures along the way, he'd pay top dollar for a two page photo spread in the Spring edition. For that, I needed Nora.
The cab me and Nora were in smelled like a fourth grade bathroom. Her leather storm trooper coat made obscene noises as it rubbed between the seat and her black rubber skirt, which gripped her hips like a tow truck. She was a portrait in black, strung out and uptight, save for her white blouse with matching Rayband sunglasses. She had promised she was going to grind her six inch latex boots on my chest, but I wasn't going to let her get carried away with her act, I wasn't that into it.
Nora wasn't that much to look at, but she was a sexual foul ball of the highest order and her enthusiasm more than made up for any physical flaw. The drugs I took in Club Berlin was wearing off and I was getting agitated.
"What's the matter?" Nora asked, easing her hand under her skirt. "You're making my ass itch...I like it."
We stopped at a traffic light and I was trying hard to ignore her when I noticed two skinhead punks run out of a bodega with a .45 long slide pistol, a bag of groceries and a ratty-looking suitcase. Nora saw them and told me the suitcase was packed with one hundred thousand dollars in cash. She claimed to be telepathic, but only when sexually aroused. They ran up to the cab while Nora diddled herself.
"They want a ride to the George Washington Bridge, that's where they parked their car; on the shoulder near 125th street."
I quickly rolled down the window.
"Ten thousand in cash for an airtight alibi!" I yelled. One of them looked like David Byrne with no hair- the other looked like a fat Metallica roadie. He nodded eagerly as the light turned green. They bum rushed the cab driver and yanked him out through the window and pistol whipped him until he crawled away like a slug in the sun.
The Byrne look-alike took the wheel and we sped off to Ninth Avenue.
Nora came of her sexual trance and took charge instantly.
"All right, the two of you, eyes front, seatbelts on, turn that goddamn radio off and obey all traffic signals-You want to get out of this city alive, you listen to me and if I hear a word out of either of you, I'll suck your wee-wees until they are harder than a week old doughnut and split them the long way with my straight razor. Am I understood?"
They looked at each other, then the Metallica roadie tried to point the gun over his shoulder at Nora. She grabbed the barrel, twisted it out his hand, then pushed it against the back of his head.
"Now am I understood?"
"Yes, ma'am," they said meekly. I couldn't resist, I took out my digital camera and started shooting. Natural aggression was a heavy turn-on for me, I even felt a surge in my groin. Byrne looked over his shoulder at Nora and she threatened to pull the trigger and give him the Van Gogh treatment. I talked her out of it by reminding her the recoil would fracture her arm and the muzzle flash would blind us all, to say nothing of the unholy roar that cursed thing would make. I was sure I was suffering some kind of aphasia, and I needed another drink, or a Bob Marley-sized joint.
Nora looked at me. "What did you say?"
"Me? Nothing. I need my medicine soon or I'm gonna freak."
She leaned close to me. "I want you. Right now. This tension is just what I needed." She unsnapped the bottom of her skirt and flung it out the window. She was bare assed like Donald Duck and climbed on my lap, facing front and held the gun on the driving Byrne.
"Faster, dum dum, I want to feel the inertia. Cut over to the west side highway, there's too many traffic lights over here."
"Not the highway," fat boy said, "I have a heart condition."
"Too bad, baby, we'll send flowers and say you were a nice guy. Now go!"
Byrne cut across three lanes of traffic and we skidded onto the West side highway, cutting off a dump truck and nearly colliding with an off duty city bus. I couldn't see where we were going and Nora was grinding on me and cursing the cars bad shocks.
"Service me you goddamn worthless worm! In the years to follow you will write a best seller about the rapture you received at the hands of Nora the Pincushion! The critics will love you in New York, but your Midwest demographic will turn on you and burn your book on the fifty yard line of the local high school! Faster, dummy, faster!"
We had to be doing better than eighty five, weaving in and out of traffic. Fat boy in the passenger seat grabbed his chest, then slumped against the door. Byrne saw his exit and skidded off the highway, spinning the car in a couple of three sixties and crashing into a parked car. Nora screamed and slammed into the back of the front seat, knocking Bryne into the windshield and splitting his head open. Nora fell against the back seat, then onto the floor. I kicked open the back door, took the briefcase and limped down the street to the subway. I knew I'd cross paths with Nora the Pincushion again, and I would have to be on my guard.