’ I waited for him to say, he wanted to have sex in a public place or with other couples – swing a bit. But then I realised that was it. He wanted to have sex. With his wife. ‘I don’t know what happened,’ he said. ‘Neither of us had much experience. I thought we would find things out together. She didn’t want to. She made me feel … dirty if I tried to talk about it. After a while I stopped asking.’ The tears were spilling down his face. ‘She always seemed to be complaining. If she had been willing to go out sometimes: to a party or barbeque, the cinema, the beach. Or if we could have gone somewhere on holiday. All she seemed to want to do at the weekend or if I had a week off, was get me to fix things around the house and mow the lawn.’ I put out my hands and he put his in them. I didn’t know what to say. Fuck me, I had had a bad fucking life but his was fucking brain death. He was like my fucking mirror opposite. At least I had got an occasional fucking in my fucking life. TBH, more. As she walked down the street, she made sure to keep her eyes on the ground, partly to avoid stepping in pig shit or some other kind of filth, partly to avoid meeting the aggressive eyes of the men that lingered in the doorways of Manhattan’s grim saloons and brothels. She learned from previous trips onto the city streets that the sight of a pretty, young girl invited numerous crude advances. For a young woman such as Rose O’Toole, fresh from the green hills of Ireland and never knowing the touch of a man, New York had been a shock. In the broad light of day, right on Mulberry St., she saw a shameless woman hike her skirt and beckon any man that strolled by to come between her thighs for twenty-five cents. In a wink, a man who shockingly could have passed for Rose’s dear departed Da, accepted the whore’s offer. With the whore pressed against an alley wall, skirts raised, legs splayed wide, the man unbuckled his trousers and with nary a “How do you do,” rammed his cock up into her,.
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