Eight Minutes for Twenty-Five Cents

He moved down to New York about ten years ago. He was actually making a living as a musician. He was in his mid-twenties, living in the East Village. Life was good.

He didn't know many people when he first got to town, so he went drinking alone from time to time. One November night he found himself at 2B in the company of a stranger, a woman, probably ten years his senior. As closing time approached she asked if he wanted to join her back her place for a couple of drinks. He was game and so they headed around the corner.

Upon reaching her door she reached into one of the garbage cans by her building, pulled out a six pack, opened a beer for herself, offered him one and sat in her doorway. Manhattan in November is cold, of course. The two of them sat there, huddled against the chill as the six-pack dwindled away. When it was finished, she asked if he wanted to come hang out in her basement. In the absence of a better option, he accepted and they descended into what turned out to be the laundry room.

After several hours of what passes for courtship when you're young and in New York, things started to get a little PG-13, if you will. As the heat rose she pulled away, looked deep into his eyes and asked "Do you wanna put me in the dryer?"

"Umm... Yeah, sure..."

And so he opened the door to the dryer and helped her begin to climb in head-first. After a brief struggle she was all in, save for one lower-leg. He pushed and pulled, she contorted as best she could, but it was all to no avail. A booming "Forget it!" echoed from within the dryer and so he began to help her disentangle herself.

Finally free of the steel drum she stood and straightened out first her body, then her clothes. With a look of disgust on her face she spat "I've had guys get me into way smaller dryers than that" and stormed of to her apartment leaving him there, alone in the basement.