The out-of-towner slid through a door-way so rusted and worn I held my breath hoping it wouldn't collapse.
She was using cleavage as an advantage and so the stool next to mine is offered as a sacrifice by a hurting hard-on.
I could smell hay-seed and white musk-oil combining in a nauseating aroma of flesh on the hunt for favours.
She ordered a "Water".
"Ice, straw, a slice of lemon, in a long glass from the fridge".
Such sophistication.
I drain the plain brown with froth and another is there the moment my now empty glass hits wood. As I pay the pout that sprouts at the sight of my expenses glistens and shines like a red neon "Fuck me, suck you".
The hard-on is back and offering to buy her desires with the crumpled bundle in it's hand.

"Vodka"
"Russian"
"Ice"
"Lemon"

She's a woman with no taste in a place so tasteless as to find her tasty.
Condensation doesn't even pool on the bar before the glass is lifted and drained and were we in Leningrad I'm sure she'd toss the wall a reminder of her presence.
I spit on the floor like some sotted camel.
She wraps red lips around a straw as if it's some slender virgin cock and she an expert whore afraid of a mouthful of pubescent cream. Cheeks suck in and the last dregs of water lift from the glass, the throat move almost missed in the attention the straw gets.

"Vodka"
"Russian"
"Ice"
"Lemon"


The hard-ons crumpled bundle sits on the wooden bar like light to a moth, and I down another, replaced by a hard-on purchase.
Now I owe one and she's here that's two.
Beads of sweat roll across natures finest as she finishes again.
And that straw. She lifts it between her lips from the bottom of the glass and plays oral ice-breaker or hockey player, pushing ice from side to side, round and round.
The door buckles as I draw breath and she feigns surprise at my offer to refill her bottomless tumbler.
Old hard-on there, greasy shawl of unkempt locks swinging in time with thoughts of straws and ice.

"Vodka"
"Russian"
"Ice"
"Lemon".

Should I charm her and give old hard-on the cold spoon treatment? Deflating. Blood draining. Vampirish. Take the beat from its heart as he sees the flush in the face and the rise and fall of breasts that heave over wetness.
She took the straw right in there.
Hard-on excuses himself for the toilet but not for his being there in the first place.
I offer excuses for the way he is, but there's money on the bar and it is still early.

He's doing his fly up as he walks back to his seat oblivious of the wet-patch on the front of his pants such was his hurry to get back to the public display of straw and lips, back to perching stability, the awkwardness of walking awakening fears of not being able to walk back.
I'd touch her but I'm worried she'll thaw and melt to the floor like some deflated ego.
Now she's offering excuses for natures calling and as she lifts and leaves hard-on and I sigh simultaneously. Her seat holds the curves of something her parents poured lovingly over and I can almost see peach-fuzz grow on the vinyl.
Hard-on snarls like a dog on a chain that's been beaten too many times and is left nothing but its memories, his eyes watery and his facial hair full of spittle and residue froth. One of the tasteless. I feel like I've become his Siamese-twin as we both turn at the creaking hinges on a door forbidden to us both.
She doesn't walk she swings, she sways, she fucks her way back to her seat and I am Hard-on gulping down the cooling liquid.

"Vodka"
"Russian"
"Ice"
"Lemon".

Better make that two.










The ring thief sat calmly explaining away a need to know while Dumpy eyed a sweetened nothing with dreams in her eyes and a cloud on her mind.

Kill any chance of anything with a flick of the tongue.

Harlands lies filled the air as plans were made in the car-park between her and her, right now if not sooner.
"Excuse us while we scheme".
"We won't be long we just need to find out whether being cheap is a suitable accessory to nasty or whether we should wear them separately".
On the hunt for favours they listed all previous relationships in triplicate to see if the scale would slide in their favour.

A welfare-mother screamed "Joke" and fled on the back of hysteria before hands were put upon any ill-gotten feelings.

Boredom rode into town on a late 60's mini-skirt excuse for old acquaintances and was shown the road by the witch of Down.

As a grin broadened a face and short curls felt childish again she took leave forever and found comfort in solitude like Scrooge McDuck flicking coins at the relatives in times of joy.

She kissed her frog and got warts so ugly and rife that a swamp was heard to call for a facial or suffer desertion.

As a year ends so do times fall back to steady heartbeats.

That time, the time before, the time before that, and once as an infant plaything went off by itself she'd thought of air-conditioned privileges and home-delivered delights all missed and untasted in the mad scramble of scrimping and saving.

Parade the inflated death-trap like the phallic tower of power you'd have but can't hold. Treat the admitted to a debut insult fresh from the lip and wearing scant appreciation for the insects still unwrapping a larval skin.

They talked just to hear their own voices and the opinions they kept, though unsound and irrational, felt snug and warm like mothers cunt on the way to the outside world.

Please change the words formed by lipless mouths.

The correction and its acceptance makes no difference to the insane monologue that follows hot on its heels with the same intensity that reigned prior to correction.

Like mongoloids who require patience and the knowledge that all the education in the world won't improve their state of mind or their physical capabilities the errant of yesteryear fall to knees and look for assistance from any and all near enough to touch.
Push that chair for the impaired while he rests his token offerings in his lap awaiting the day a collapse in the universe will leave him as master.

For years behind doors, through mirrors, on floors concrete and carpeted, the presence echoed loud like the bells of reason.

She showered again and again in order to wash her own stench away in case any got too close and recognised her intentions.

Parked in the shunting-yard bar a gentleman of some standing was unheard over the weeping of souls hungry for hope in the colour of anything upward of a five, with a leaning toward whatever you won't need back, because it isn't coming back.
Like rail carriages at peak-hour all full of the lost and desperate they'd been jammed up against nothing in the hope of winning a break.

Wide-eyed they thought they saw one of their own go down, and as cannibalism became an icon for the 90's limbs were pulled from sockets in the rush to get to the motherlode. Knicks and cuts to the grappling limbs were inevitable as the rage built in its intensity.

December seems to want to climb all over Novembers back and the remembers will cease to exist as the nightmare that is Christmas looms large.

How did ugly manage to assume so many guises?
If only beauty carried as many changes then perhaps we'd all get some.