Subterrania

Harry settled into the bean bag chair in his old room in the basement. It felt good to be subterranean again. Back in his burrow, safe in a hole.

Sweet holes. Benchmarks of life. Like the panties stuffed in his pocket. He pulled the silky souvenir from his pocket, draped it over his face and inhaled deeply. The sweet musky scent of Mrs. Finkelstein.

A knock on the door. Unusual  in Harry's old house where barging in was the accepted mode of entry. He quickly stuffed Mrs. Finkelstein"s panties into his sweat pants. The soft silk good against his throbbing member in crime. Mental note: Explore further uses of panties, start a collection. Battle panties - the next best thing to being there, a substitute for skin.

"Come in," Harry said while concentrating hard on wilting his annoying erection. Such an unruly body part. Why couldn't it be more like hands and feet? those appendages listen. But no, the dick had a mind of it's own, something that Harry grudgingly respected. The maverick penis, and like Harry, brimming with wanderlust.

"Don't bother getting up, Harry. I don't need to see you with a hard on," Alvy barked. "The old basement room, the jerk-off lair. And you left this for California?"

"   ? " Alvy still had that hold over Harry, who sat there his mouth agape.

"Still, it's good to see you, you big putz. Give me a hug, just keep your hard on away from me, fucking perv. You think I don't know you were fucking Pauline? You sneaky fucker you." He hugged Harry hard. Harry hated hugging men, especially vulgarians like Alvy.

"You make me sick as ever, Alvy. And yet, strangely I'm still drawn to you. What is it about your asshole magnetism that I can't resist?" That was true, everyone loves a rogue.

"Well I'm not here just to see your shaineh punim, Harry. Who's got time to waste. I'm here on business, bubeleh."

"Forget it, Alvy. Don't even start. No interest here in selling belts. Stupid-fucken-strips-of-leather-that-hold-your-pants."

"What the fuck are you talking about? The belt business is dead. China killed that, those fucking mumzers working for three cents a week. Forget that, forget the fashion biz, forget it all. Movie producing is where it's at now. With the Canadian dollar so low, all the stupid yanks are shooting up heretofore save a few bucks. I made a few connections, already produced couple of schlocky films, and I'm working on a new one now. The story of some cocky young putz who's boning his boss' wife. Couldn't help but thinking of you, Harry. Like I always said, you're a good looking kid. And certainly more of an actor than a belt salesman, you're so full of shit, always were, still are. And of course, I get a big fat tax credit forputting some home grown talent I. The lead. What do you say, putz?"

Alvy pulled out a knish from the brown paper lunch bag he held.

"Knish?" he said with his mouth full.

Harry recoiled in disgust. "No thanks...Give me a minute to think about it, will ya?"

"I'll pay you scale and throw in a few points on the back end? What else do you need to know?"

Nothing. It was about to start all over again.