17 January 2008

a hustler's lament

“strippers only wanna fuck and get high—an down here they want you ta think they wanna fuck jes you SO THEY GIT MORE MONEY!!!” the lonely man hollars in the parking lot to nobody in particular, alternately exhilarated and cynical.
inside the rest of them are still twisting in their bar stools feeling lusty and nervous. they are married, religious, or otherwise, and they are buzzing from the bud lite and neon signs and visions of moaning whores as the next one takes the stage.

what a specimen of thick strong limbs, drawn from some ancient majestic bloodline! she is carved out of granite with tits and ass like epic rolling hills. her ebony hair could flow all the way to the sea. when she moves surely the earth will shake and its rivers part. why is she not on the ceiling of the sistine chapel, what business has she here in this smoky den of dingy men?
and o lord! how she dances, though the pole is no worthy consort. the rednecks closest to the stage start to feel faint: there are tigers, maybe even demons buried in those Hips. beads of sweat roll between her breasts; the flimsy g-string can barely contain itself. they only want to bury themselves in her milk and honey, to be smothered in her smooth flesh. but she won't meet their eyes, no: her face is bored and haughty as a proud racehorse paraded in a petting zoo.
will someone not break her free and bring her to sanctuary or green pastures! but there is no room for heroism here between her full thighs and the clapboard walls of this swampy town. and so she gyrates, knocking unbelievers stonedead, wondering if the campbell’s soup’ll still be on sale tomorrow.

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