“Midgets & dwarves need sex too.”
Jayne Mansfield
I was the nocturnal hack, psycho-topographical joyrider, romantic speedtrap dodge, zen cartologist & eternal pioneer of the poontang jungle. I was going places but ending up nowhere special night aft night.
I was still reeling from encounters with a dazzling Deutschland fräulein who, when you inhaled around her, you thought of a bed in the Black Forest. She climbed into my cab, told me she’d surveyed my slightest gestures for weeks, had analyzed my smile, had gleaned much ado about something in her eye. She spoke of April dips in cold Bavarian lakes, a hole in the ice like her grey eyes, & the use of rare fish air bladders for flotation in the Adriatic, while the top heavy portion of her torso listed & leaned into me in front of the Flame Bar, site of many clandestine consummations.
She navigated me away from my appointed destination to the Subterrain where we flattered one another into a drunken stupor shoved in a corner. She played with my fly, made it hum like a jazz instrument as we descended the inebriated steps into the Dankenkeller. “I know who you are. Aren’t you the least bit curious ’bout who I am? I’m Liselotte. Alotta Lisa is an old joke. You can call me Lotte.”
There she leapt up on the dark oak table & pounced into my embrace. & I walked her around in the murmurpheric irreality. I placed her stern up on the edge of the table where she lifted her skirt, said, “Look no panties in your honor!” & there she unveiled me into the cup of her caress with a moan. Held me like a little girl would hold her first Easter chick. & suddenly I was lost in the space between suspire & sigh. & this is how we made love, her big toes barely touching the stone floor, her haunches sliding off the varnished oak, her suspensory body hovering between 2 horizontal planes. While the foot-stomping patrons kept time to Tuscaloosa Slim & his blues band right above us.
Then she laid her intrepid body urgent across the length of the table with a half bottle of Gamay between her legs & her breasts bursting out over the edge of the table. Thusly she syphoned the last vestiges of spunk from my scrotum, at one point talking with her mouth full of me, at another stretching the foreskin over her nose; “Look, der nosen varmer.” She liked making fun of her own slight German accent.
Sleeveless humming patrons came down to piss, half-missing the bowl at the moment of our crisis, with her hauling spunk by the bucketful from the furthest reaches of my feet. & later, with her grope gripped to my charm, we drove her home, wending wildly, skirting shoulders, sending up veils of dust. In front of her home she vowed to “strafe by periodically & make it so that life & desire are indistinguishable. When I sleep you will be the lanky incubus on my belly.”
Thus It was moments like these that nourished me on slow nights, watching the dull noctoids make their final pilgrimage to the heart of the streetlight.
I was leaning back, on such a night, knees on the wheel, mind full of Liselotte’s flanks fiddling with the FM out of Detroit when in tumbled a distraught frazzle-haired dame. “Turn on the meter. & drive. Just drive. Out to Dixon Hills. I’m Debbie. Sometimes it seems I’m not. Don’t tell me yours. I don’t wanna know.” We combed the windy lanes of Dixon Hills dense with the arrogant hush of privilege.
“Look for a late model Camaro. Red. Grey interior. I got the plate number in here someplace. DAMN!” Her ex had skipped out on her & alimony “in utter defiance of the law as stipulated.” & the more likely we weren’t going to find him in his inamorata’s neighborhood, the more furiously she began to chew her gum.
At $6.30 we pulled into the Brew & Burger. “I’m hypoglycemic. I’ve got to eat or I go wacko. Go into convulsions.” She ate like a nervous rodent made of carvable wood. She blabbed on about the many conspiracies that drove him from her, that were meant to undo her, periodically revealing clumps of half-masticated burger. Eating as if food was merely designed to stave off certain negative aspects of delirium. She wiped her mouth & belched. “I feel better. Now my mind can focus like an aim sight. That bastard’s tryin’ to eliminate me by ignoring me. It’s too late for that! That’d be too easy!” Only later did I find out that her mouth had been wired like a marionette’s after a head-on in a PA fog.
“True Joe Football Flake. Rather male bond, wash his car, have tailgate parties than spend time with me. Handsome as a soap star. & he knew it too, the bastard. Pardon my French. Even kept scrapbooks of scalps.”
“What was he a headhunter?”
“Sorta. He kept locks of hair of all his conquests.”
“Your husband?”
“I spit on you! My ex, Ex, EX!!” Spit & bits of Bomburger hit my cheek. She was livid. “Kept’m in chronological order. & I was special only in as long as I was the last.”
“Seems kinda sick.”
“Kinda!? Had I only known. Made me feel so special when he took that first pubic lock.” She pointed down under. Domelight on. I imagined a tuft missing from her poontang jungle.
“The tall pompous bitch. Anthro prof. Dixon hills. Swedish, atheist & tan, Tan, TAN! & blond, Blond, BLOND!” Debbie was nervous as a horsefly before a thunderstorm. We made one more disconsolate sweep through Dixon’s leisurely dips full of mist & crickets. & then we headed empty-handed to her room at the Busy Bee Motel, a shack-up place called affectionately “The Busy Bee Jay” in hack parlance.
We pulled into the diagonal parking spot. & as we got out I spotted a mangled smirk inside the blur of mussed hair & weeping skin. A smirk soaked in the heightened emotions of sadness which brings fever to the blood. A smirk that only much later said, “I’ve found a patsy go-fer to chauffeur me through my many melodramas.”
She spotted the distinctive wheels parked out in front of Room 12A. She was 13A. 36D. 30-40 years old, had a $2,500 credit line. She mistook the wheels for a Rolls.
“It’s a Bentley. Yuh can tell by the grill.” & suddenly everything seemed to reverberate with sexual innuendo – 13A, thick shake, nice grill work, etc.
Inside I unzipped her dress only because she’d instructed me to do so. But despite the utilitarian nature of her request I allowed myself the pleasure of listening to her zipper fleeting down tailbone like a siren’s mantra.
Later she had me towel her back but not too much of her back. My duty (which I thought would lead to immense pleasure later) did not take me up & over her shoulders (yet). I watched her shave her legs with her foot perched on the edge of the tub. Watched her rub oil deep into the skin. Saw the scars on her face. Food caught between her teeth. & I imagined she’d belch just at the moment of orgasm.
“I’d like to meet who owns those wheels.” She sprayed a confusing bouquet of scents across the exposed portions of skin. “Let’s go out, look at them wheels o’ fortune.” She shimmied into a tight wrinkly wad of presumed class. Wiped a gaudy red onto & beyond the true contours of her lips to give the impression that her lips were more full & voluptuous than they actually were. She ran her fingers across the black fender. Ogled the crushed velvet seats, black marble bar in the backseat, the ivory steering wheel. She kicked the tires.
As if by instinct I retreated to my cab, (the ticking meter up to $12.50) & hid the jar of tips under the seat, even ran my hand across back pocket for my wallet.
Two grinning fellows stood on the opposite side of the car observing her with leering delight. They greeted her in fine pleated slacks & 5 o’clock shadows. One of them was short enough to be called a midget – in platform shoes. He had a failed swagger that yearned to insinuate himself as taller than facts allowed. The other was a ruddy sort of Henry Fonda who twisted a silk tie that perhaps only weeks earlier he hadn’t known existed. They looked like the kind of guys who could’ve dug graves during the Spanish Civil War or done messy hit jobs for the mob. In any case, the elegance of their cut of threads betrayed them more than complimented them.
“I guess we’re neighbors.” They swayed inside their wingtips, telescoping in on her. & if looks could kill i’d’ve been an abortion stat; i.e., I did not exist.
“This is a true work of art. It’s gorgeous! Whatchu guys do anyway?” They, nouveau suave, picking at the vestiges of factory callouses, circled around us – or HER.
“Real estate.” said the midget hoping the term could be insinuated far enough to stretch across her body.
“You want we should give yuh a tour?”
“Gee, yea, sure!” Wide-eyed as a Dr. Pepper ad. They crawled into the backseat. From under the bar they grabbed an erotically shaped amber bottle & poured her a soda glass of something exotic sounding. Her nipples were erect. A sucker for silk & anyone who knew what a Tahiti Typhoon was.
I focused on the dash. 40,923.4. I wondered if it might’ve been 140, 923.4 miles. I kept my thoughts – the ones that figured they were NOT the Bentley’s owners at all but merely its chauffeurs – to myself.
They dragged Debbie with her pink barrettes, her exquisite daintiness & Bomburger stuck between grey teeth, across the seat, across themselves, their urgent hands assisting her at every step & into their lair. Where they sipped more Typhoons, gulping flaming shots of who knows what as their bravado grew bold & loud. “You have zee lovely curves more zan Le Mans.”
Video equipment lay strewn about with cords snaking over cheap furniture. This caught her eye. She touched the knobs. Bent provocatively to read the fine print. “How’s it work?” I sat on the edge of the bed close to the door, looking at the lint between my toes, ready to make a discreet vamoose.
“It works when we say ‘go’.”
Debbie had always wanted more than ANYthing, yes ANYTHING, to be in movies of on tv. She’d do ANYthing. So they crawled into her action like dream merchants lugworming their way inside her unrequited yearnings. They flattered her beyond recognition. & she went on about plays in high school. & they said they’d probably be able to get her something in a sit-com.
“REALLY?”
“Why not. We know talent when we see it. That’s our livelihood.” As the midget zoomed in with his equipment. Double entendres abounded. There was great zest & zeal & more promises. She suggested songs from Hello Dolly, Oklahoma, Mary Poppins, & a Dr. Pepper spot she’d seen that she really liked. They zoomed into her teeth & caught close-ups of her heaving assets.
On the second take they had her jiggle her breasts for 6 takes & as a token of her enthusiasm lifted her skirt to show her slip & more. The slip absolutely shimmered on the replay. The midget went gaga into somersaults. He regained his composure, combed his geek hair back further anointing her ego with promises of a possible appearance on Star Search.
The Fonda guy was running his finger down his tailbone mumbling on about modeling as she lie transfixed across the bed, legs in the air, hi heels precariously dangling from her toes, watching the screen – Star Search, Broadway, Folies Bergeres!
Both heels fell to the floor as our dapper dagger turned her over on the bed, mumbling fatuous advice in her ear. He managed to pull her bra off without removing her blouse. “I am une amoureux magicien.” I had no idea of how good his French was, but it sounded OK and she was too enthralled to be taken aback.
He mounted her like an adult on a super market kiddie rocking horse. The midget caressed her feet, salivating, catering to her every whim & fart.
Then just as suddenly he was off of her & all was business again. & she was banging out strange octaves, giving it her most earnest. Whereupon the midget was encouraged to go up her skirt with the lens – just for fun, of course – which she began to hump. & now they knew she was theirs. & primed to be flattered into all sorts of compromising positions. Because they’d allowed her to think that they were HERS.
I read the TV Guide, saw that Hogan’s Heroes was on every afternoon at 4:30. I just didn’t exist & so I played the part.
The double-jointed midget danced a crazed fertility dance around the bed with a brandy snifter on his balding head. As our dapper blade lapped away at her pouty grotto, her back arched & her voice sang along to something from Jesus Christ, Superstar, that sounded like a rooster on Quualudes with a farmer wringing its neck.
The midget doused the lights. But in the blue of the TV I could see him still wagging his gnarly truncheon under her nose. As she tried to recruit them to help her get back at her ex. This kind of proposal made them even more erect.
“Anythink you desire.” & that she was now sobbing no one – not me, not even her – attributed to sorrow. It’s always the drink, too-much-too-soon, the excitement, the…
The dapper Fonda geek kneeled amongst the blossom of her ripe hindsight where he undid his underpants which were held together with Velcro, at the hips, for easy-out-easy-in. He had the flair of a toreador or a carnival performer as he massaged her kidneys (“Old World erogenous zones”) with the handles of 2 Romanian knives.
“You are a flower yearnink to blossom.” I should have puked then & there but did not. Hollywood Squares every day at noon. She was breathing like a character in a Harlequin novel, like a steam engine in a cartoon. She was ready for him to breathe fire.
“I feel so…so different.”
“But that you are indeed.” She knocked a glass of Tahiti Typhoon off the nightstand as he lifted her by the waist & impaled her atop his quiver. The midget meanwhile with video camera on his shoulder was lapping the Typhoon off her shoulder as he continued shooting.
On the screen her version of “Let’s Get Physical” as I made my discreet slip out the screen door. I could hear our dapper blade trying to convince her to hoist her buttocks in the air into the light & to let him go “backstage”. So she could become a star – at stags in Sheboygan, bachelor parties in Hazleton.
“No, no, not inside!” The video camera still humming away.
“You vill be something of a star.” This hastened my retreat as I saw her struggle with the web of the midget’s sperm in her hair.
I pissed like a race horse, against the door, up on the door handle of the Bentley. Small revenge. Big thrill.
I stopped the meter at $26.10, her smell still caught in my cab. I opened my windows to air out my interior. So I could be someone I remember being – only 6 hours earlier.
& later I lied about my experience down at the cab office, as the dispatcher divvied up lines of coke to fortify us for the pre-dawn hours of a slow summer night. I had made nothing but chump change thus far that night. Thought of going back to the Busy Bee to make her make good on the meter. But I didn’t care. I got what I wanted. Or deserved. Later my cabbie pal, Jim, said I’d been the 3rd cabbie stiffed by her. We thought of designing a wanted poster. Thought of a reunion of stiffed cabbies. But neither of us could get beyond the anguished blur of her face, a face full of too much motion. No definite lines save the scars.
& this story, nonetheless, being nothing but the truth, is nothing like what we told the other cabbies up in the office that night.
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- This newly renovated story has appeared over time in very different incarnations in Cab Art [Ann Arbor, 1979], Screw [NY, 1983], Beet [Brooklyn 1993], & Noirotica 3: Stolen Kisses [Black Books, San Francisco, 2000 & 2001].
- Illustration: Lori Ellison [RIP]
- Author photo: Pamela M.
bart plantenga is the author of 2 internationally acclaimed books on yodeling: Yodel In HiFi: From Kitsch Folk to Contemporary Electronica, Yodel-Ay-Ee-Oooo: The Secret History of Yodeling Around the World, produced the Rough Guide to Yodel CD compilation & the YODEL IN HIFI Top 50+ Youtube channel. & has authored many fictions including his forthcoming novel, BEER MYSTIC [Autonomedia, 2026]. He currently produces 2 podcasts: iMMERSE! with artist Charlie Morrow & Dig•Scape, a political soundscape for progressive TRUTHDIG. He is also a regular contributor to the International Times.
web: https://bartplantenga.weebly.com/