Intense and Lucid. Excerpt of Automated Dialer by Neil Stanoff

Intense and Lucid. Excerpt of Automated Dialer by Neil Stanoff

Intense, lucid and extremely sensual. An Excerpt of Automated Dialer by the American author Neil Stanoff. Enjoy the reading, Yareah Magazine friends.

Intense and Lucid. Excerpt of Automated Dialer by Neil Stanoff

Figure (1) by Claudette Gallant

A thin stray trail of smoke blew around his eyes. He lifted his forehead and moved his chin upright, and watched the smoke disappear into the dimly lit room. He sat on a plush, overstuffed black leather love seat. The glow of a distant purple haze from a black-light muddled along with the smoke, taking a deep breath in, and loudly exhaling, drawing it all in as darkness melded into tangible forms as he could see a clearer picture of the narrow lounge. In front of him, most prominent was the zinc corner bar. The lights strobing and blinking madly upon it cast the illusion of incandescent sparkling dots on the counter like illuminated, ever shifting confetti. And there in the dimness it looked both actual and mesmerizing. The bar was the first thing his eyes could take in and make sense of. After that he realized the bar was empty.

There were no seats, and no one was standing against, or beside, or anywhere. He squeezed his eyes together, wincing trying to force the vision. He fastened on a clear heel of a woman’s stiletto, and tried to focus and work his way up her barely visible legs onto her body. He imagined the heels would make a clawing, stamping sound as they pressed off the bar, heel to toe, heel to toe but they were deathly silent. He stared at the long shapely legs for a minute or two and could now see their milky fullness. They swayed mathematically atop the bar, deliberate with the preciseness of a surgeon’s instrument, the legs moved as concise as an exotic, seductive scalpel. The lights flashed rhythmically; orange, and purple and green all colliding for a second on sections of the legs, and almost satisfied; but he lifted his chin further, strained his eyes and caught a serious hold of the ass above the legs. Out of excitement or anticipation, or both eyes widened and he saw nearly perfectly through the dark. Such a fine, frantically shaking ass conversing so naturally to the thuds of bass, as if speaking native tongues of movement. The light skin so tight it merely pulsated along, no fat to sag or jiggle or break its perfection. A thin wisp of a wire thong covered a mere inch of the rear. Adorned with an orange and black leopard prin the thong hung like a fixture, or an ornament meshed seamlessly with skin. The ass full, with supple oval cheeks and the curves popping, almost floating from sides of skin, to the apex of the other side of skin.

To Jake the girl appeared faceless, just a dancing silhouette hung in voluptuousness. His hair winding, twirling down a vague circle reaching out upon the bottom of her neck, serenading straight wisps sachet from her hips, ending an inch before the thong.

Jake lowered his hand to his right pocket, fumbling for a glass object. He palmed his amber bullet discretely, not exposing it beyond his outstretched fingers. He put the bullet below his right nostril, turned the plastic dial quickly and snorted a long, hard hit of the powder. It burned slightly, his eyes clouded up, and watered a drop. His muscles became tense, his face was tight, his skin flushed. It felt like he had been electrocuted, his whole body electrocuted, lasting only a half second. Two minutes went by, the high magnified. He could feel every neuron to the back of his head. His craned neck was heavy, sore. It was if his mind was completely detached, entirely independent from his tense frame. As if his mind grew slender, aerodynamic propellers and rose inches above carrying away, and hovering over. Severing any connection the two once had. His thoughts were uneven strands easily snipped.

He looked away from the bar and fidgeted with the bullet. He thought about what Adam had said about the coke, before he bought it. “It’s coke. But it’s pretty speedy. I did four keys, and I was up till 6 am.” What he thought Adam meant was that it maybe a little cut, and maybe a tad bit wiry. Instantly, within a second he knew it was not meth. Meth had that unmistakable killer hell burn and this did not. Secondly, meth was never that white in color, and most convincingly noone cut their cocaine with meth anymore because meth, even the lowest grade was more expensive than cocaine.

So that left him with possibilities of what the mystery powder in the bullet was. It was sold to Jake, advertised to Jake as “coke”. The only coke that could yield such a goddamn unflinching stimulant effect was virtually, pure uncut cocaine. Jake knew that his 350 pound black small time dealer had not stumbled anywhere near that goldmine and therefor neither had Jake.

He studied his thought patterns for three minutes. Trying to precisely calibrate the intoxication. He looked at the bar again, but the light show grew dull. He was too far in his own mind to fancy the spurts of leg, hips flashing. Once more he reached from the black slacks, hid the bullet in his palm, and took two hits, one in his right, and then left nostril. He tiled, swaying his head back on the couch feeling a sing, slight burn. He saw clearly through the darkness around him, each blur taking a explicit shape, full clarity. He quickly put the bullet back in his pocket as every sense, every sound, every whisper became magnified five times over. He was now seeking fast forward in a motion picture of reality. Frames sputtered by like an endless manic flipbook. Then he knew for certain what the shit was. Mind you he had only encountered it once before.

Arms fluttering above his head, thick in skin, masses of skin, masses of sweat, hands groping above heads, nudging heads, soles brushing soles, fever pitch radiating snare drums, booming vibrating bass atop fingertips, reaching out to grab the buzz, trying to capture the vibe like a butterfly in your hand. Strobe lights matching heartbeats. Music all consuming…and then silence. The music stopped, and the lights came back on.

Everyone freezes, stares at whoever is right in front of them, flushed, sweat drenched, heart-racing. Heart beating now to silence. Feeling the rush from whatever they took right before the end of the night to keep them going, hard tight throats, hunger conquered stimulants, alone in the stomach, pill dust in the esophagus. Orange wristbands on the floor. Kicking.

Fucking De-javu. Jake washing a last dish in the industrial stainless steel sink. The chrome shines with polish. Costas walks in the kitchen. They smile, they are almost done closing. Costas slickness oozes to heavy. He wears tight black Versace jeans. All black actually; with a moussed brown cesar and green lizard eyes. He sounds too Greek and pounces upon girlfriend and ex-girlfriend. Trying to marry anything; his work visa expires in two months. Costas places a white pil on the chrome, the side of the sink.

“What is it?” Jake says.

“Speed man.” says Costas cooly. “You try it first.

Jake plays the guinea pig, it doesn’t burn so bad after a while.

Old-school speed. San Francisco. Pre Meth epidemic. Pre Oxi-Cotton fever, no kids graduating to tar for a cheaper fix. Late 90’s. Right before Ecstasy got huge, made the cover of Time. Old-school speed which now seemed extinct, ancient. Here it was.

Fucking De-javu. The same high as dancing all night, over ten years ago, somewhere else. He didn’t know what kind of coincidence had brought it back to him. One more hit, and then a rest. He took out the bullet once more, inhaled in one action. Again feeling the sting of soreness tingling with that uneasy invincibility. Of not knowing where your mind is branching too next. He felt unchecked but not brazen or sloppy. Whatever Jake wanted Jake could undermine. There in that dark, narrow strip of a room the music pounded matching his flushed pulse. He got up for the first time from the couch waving the strobes of light off with the back of his palm. He passed the now solitary bar and tripped onto the foot of a chair. He didn’t remember seeing any chairs in the entire place. He stared at the uneven marks of the bar’s strip, the makeshift stage. The inaction impeded his buzz, until he turned his chair around a half turn.

The front side of that thin, stray wispy hair. Pulled back against a complexion of snow and blush, cheeks pink. Lips glossed with deep purple lipstick, parted, a pouty silhouette. An imprint of a round even dimple above a pencil thin crane nose. With eyes wide with the power of seduction, with the fortitude of manipulation. Her eyes brazened blue with yellow streaks of wild irises.

Jake was high, and felt a sense of urgency looking at her. He followed a strain of hair down to her chest where it curled off at the gap between the crest of her chest and the fabric of her grey cotton top. He glanced down below at the leopard print panties. He laughed to himself, what kitsch, what a fucking cliche. The print of the underwear made him feel strangely superior to her.

She lit a cigarette attached to a long black cigarette holder with a gold Zippo. She held the cigarette diagonally in her hand, as if waving the smoke back and forth in the air while the holder never touched her lips. It was as if she was fanning her proximity with smoke. Jake watched each section of smoke trail off and dissipate. He turned his chair back to the bar. Noone was dancing The lights went on, but there was no sound, no music. While turning his chair towards the girl again, he noticed no other spectators.

Together they were alone in that overdone, outstretched hall. He lit a cigarette and surveyed what he hadn’t seen of her body. A flat, tight stomach with a small pierced belly button. Her chest firm, and small with pointy breasts hidden by a black lace bra. The bra strap poked out of the shoulder of her shirt, and her shoulders were thin and delicate. As Jake had already seen her ass he realized her top half was greatly out of proportion to her bottom. Still he wanted to see all of her, and he wanted to fuck her in such a way that she would feel degraded, as trashy as the leopard print panties that clung to her supple ass.

He waited for her to speak first. Glancing at the smoke above her hair, waxing aloof. “Slow today.” Finally, she said.

Jake nodded his head slightly. “Looks that way.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jake. What’s yours?”

“Tia.” She replied.

“Now is that your real name or is that your stage name?”

“That’s my real name.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“That’s the only name you’ll ever know me by.”

“Tia then. Fair enough.”

“So, Jake did you want to buy a dance then?”

“I was hoping for more than just a dance. To be quite honest I’m not much of a dancer.”

“Private shows start at100.”

“Okay. What I was thinking, since there ain’t noone here. You do your thing right there on the end of that bar.”

“We can do that.” One hundred to start and I’ll give you prices as we go along. Pick a song on the jukebox over there by that booth.” Tia pointed to her left.

“I’d rather enjoy the silence.”

Tia propped her bottom on the edge of the bar, her clear stillettos dangled midway in the air. Jake pushed the chair until the heels dangled an inch away from his ear. Jake leaned forward set like a vulture eager for the first layer of clothing to come off. She put her fingernail to her lower lip and sucked it, putting half the finger in her mouth. She traced the finger down to the bottom of her shirt, and softly lifted up the shirt in sections. Taking her time until the shirt was gone. Under the shirt was the black lace bra next to the rest of her wonderful bare complexion. She unhooked the bra strap, threw it in front of her, and stretched backwards, curving her naked breasts near him. Her pointy brown nipples contrasted with the milk white skin. Jake thought the nipples pointed straight at him, staring straight at him. He hunched over his chair awkwardly, ready to make contact with her body. She slithered back from the edge, away from him. She hummed softly and gyrated her hips and stomach pressing her ass, her fullness against the bar. Slightly, and steadily she inched farther from him and began grabbing and teasing at the crotchs of her leopard print thong.

“I hate those stupid things. Off with them!” Jake lipped but was too eager to say out loud.

Tia snapped off the panties in a singular, swift stroke. A uniform line of perfectly manicured hair lay where the thong once covered. Straight golden brown hair glistening with dew and sweat. Light pink lips below the hair had the shine of wetness. She lay entirely naked for Jake. He was hard as he sat back for a moment and basked in her beauty. Jake never as vulnerable as he appeared, sprang upright in the chair and fired off in rather rapid fire manner. “Do you get fucked up?”

“What?” Tia said as she sat cross-legged on the bar with her stilettos to the side.

“Do you get high?”

“Yeah I party.”

Jake handed her the bullet. She cupped her palm reluctantly.

“What is it?”

“Haha. That’s a long story. My dealer says it’s coke. But it sure ain’t coke. And it’s not glass either. Think its speed. Good old fashioned speed.”

Tia eyed Jake nervously, but not nervously enough to not take a hit. She took a long hit in her right nostril and shook her hair back, stringy and wild.


“I told you. It’s instant. Straight to the head.”

“I feel good.”

Patience had evaporated from Jake. He needed stimulation. “How much to finger you and get jerked off?” The words seemed to automatically spill out.

“Another $100.”


He shoved his unzipped pants below his knees, took down his faded boxers, and took out his fully erect cock. Pre-cum glistened on the end of his purplish tip. Sweat dripped from the bed of curled pubic hair above his shaft. The girth of his penis was wide, and his shaft thick. Finally, she came close to him and he glided two fingers inside of her. They slid easily from the wetness. He felt himself stiffen further his cock pointing upward with a slight angle.

She moaned as he fingered her, but he didn’t care whether the sounds were real or theatrics. All he cared about was cumming. Minutes went by, her pace became furious. Gradually as her grip tightened and her strokes grew faster, he was on the verge. He let out a final gasp of warning and came all over those milk cream legs. Stray shots hit the stilettos, and the bar, and even the cuffs of his slacks.

Jake zipped up rather nonchalantly, opened his wallet and handed Tia the two 100 dollar bills. She put them away quickly in a lavender purse he had never noticed, and put her shirt over her bra.

“Hey. You want to make an easy 30 dollars?”


“Take that Zippo right there and burn those fucking leopard print panties.” He handed her a 20 and a 10 and she lit the brown edge of the underwear’s bottom. Slowly they burned giving off a jet black barrage of smoke. Jake took a final hit from the bullet, lit a cigarette. Smiled a contented smile and walked out the back entrance next to the leather couch.

View Comments (3)
  • Isabel del Rio

    Strong and fantastic. Congratulations Neil Stanoff

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was born in Los Angeles in 1981, and grew up in the Hollywood system as a kid actor. Most notably he had a cameo in Brad Pitt’s first movie Cutting Class. He has been a professional writer since the age of 18. His first collection of work is entitled Somatic Jazz: The Early Years and spans the ages of 16-26. He is hard at work on his second novel, a manic tale of call center culture called Automated Dialer. Neil resides in sunny Tempe, Arizona and still claims to be the “New Hemingway.”

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