The Best Erotic Stories.

Stripper: A Prose Poem
by writer34

Adjusts her thong in the mirror; streaked bangs, Felix the cat look, sittin' on a chump's lap, frozen stiff inside, deer in the headlights of his talentless shit bag money. Show me some leg now; alabaster skin tinted pink. Foot parade . . . high arched refinement. Each passing generation the gene's get worse-breeding ourselves backwards; so she stands out like a dying flower in a field of flourishing weeds. I don't pick her so others can see . . . beautiful clouds passing before the face of a girl. Who never was. She turned eighteen when she was nine.

And they say writing's a lonely profession. Maybe. I wouldn't mind being alone if I could shut up all the voices in my head, ghosts, what people said. Only way is to write it out, bleed it out. Double espresso 4 AM. Even hot coffee gets cold, old. Empty as a dumpster after the garbageman's come; shopping sprees for her, gambling sprees for me, trying to fill it up.

Warm pretty body lays by her side, suffocating her with his cardboard love . . . is not paper weights and things to do before the world throws up itself again. I take one drink of her-too many-a thousand never enough. Her hair's like dirty brown whiskey soaked in fucksweat. I could kill her with the next thrust but I die instead inside her, knowing her lake isn't deep enough to accept all I could pour into her.

How much energy does it take to pretend it's cloudy when the sun's in your eyes. Shades. That's all. Like a drug. Denial. Sleep. Shaded existence. She disappears behind the next guy and the next guy and the next is sure to be the one, projecting their fantasies onto her luminescent screen. Shadow play.

So turn and give me your ripe proud ass one more time, crevice like the Grand Canyon's deep enough for my thoughts, leaving you on the lap of luxury sailing nowhere. Slowly. Walk out the door. Don't turn around. Show my back; everyone's receding, following the big bang theory into oblivion. My eyes are wet for no one. Only me in this mirror. Two dimensional stage where we play. Beyond my regretful face, through the looking glass I see: She's undressed now except for her shoes. But I'm the one who's naked, and bruised by her smile.


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