SKIN COLD AS ICE by Peter Nolan Smith

When Lou Reed died three years ago, a friend called to ask, if I had known the singer.

I said, “No."

El-Roy was a pussy hound and asked if I thought Nico was a good fuck.

“I don’t know,” I replied and hung up thinking one thing.

The Velvet Underground’s singer was probably great in bed.

Once in Paris I had a Nico lookalike girlfriend.

Mirabelle was a blonde aristocratic junkie model, who had more success at ripping off rich men than getting on the covers of VOGUE or ELLE.

I was working at the Bains Douche as a doorman.

An American in Paris.

There were over 200,000 of us in those years. Most of them worked at banks or attended university. My job offered better perks than pay or wisdom. The patron of the Bains-Douches allowed me to treat the French, especially Parisians, in his words 'comme le merde que ils sont'.

I was 'd'accord with that edict, but my friends and beautiful women received start treatment. Mirabelle was one of my favorite thanks my my preference for skinny women.

One winter night Mirabelle accompanied me back to my flat on the Ile St. Louis.

We snorted some H and made love without satisfaction until the drug sang us to sleep.

Neither of us took off our clothes.

The next morning I woke to the bells of Notre Dame.

The windows were open and I shivered with the cold.

Mirabelle’s skin was ice to my touch.

I thought she was dead and grew hard as a rock realizing that realize the dead can't feel anything and shove my cock in her bony ass. My medical diagnosis was wrong. The first thrust woke her from the grave and Mirabelle said, "Plus profound.",then her lungs drew a shallow breath.

I closed the window and fucked her with the dawn.

It was like making love to a beautiful corpse

And she gave a death rattle as a moan.

"Good?" I asked from on top.

She simply pleaded, "Encore."

I gave what she wanted,

Because Mirabelle was very good for such a bad girl

And I bet Nico was the same.

A goddess best undressed in the cold.