Forbidden Whisper

CHICAGO SURREAL

By NiobiDan (c) 2026, all rights reserved, all bytes preserved

The Brazilian doffs his hat politely and asks "where is the hairiest cunt in Cleveland".

Cherie, the night receptionist, laughs and says "that wouldn't be me, Sir; I have a beaver shave."

"Beg pardon Missy," the tall snappy dresser enquires as Cherie is already in the act of pointing to the small phrasebook he holds and forming the phonemes to advise:

"I think perhaps you're on the wrong page, Sir."

The man seems worried and perplexed and Cherie watches him quizzically, her sandy blonde pony-tailed head slightly cocked to one side... time moving in slow motion... curious to see what will fall out of this and the guy like flips the pages puzzedly and says:

"Who is the scariest cunt in Shreveport?"

Cherie laughs again... says "well... I guess that could be me 'cept I'm from Bugtussle, Iowa... and then in a sudden little girl downcast head, hands folded neatly in front of her tummy adds "sorry, Sir, just my little joke." She is wearing fuck-me black patent-leather shoes, white knee socks, a pretty pleated plaid skirt over clean, white cotton panties, a crisp white blouse over a pink round'em up and move 'em out bra which just hints, depending how the light falls. A wide black patent leather belt round her waist clearly delineates the morphological distinction between her torso and her extremites--known to orthpods as 'the long bones'.

Milliseconds tock by. Cherie remembers her chosen role for the evening and pointing tangentially across the lobby to avert any incipient international incident says "it's just over there--see? past the oompah band... turn left at the second palm tree."

"Ah! one sees," says the smooth-suited dude, adding unnecessarily "I was looking under caballeros and now you're talking lederhosen," doffs his hat again and turns uncertainly toward the cacophony of cymbal-bashing and brass instrument blurting, before navigating fairly successfully through groups of tankard-waving, lederhosed Oktoberfesters whose only dream is to just once more before they die fuck Cherie or her sister or even a reasonable facsimile thereof or really just about anybody for that matter... nearly pokes his eye out on a palm frond from the first tree... wheels over left past the second until Cherie watches his back disappearing into the brass-handled door marked Herren... knowing that caballeros isn't really Portuguese but imagines the equivalent must be very similar.

She surreptitiously pulls per panties out of her buttcrack where they have been briefly glued by perspiration and grins affectionately toward the Shriner weaving through the Hitler Youth crowd on a tiny motorcycle screaming 'am I at the wrong convention?' before abruptly falling to the left like the laugh-in monkey.

Matthew, who is standing seven feet to her left at the concierge desk waiting for a blowjob call says "he always does that the poor wee fucker "making Cherie wonder if he's from up the Shankhill Road, where the big red doubledecker trolleybuses used to purr while peelers prowled, God was in his heaven and the world was a loyalist oyster.

"Would that be Dublin Bay, Sir!... No thanks... Chesapeake."

"Go figure" says Cherie absently, already back to mentally working through the next section of her thesis which she has to discuss with her tutor next Wednesday.... Gawd... next Wednesday where does the time go fuck that's when the blizzard's forecast and everybody will be heading down to the basement of the Drake for Heinekens and those great hors d'oeuvres they do in the big silver salvers Wednesday.... fuck me.

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Like most good midwestern hotels, Chicago's Porterhouse, always has an oompahpah band (which Cherie had forgotten the second 'pah' of in her phonemic exchange with the Portugee colonial who hasn't come out yet what's he doing? Having a shit?) [Editors note: 're midwestern hotels having oompahpah lobby bands the writer is clearing a pathological liar).

In fact the truth is more prosaic. Fernando has entered the noisy men's room filled with old guys pissing on their lederhosen, tripped over yet another of those fucking Shriner lawnmower engines, recovered his balance by clutching--a la drowning man--the burly shoulder of an elderly chap with an Afrika Korps flash on his lederhosen suspenders; recovering his balance at the expense of having the man lurch to the right and piss on his shoes.

Undeterred from his mission-critical task, Fernando goes into the disabled stall at the end of the John--used mostly as an ad hoc BJ waystation; miraculously finds it clean and empty, drops his winter-grade shantung silk trousers to reveal a Marlene Dietrich black garter belt and seamed stockings, complemented by oh-so-soft and loose French knickers with lace insets on the sides.

sits down, takes

a pearl handled.32 auto from his left

stocking top with his right

hand raises it in a smooth

arc to his open mouth and

fires!!...... bang! bang! Ho Boy!!!! bad fucking mistake!

[editor's note: give me a break how does the guy get two shots off?? Patsy! get the writer on the phone later--has to be later coz she is on her knees under his desk. The editor reads on as rustling and massage sounds emanate from under his desk in little sound bubbles like in comic strips and then suddenly screams. Patsy emerges, bumping her head on his slightly open drawer and says

"Ouch!"

Gets up and says "that oughta do it but I think you should lay on the couch next time you need to have your joint jerked."

Harold leans back on his out-of-date brass-studded chair on the wooden legs with the casters and the sign on the back saying George Washington slept here, flexes his knee a couple times experimentally and says 'it's a little better now dunno if I can walk on it though if I ever catch that fat bastard from the Afrika Korps I'll kill him'

Patsy sez non-commitally 'he was in the lobby john at the porterhouse the other night'

WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Harold snaps upright, hears a pop, screams again and pleads "paaaaaaatttsssyyy aw jeeze".

Patsy sez i'm not gettin under your fuckin desk again on what you pay me you could hire your own personal physio for.... like.... three nanoseconds a month.

Harold gives his calf a quarter twist and it goes in again dint come out all the way this time--he sighs and moans a trifle histrionically and says "I love it when you talk dirty how could you possibly know he was in the men's John at the Porter?"

[Senior editor's note: get back to fucking work Harold--senior editor's always add g's and stuff to their suffixes so they don' sound like they grew up south side]

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PATSY'S STORY

I'm sittin in the basement bar at The Drake stuffing down chicken wings and popping Heinekens in my long black slit skirt and that long-sleeved silky

blouse and real seamed stockings and black stilettos which I have put on only after taking off my Timberlands and my North Face parka it's so fucking cold out hoping some Prince Valiant will ride in on a Shriner size Lamborghini with the bull's head logo on the front and save me that long lonely walk back to my shitty walk-up on North Lincoln when this voice in my head sez

"Go to the Porterhouse at once"

So I put on my Timberlands while a couple suits look up my dress and check out my stocking tops and they don't lose their hard-ons till I put on the parka and put my stilettos into my Marshall Field bag and put on that stoopid big wooly hat that makes me look like a bag lady which is too bad because I figure for a couple quick HJs they woulda settled the tab and they're so young it's like a 17-second money shot... but:

"I digress".

.... meanwhile... back at the Porterhouse (sounds of a crazed organist playing 'Medium Rare')

Here come the Keystone Cops in their big open-top Lagondas, bought with their ill-gotten gains from Golconda, ding, ding, ding, into the lobby... Shriners scattering on their rinky tink bikes while red fezes bloodcloak the lobby carpet mingling with the A-RH+ not to mention rarer hemotypes spilled under the big tires of the black and whites as they grind to a halt on the still writhing body of a 14th century English minstrel whose scream "I can't find me fucking time machine," is choked back by a sudden crushing of the vagus nerve--hot oil drips on minstrel motley.

Cherie watches with bemusement before dialing 911. We ARE 911 screams a flatfoot firing a few.38 slugs wildly in her direction..... causing her to flinch AND... hang up the phone.

Emma, nose high.... above the battle gathers her elegant skirts, picks her way across the lobby, breaking the nose of a Shriner who had laboriously managed to rear to about a third of his full height, with the toe of a well-used Court shoe... and approaches Cherie's reception counter with a look that could be construed as a leer but, with the application of Occam's razor, might be seen more simplistically as an ostentatious desire to fuck and says:

"Cherie... my sweet,"

to which Cherie simpers shyly...blushes, attempts a curtsy and bangs her chin on the counter, gathers her wits and says:

"Yes Ms de Vries-Ponsonby... how may we help you."

"I hate being called Ms," de Vries-Ponsonby screams Ms de Vries-Ponsonby--adding with a laugh I only did that to scare you but finds herself peering over the counter where Cherie cowers momentarily before trembly-kneeing back up to a submissive half-crouched position.

"Yes Ms de Vries-Ponsonby."

"Thass better sez our Emma giving away her secretly bibulous Meursault confrontation over at the Drake for most of the thawing afternoon which while gentling the Windy City's upskirt zephyrs has ruined enough shoe leather to keep the stockyards in biz.com for another year.... before extending her hand to dance not one molecular distance from the back of Cherie's counter-resting hand on which one delicate arteriole pulses plangently... in fluttering apprehension.