The Cheeky Shag: Tales From The West Coast

The Cheeky Shag: Tales From The West Coast

By Michael Kaczmarczyk


Photograph © Fabiola Viviano


She was smoking a long cigarette when she knocked on my door. As soon as I opened the door she walked in and sat down. She was wearing Chanel sunglasses, and a black dress that was almost too tight.


Without looking at me she said, “So you’re the P.I, huh?”


The bitch had sass, and I liked it.


I had gotten out of the Private Investigating game years ago, but I still rented out the office. I went there to drink, because I was convinced that my wife had the house bugged. I kept the sign on the door, and a .40 caliber Smith and Wesson in the top left drawer. I learned how to shoot with my left hand, in case someone came in while I was jerking off behind my desk.


“Yeah, What’s it to ya??”


I was trying to talk like those cool P.I’s from those old California movies. She probably thought it was lame…I thought I was nailing it.


“It smells like jizz and jack in here.” She said, with a look of utter disgust and a dash of intrigue.


I smiled, “Jim, actually.”


“White Trash” she scoffed


“What can I do for you, Miss…?”


“Diamond. Shirley Diamond.”


Shirley Diamond. I’d heard of her. Her family was well known and extremely loaded. She was part of the Diamond Family, her father started a business that specialized in the sales and distribution of, you guessed it, premium memory foam mattresses. Diamond Mattresses “The Luxury Sleeping Experience”. The gal was hot shit, and she knew it.


There was a cold pot of coffee in the corner, and I offered her a cup.


She took a sip and spat it out. The cool black stream shot out of her mouth and I was aroused.


“That’s disgusting!”


“I got in a boxing match with Hemmingway once.”


She looked at me curiously.


I scratched the back of my head, “Never mind”


“I think my husband is cheating on me.”


I sighed, “I’m retired.”


She stared at me for what felt like hours, but was probably nothing more than a couple seconds. She got up to leave, but as she got to the door she turned to me.


“What was that thing about Hemmingway?”


“Nothing. I read it in a Bukowski book once.”


She shook her head and opened the door to leave.


“I’ll be in touch.”




My wife doesn’t like when I drink, because I forget to wash my hair and my scalp gets dry.

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