Cunt Vs. Cock, a love story

February 1st, 2006

She danced between the cracks of riches and despair. My kinda gal. Her martini swung with the rhythm of her sway. Never losing a drop, she rocked and turned to the off-beat of chapped jazz crooning from a geriatric juke box playing disks more suited for drink cozies than producing music. This dive hadn’t seen her kind in perhaps ever. It was the sort of joint men came to hide, rather than to hunt. And so the various vagabonds tipping back the juice were ill prepared for a tragic beauty such as her. Except me. I knew exactly her sort and what she was hiding behind all the make-up, high stacked hair, pearls, and thousand dollar perfume. No amount of diamond manicures and black silk Gucci dresses could hide it. She was a slave on the run. And she was looking for a fool to help her escape.

This is my kinda game. Playing a player. I’m sure she’d gotten into her current mess by trying to one up a top dog, and gotten beaten down because of it. She dwelled in the gilded cages of her master until she learned his game. Now she had enough information and reason for revenge than any slave could need. She only required muscle to rip open the coffers of capital she’d stashed before she ran. Hers is the dream of top slaves everywhere. To enslave the master, and rule the kingdom that was once fueled from her servitude. Only thing is, every slave who’s become a master has only grown to be a greater monster than the creep she capped. It’s an endless cycle of ripping off a scab to grow a big bloodier, deeper, more infected and puss filled lesion than ever before until all the world is one huge lump of red swollen pustules incessantly erupting in vengeful spite. I’m hungry. Time for a jelly donut.

© 2006