italian leather
Arinette had beautifully strung brown hair that seemed to go for
days
pass her shoulders, and when she would go about in the city,
wearing a tight fitting dress [always dark colors], hair wild, brown
as her green
eyes and always straight ahead, all the men would turn their heads
and watch
for a while.
"YOU SEXIST PIG!" some unattractive fat woman with brown hair said
to
her unattractive fat husband as he caught glance of Arinette leaving
the corner store. The fat husband would say nothing but when he saw
me
behind Arinette, he knew.
I finally made it.
"Did you see that son of a bitch with that woman?" the fat husband
would say.
his father wife would be too busy looking at Arinette getting inside
the driver side of her Porche to listen.
Arinette had everyone under her spell.
and once we got to her place, it was no different.
she always had the place organized; tv on, volume low - all for
the french poodle that liked to sit on the couches rather than
on the floor.
"you take your drink . . . ?" Arinette asked.
I looked at her for a moment.
"Harris?"
I looked at the tv. a second civil war was starting over presidents
in this
dying country. Just another reason to push the big red button.
"Naked," I said.
Her place intimidated me. My balls sweated. Her neighbors were
quiet.
Not a spec of dust, not a bottle lying about, not
a dead man on the floor, or some whore named Annette.
It was all
overwhelming and
terrifying to
know some people live
beautifully untouched by
God's dirty finger nail.
When Arinette came back, we sat and enjoyed our
drinks; she had a cherry Vodka and I a whiskey on
the rocks, lime twist.
"So . . . " she said
and picked one leg over the other,
showing into the depths of Heaven.
"You're a writer?"
"Yeah."
"What kind?"
"All kinds."
"Genre?"
"Everything."
"So, you write about sex? "
"Why not? It's the best underrated form literature out there."
"Do you do this often then?"
"'This?' What do you mean?" I took a hit.
she took a 'swig' of her drink. "Do you meet and fuck the women and
then
go home and write all about their tales?"
"I wish. I hardly get the chance to really fuck around, as you say. I
have nothing for these women out there."
She sat her drink down. Her hands were wet from the precipitation.
Bringing her hand up to her throat, she slit her throat with the tip
of
her wet finger and I watched the water drop slide down her neck and
deep in her breasts.
"You like what you see?" She said.
I nodded.
Here I was, an ordinary man, working an ordinary job,
getting fucked by ordinary men of God every day at this job,
while getting paid an ordinary wage, getting ready to
fuck the brains out
of this
6ft goddess.
she got up from her chair, a great brown italian leather,
and took my hand and set my drink down.
and I followed her into the bedroom.
there we were, Arinette and I,
swirled in between sheets of sweat and
madness, fucking fucking fucking
until the neighbors themselves
knew.
and it was
beautifully
crafted.
days
pass her shoulders, and when she would go about in the city,
wearing a tight fitting dress [always dark colors], hair wild, brown
as her green
eyes and always straight ahead, all the men would turn their heads
and watch
for a while.
"YOU SEXIST PIG!" some unattractive fat woman with brown hair said
to
her unattractive fat husband as he caught glance of Arinette leaving
the corner store. The fat husband would say nothing but when he saw
me
behind Arinette, he knew.
I finally made it.
"Did you see that son of a bitch with that woman?" the fat husband
would say.
his father wife would be too busy looking at Arinette getting inside
the driver side of her Porche to listen.
Arinette had everyone under her spell.
and once we got to her place, it was no different.
she always had the place organized; tv on, volume low - all for
the french poodle that liked to sit on the couches rather than
on the floor.
"you take your drink . . . ?" Arinette asked.
I looked at her for a moment.
"Harris?"
I looked at the tv. a second civil war was starting over presidents
in this
dying country. Just another reason to push the big red button.
"Naked," I said.
Her place intimidated me. My balls sweated. Her neighbors were
quiet.
Not a spec of dust, not a bottle lying about, not
a dead man on the floor, or some whore named Annette.
It was all
overwhelming and
terrifying to
know some people live
beautifully untouched by
God's dirty finger nail.
When Arinette came back, we sat and enjoyed our
drinks; she had a cherry Vodka and I a whiskey on
the rocks, lime twist.
"So . . . " she said
and picked one leg over the other,
showing into the depths of Heaven.
"You're a writer?"
"Yeah."
"What kind?"
"All kinds."
"Genre?"
"Everything."
"So, you write about sex? "
"Why not? It's the best underrated form literature out there."
"Do you do this often then?"
"'This?' What do you mean?" I took a hit.
she took a 'swig' of her drink. "Do you meet and fuck the women and
then
go home and write all about their tales?"
"I wish. I hardly get the chance to really fuck around, as you say. I
have nothing for these women out there."
She sat her drink down. Her hands were wet from the precipitation.
Bringing her hand up to her throat, she slit her throat with the tip
of
her wet finger and I watched the water drop slide down her neck and
deep in her breasts.
"You like what you see?" She said.
I nodded.
Here I was, an ordinary man, working an ordinary job,
getting fucked by ordinary men of God every day at this job,
while getting paid an ordinary wage, getting ready to
fuck the brains out
of this
6ft goddess.
she got up from her chair, a great brown italian leather,
and took my hand and set my drink down.
and I followed her into the bedroom.
there we were, Arinette and I,
swirled in between sheets of sweat and
madness, fucking fucking fucking
until the neighbors themselves
knew.
and it was
beautifully
crafted.