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Spare Change 1965 words
by Dafney Dewitt
"Hi, spare change?" she said.
"No, sorry. Not today" said Fuller not even looking down in
her direction.
"Wait, please wait" she begged with an urgency rarely heard
from panhandlers.
Fuller hesitated and stopped.
"You can spit on me for a dollar." she offered. "I know you
despise me."
The other pedestrians flow around them like water around
rocks.
"You can spit on my face for a dollar," she repeats her offer.
Fuller stares at her speechless.
For a minute, Fuller stops breathing. He is dressed in a
business suit standing at a busy downtown street corner across
from a park. He looks down at the panhandler. She is dressed
in old blue jeans and a man's faded, plaid shirt. She's thin
with long brown hair. Her hair is parted in the middle. Her
face has a pale, innocent, almost angelic look. In other
circumstances, she could be a young college student, an
artist, or the daughter of a business associate. There is
nothing exceptional about her. Countless beggars like her
loiter around the downtown streets asking for spare change.
She couldn't have been more then 16 years old with long brown
hair, The shirttails of the flannel shirt were tied together
across her stomach like a make shift halter-top in an
adolescent attempt to accentuate her large breasts.
She is probably a drug addict, a homeless teenager, or a
prostitute, thought Fuller. Maybe, she's one of those cocaine
whores that he had read about in the X-Rated Men's magazines
he sometimes bought.
To working people, panhandlers were invisible. They were like
the empty wine bottles found on the sidewalk, trash to be
avoided, human litter to be ignored.
By stopping and listening to a begger, Fuller himself shared
some of the panhandler's invisibility. If the other
pedestrians gave any thought at all to the man the the gray
suit, listening to the beggers plea, it was reduced to a quick
sideways glance and fleeting thought that he was a sucker who
had not yet learned the rules of the urban jungle.
Fuller probed the girl.
"You'll let me spit on you?"
"Only if you give me a dollar."
"Do you want me to spit on you?"
"You despise me, and for a dollar you can spit on me," said
the girl with a firm conviction that left no room for
rebuttal.
It is this last comment that causes Fuller to stop breathing.
It isn't the words. The words are innocent. Spoken out loud
on a street corner where sexual profanities are commonly
shouted. No, it isn't the words. It is the implication.
For Fuller, the implication briefly suspends time while his
imagination runs wild with the possibilities.
From his vantage point looking down the top of the plaid
shirt, Fuller quickly surmised that she was braless and
reviewed the verbal exchange between himself and the girl. He
felt a sudden flood of lurid fantasies fill his mind.
The beggar girl had been very explicit. "I know you despise
me. I'll let you can spit on me for a dollar."
The panhandler looked up at him with her clear blue eyes,
dangling the words to hook Fuller into a commitment. She
repeated her offer.
"Yes, you heard right mister. For a dollar, we can go
somewhere and I'll let you spit on my face. Come on, I know
you despise me."
Fuller's mind raced with the possibilities.
If I could spit on her, what other bodily fluid exchanges
would she consider? It was as if he had suddenly been
confronted with the urban equivalent of pretty girls selling
kisses for $1.00 at the country fair. The unhealthy,
unwholesome version of commercial sex. Sexual foreplay for
sale, cheap, and within full view of the public. The ultimate
exhibitionism, engaging in sexual fetish, domination, or
humiliation while innocent or unconcerned business women and
men passed by unaware of the degradation taking place directly
in front of them.
Fuller considered carefully before responding.
"You'd let me spit in your face?"
"Yes," she answered without hesitation, giving him a generous
smile, displaying a set of perfect teeth.
It was the teeth that betrayed the panhandling teen. This was
no meth addict or street whore. She had perfect teeth. She
was someone's daughter from suburbia playing a dangerous game
of panhandling in the big bad city.
In Fuller's mind, this made the girl's teeth added value to
her offer to debase herself for a dollar. Spitting in the face
of a whore is almost a waste of fluids. What shame does a
whore feel? But spitting in the face of someone's wholesome
daughter from a good family is a treat no so easily refused.
Truthfully, Fuller is repulsed by her offer, but attracted to
the options. If he can spit on her, what other exchanges of
bodily fluids will she consider?
"Well mister, make up your mind."
Fuller considers carefully before responding.
"No thank you, but we might think of something else."
"Like what?" she quickly throws the problem back to him.
"Well, like a kiss."
"No, sorry. I don't kiss strangers."
Confused, Fuller shifts strategies.
"You're a tease," he counters.
"Maybe. Are you man enough to find out?"
"Are you old enough?"
"I'm old enough to know how."
"I'll bet you are," answers Fuller, nodding his head.
He looks at her more closely. She doesn't appear to be
wearing any bra beneath the plaid shirt.
"Take a picture, it lasts longer," the girl taunts him.
"I'll give you a dollar."
"OK, but no drooling. You only get to spit once."
"No," says Fuller.
"You really do despise me, don't you?"
"No."
"OK, for $2.00 you can drool all over my face."
Fuller imagines doing something similar to drooling all over
her face, picturing the thick viscous fluid flow around her
mouth and drip off her chin. He imagines it dripping inside
her shirt onto her breasts.
"No," he answers.
"Forget it, cheapskate, if $2.00 is too high."
"It's not too high," counters Fuller.
"Well, bite me!"
With an exaggerated shrug of exasperation the beggar girl
flips her long hair off to one side and looks him directly in
the eyes. Fuller responds.
"No spitting, but if you crawl for me, I'll give you two
dollars."
"That's all?"
"No, you need to undo the top two buttons on your shirt first."
For the second time, the girl smiles.
"Now I get your game."
"But not here," urges Fuller.
"Where?"
"Over by that park bench across the street."
As if they had known each other for a long time, the girl and
Fuller walk side by side across the street to the park. An old
wino with a scruffy beard sits on one end of the park bench.
He's drinking out of a wine bottle, poorly concealed in a
brown paper bag.
On the benches across from Fuller are some young secretaries
eating brown bag lunches and enjoying the sun.
Fuller stops about ten feet from the park bench and starts
laying quarters down on the bricks, dropping eight of them at
intervals of one foot. He drops the last quarter just two
feet from the end of the bench. He sits down on the opposite
end of the bench from the wino.
Fuller watches as the girl standing in front of him casts her
eyes down and unfastens the top two buttons of her plaid
shirt. She lifts her eyes to his before removing a third
button.
She flashes him a smile.
Fuller waits, feeling himself growing hard.
She gets down on her hands and knees, tosses her hair back out
of her face, and picks up the first two quarters.
The angle is wrong. Fuller can't quite see.
She crawls forward picking up the third and fourth coins.
Fuller smiles. Now he can see her. She's much fuller then he
guessed.
As she crawls closer, the view gets better.
Finally, Fuller has a full, unobstructed view of her hanging
breasts.
He is so engrossed in his fantasy that he blocks out the wino
sitting on the other end of the bench and even the young
secretaries eating lunch just 20 feet in front of him. His
whole world is focused on the girl, concentrated on one part
of her anatomy. He's getting his peep show in broad daylight.
He has no need to go to a porno store, and put quarters into a
slot. He's enjoying his peeping in the fresh air, at
noontime, with pedestrians walking all around him.
The ripe jiggling breasts are crawling across the park
directly toward him.
As the girl reaches out to pick up the second to the last of
the coins, Fuller feels a familiar tingling in his loins. He
is fully excited, fully hard. He's so hard, it would be
impossible for him to stand up and walk away from the park
without it being obvious to everyone that he had a hard cock
pushing down the side of his pants. The bulge in his pants
would be noticed. It would be painful to walk.
Suddenly, the wino lurches off the park bench. He has spotted
the girl crawling toward the last quarter. She is dragging it
out. Crawling toward the quarter in a slow motion, she is
giving Fuller his money's worth.
But the wino mistakes her slowness for opportunity. Thinking
the quarter belongs to whoever gets it first, the wino lunges
forward To grab it. But the abrupt exertion upsets his
stomach, and vomit explodes out of his mouth covering the
coin.
Ashamed at his sudden illness, the wino staggers away leaving
the vomit covered quarter for the girl.
The girl remains frozen.
Fuller is repulsed, but unable to remove his eyes from the
scene unfolding in front of him.
Gradually, the girl raises her eyes from the pool of
vile-smelling vomit to look at Fuller. As their eyes meet,
her face blossoms into a mischievous smile. Lowering her eyes,
she carefully pushes aside the vomit with one finger, and
picks up the last coin with her left hand.
Raising her head, she looks directly into Fuller's eyes, she
speaks.
"My tongue is going to clean the vomit off this quarter."
"No," says Fuller with a look of sick disbelief.
"Yes," answers the girl still on her knees.
"Don't do it," Fuller begs.
Without taking his eyes off her face, repulsed but engrossed,
Fuller watches as her right hand places the quarter in her
mouth.
"Yummy," she mumbles fishing the quarter around in her mouth
and pushing it out so Fuller can see it lying on her tongue.
Fuller wanted to debase the girl, and manipulate her, but this
is out-of-bounds. This is hard-core depravity. This is
beyond humiliation.
Fuller has lost control.
His hardness shrivels away. His fantasy is lost.
Fuller feels nauseated. Hot bile rises in his throat. With a
sour mouth, he turns toward the girl.
"Why did you do it?" asked Fuller.
"Do what?"
"Put the vomit-covered quarter in your mouth."
"I didn't," the girl said, spitting the quarter out into her right hand.
"Don't lie. I saw you do it," insisted Fuller.
"No, you didn't."
"What do you mean?"
"You only saw what you wanted to see," insisted the girl.
Smiling, the girl stands up and dumps the seven clean quarters
from her right hand into her front jeans pocket. She turns
her back on Fuller, flipping her long hair around with the
fingers of her right hand, and walks out of the park. Fuller
watches until she disappears into the other pedestrians.
As she walks away, the vomit-covered quarter is still tightly
clenched in her left hand
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