Sweet Revenge

She eased herself down the pole, gripping it loosely in her long, perfectly manicured fingers. She never took her eyes off of him. She focused on him like he was the only man in the room, and for her, he might as well have been. Other men surrounded the stage, whistling at her and waving dollar bills, but she studiously ignored them like so much rabble. Rather than daunting them, her lack of attention to these curs scrabbling at her feet like dogs over a raw filet mignon seemed to intensify their hunger for her. Soon, she knew, they'd start throwing their money at her, desperate for a glance; anything to show she knew they existed.

Of course, she'd leave them disappointed.

Kneeling at the bottom of the pole, she slowly extended her arm and leaned back, spreading her knees wide and grinding against the metal warmed by her ministrations. She dropped her gaze from him, hoping to draw him closer or entice him into a private dance. She could go out and offer herself, but she knew this would curb the thrill a bit, and she didn't want that.

She pushed herself down on her belly with her knees still splayed. She threw her head back and dragged her hair forward across her masterfully arched back, rocking forward onto her hands and knees and looking up at a vacant seat. She smiled a little to herself, but maintained her mask of slightly aloof unattainability. She didn't rush into looking for him, but let the beat of the bad music drive her languid movements as she inched back up the pole, dragging it between the perfectly rounded cheeks of her voluptuous ass. The dogs howled and clamored for scraps of her attention, and she continued to deny them.

There. He hadn't moved forward, but back toward the private entertainment rooms. She crowed inwardly with triumph, knowing he'd ask for her. Her song was almost at an end and she was impatient to go back and spruce up for him. She had a special surprise for her favourite regular, and she couldn't wait to see the expression on his face when he opened it.

Unable to contain her impatience, she boldly strode off the stage a full fifteen seconds before her song ended. She left the dogs' paltry tributes littered across the stage, completely uninterested in their pitiful offerings. How dare they think they could buy her affection for singles?! Surely even with their less-than-towering standards, they could see that she was worth so much more. . . and if they couldn't, ah, well. Not one flick of tongue across her plump lips would they receive.

She was repairing the minor smudges in her makeup when she was summoned. She nodded her acknowledgement and put the finishing touches on her wardrobe. She topped it off with a semi-sheer red drape that set her black waves off like a dark, starless night sky. She adjusted her bustier, making sure it revealed nothing before she was ready, and made her way to the room.

She stood outside the small window, looking at him through the two-way glass. He was slouching casually on the wide, over-sized round ottoman she preferred to perform on. His plaid shirt was unbuttoned at the top and his cowboy hat sat slightly forward on his head, casting his face in shadow. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, looking at the glass. She smiled at him, knowing he felt the intensity of her gaze. His manner was easy, relaxed, but she could smell his impatience. He hated to wait. She glanced up at the bouncer who would stand outside and keep watch over her, then at the guest who'd paid a high price to watch the show. The bouncer nodded at her, and she entered the room.

"You're late," he said, feigning sternness.

She only smiled in return and stalked slowly over to him. She reached for his hat with one hand, lifted it, and tossed it carelessly into the corner. With the other, she ran her gloved fingers through his hair. She tightened her hand into a fist and gripped a handful of sandy brown hair, flinging him back onto his elbows. His eyes registered mild surprise, but she could see he was enjoying this little change in their routine. After all, routine was what wives bored their men with, and he was paying good money not to grow bored.

She climbed up onto the ottoman and lowered her pelvis onto his. She rocked her hips slightly, teasingly, her head hanging forward to obscure her face behind a cascade of black waves. She leaned forward, stretching her body along his, grinding her mound hard against him, and she felt his rock hard excitement straining against her thigh. She brought her lips within a hair's breadth of his and exhaled sweet clove cigarette breath on him. He inhaled sharply, sucking her into himself greedily. His hands twitched, but he left his elbows firmly planted into the ottoman.

She pushed her face past his and crawled up his body until her shrouded breasts were even with his gluttonous eyes. She leaned down slowly, surreptitiously drawing her hands inside the shroud, and put her lips up against his ear.

"Happy Anniversary, baby," she breathed, drawing a small bit of paper out of her corset and slipping it into his hand. He accepted the paper, paying it little attention as she doffed the intervening material, exposing her perfect twin mounds peeking over the bustier. She sat back on her heels, contemplating his face. She smiled wickedly and reached down for the laces, drawing them slowly out of their knots and freeing the captives from their confines. She allowed him to gorge his eyes on them one last time. Her pulse quickened. The moment she'd been preparing for over the last eleven months, three hundred sixty four days had finally arrived.

"You've been served," she crooned in the same sultry voice. Puzzlement crossed his face before he remembered the slip of paper she'd only just handed him. He looked down at it and she slid off of his lap like a silk robe off a chair back. She had already strode halfway across the room when she heard him exclaim behind her. She placed her hand on the door handle and imagined his face as he read the divorce court summons she'd just gifted him, but denied herself a last look.

"It's done," she said as she stepped out of the room. She spared a small glance for the woman who was her favourite regular's wife. She was smiling with triumphant malice at her husband, who'd not moved from the ottoman, savouring his miserable discovery through the two-way glass she herself had been studying him through only moments ago. She didn't wait for a response before she sauntered off toward the dressing room. She was going to miss her favourite regular.

This was my entry for Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic 9: Sweet Revenge.

Dear Unnamed Recipient of This Letter,

Let's skip the preamble and just dive right into this, shall we? I'm well aware that you think we suck. All we do is hold you back from doing the things you want (and deserve- are entitled to, even!) to be doing.

But here's something you've probably never considered: you're not the most awesome person to be around, either. This may come as a surprise to you, as you seem to think that in spite of your habit of looking down on everyone else, we all put you up on some secret pedestal to admire, or maybe envy. Certainly to admire. So let me kick that pedestal right out from under your feet (don't worry, it only exists in your mind anyway).

* Sure, you're smart. You think critically, and to some extent, you understand the things that are important to you. Unfortunately, this understanding grinds to a halt at your own opinions. You make NO attempt whatsoever at trying to understand things from someone else's perspective, and instead try to brow-beat them into agreeing with you. This has two interesting side effects:

a. It makes you a hypocrite. Funny, huh? Because I know how you like to spout off about how everyone's so hypocritical. You know, all those stupid Christians who just stuff their opinions down your throat and won't listen to your thoughts? Sounding familiar yet?
b. It makes you closed-minded. It just keeps getting funnier, doesn't it? Because I know how open minded you THINK you are.

But I digress. Anyway, back to being smart- your moderate intellect makes you arrogant to the point where it's just painful to be around you sometimes. I don't understand why it isn't enough for you to be smart. Why do you need everyone else to be stupid? Why do you have to engage in these sarcastic, technicality-driven arguments? It doesn't make you look smarter than you are, and it doesn't make the person you're inflicting this torment on stupid. It just makes you an asshole.

* About being an asshole. I know that's something you like to fall back on; I hear you use it as a defense mechanism ("You knew I was an asshole! I told you that when we first met"), as a way to deflect- without actually acknowledging- defeat ("Fine, you're right and I'm the asshole"), and as a badge of honor ("Yeah, I know, I'm an asshole"). But it isn't really any of these things. It's just a trait, like your brown hair, or the fact that you're tall, only it isn't the big asset you think it is. It doesn't make you edgy or cool, or make people secretly wish they could be like you. It just makes you. . . well, an asshole.

* Your sense of entitlement frequently leaves me in enraged speechlessness. Somehow, because life didn't work out the way you thought it was going to, WE owe you something? Sorry, it doesn't work like that.
Here's what we owe you: food on your plate, a roof over your head, clothes on your back, medical treatment, and a means to remain hygienic and healthy.
Here's what we do NOT owe you: a car, insurance for that car, rides out of state to see your long distance friends, permission to come and go as you please, a steady stream of entertainment, pocket money, a fridge full of microwavable food (so that you don't have to be bothered with putting effort into feeding yourself when you don't like what I've prepared), trust (that you continue to abuse at every opportunity), and a wide variety of other things that I could drone on about, but won't.

* You don't work for anything. ANYTHING. If it requires any effort at all, you simply don't do it, unless asked specifically. And even then, it takes a few more promptings. I mean, we're all lazy sometimes, but you've elevated it into an art form.

* You tell half-truths to make people feel sorry for you. I've been suckered into this on many occasions, only to discover later that you minimized or completely omitted your own culpability in your troubles. Not cool.

* You get REALLY indignant when people have the nerve to treat you the way you treat them. I have to admit, though, I find this one amusing.

This is an incomplete picture most people have of you. Not pretty, is it? I'm sure you'll blow it off or justify it away, or outright deny it altogether, but some day I hope you'll see yourself the way we do, and use it as a tool for change. Anyway, the next time you mutter about how you just can't wait to get the hell out of here, please bear in mind: we can't either. I won't go so far as to say we'll rejoice when you're gone, but we won't cry when you go, either.

Love,
Me.

Bullshit Virgins

Technical Virgins are complete bullshit. You know the type I'm talking about- they're giving up the anal and the oral and "everything but", and they're still calling themselves virgins since the hymen's still intact. If that's the only thing that hasn't been despoiled, then don't go calling yourself a virgin. You know good and goddamn well that ain't "Saving It For Marriage", that's a fucking technicality; and a really flimsy one, at that.

You've been fucked. You're not a virgin. Just stop deluding yourself.


While we're on the subject, we might as well talk about the other kind of bullshit virgin- The Born Again Virgins. Who dreamed up this oxymoronic bit of nonsense?! That shit ain't Jesus- you don't "find" it again just because you decided having it off isn't for you anymore. Regret doesn't make it grow back, people! Once it's gone, it's gone.

Once again, you've been fucked. You're not a virgin. You're just deluding yourself and pissing everyone else off.

Snippet From My Day #7

I got propositioned today when I was pick'n up lunch for me and Steve by a man I'm 80% sure was a pimp. I was in the Long John Silvers' parking lot in Gary- the one on Ridge near Colfax, across the street from Calumet High School.

Now, I've never seen a pimp up close'n personal or nothin', but the man stepped outta this sweet-ass restored Cadillac, wear'n a finely-tailored purple suit (no stupid shoes or hat) under a fur coat, hold'n a cane, with two roughed-up look'n bitches who'd seen better days in tow.

I was putt'n Steve's food in my car and about to jump in outta the cold when he rolled up. He parked across three spaces like an asshole, and oozed out the door.

"Say-na," he said to me, look'n me up and down. I was mindin' my own business so closely I actually thought I was in his way somehow.

"Sorry," I answered back.

"Lemme gi' you my card," he said, nevermind'n my apology. That's when I really looked up and paid some attention to what was go'n on around me. He reached into the inside pocket of the animal carcass he had slung over his shoulders and pulled out a business card. He didn't walk over to me, he just held it out for me to come'n get.

I didn't know what to say. I knew I wasn't bein' hit on- he didn't put out that vibe. It felt like business. I shook my head at him, and he nodded at me.

"I'm married," I finally explained, once I found my tongue hide'n in the back of my head. As though that were the only thing keep'n me from accepting his kindly offer of employment.

"I fee-ya." He nodded again, this time to his two gals, who'd been stand'n there look'n kinda vacant. Like someone had hit Pause on 'em. They woke up a lil and followed him into the Long John Silvers.

Snippet From My Day #6

I smelled my food cooking and instinctively glanced at the clock to see how much time it had left. Once you can smell the food cooking, that generally means it's approaching Done.

Then I remembered I wasn't cooking anything- I was boiling water for tea. Shit, I must've turned on the wrong burner!

I rushed into the kitchen to discover that I had, indeed, turned on the wrong burner, and I was now heating up the trace remnants of last night's Rice-a-Roni (keep your comments concerning the evils of processed food to yerselves, please, I like Rice-a-Roni). I was also melting a plastic spoon to the bottom of the pan.

Fuck me for putting the dinner dishes off till the next morning, I guess. On a side note, Jim is despairing of my future geriatric mental state.

Watchin' Oral With Yer Grandfolk

I visited my grandfolk in Oklahoma over Thanksgiving this past year, and we were all sitt'n around the kitchen, havin' a cup o liquid Christmas when Grammommie unfolded this story:

Bout 30 years ago she was visit'n my aunt Mae and Uncle Roy in Georgia for the holidays. Aunt Mae had got up to take my little cousins over to their other grandfolks' house, and uncle Roy stayed back with Grammommie to keep her from gett'n lonely.

They were sitt'n in the livingroom flippin' thru the channels for awhile when uncle Roy decided that would be a good time to make use of his present from aunt Mae. Now Santa Mae had got uncle Roy a subscription to the Playboy Channel for Christmas; she'd wrapped up the remote control with a lil' note taped to it that said:

Channel 29. Love, Mae.

Sweet, but not real suitable for polite company. But that didn't stop uncle Roy.

Anyway, there was Grammommie. . . sitt'n in a room with my uncle Roy watching the Playboy channel, all kindsa mortified. He didn't mind her, though, he watched it for a bit and then excused himself. He got up, went into his bedroom for a few minutes, and then came back out and fell asleep on the couch. Never did change the fuckin' channel.

I always knew that guy was a pervert (my sister and called him Uncle Pervy when nobody was around), and that story didn't do nothin' to change my mind.

News at Nine.

Tom the Anchor: Reporting live from the scene of the accident is our traffic correspondent, Jilly Beane.

Ms. Beane (standing next to a bewildered-looking oldtimer): Thanks Tom. I'm standing outside a devastating scene straight out of an action movie gone horribly, horribly wrong. Thousands of dollars worth of property damage, and three injuries result from a late nineties model Dodge pickup being driven into the living room of Mr. and Mrs. Leeroy Jenkins. Emergency crews are working to extract the driver from the cab of the pickup, who's very lucky to be alive. Mr. Jenkins, can you tell us what happened?

Mr. Jenkins (blinking against the bright lights): Welp, the missus and I werse sitt'n watchin' Wheel-a For-chewn when this'ere pickup came clean through th' wall. I werse up gett'n a beer, else I'da been squarshed flat undaneath. Wrecked muh favorite EZ chair, it did.

Ms. Beane: How awful! Was anyone hurt?

Mr. Jenkins: The truck ran over Mae's good leg, the cat, and her favorite lamp. I spillt muh beer.

Ms. Beane: What about the driver?

Mr. Jenkins (glaring into the camera, as though the driver was watching somewhere in the audience): That driver owes me a new EZ chair. Ye hear me?! That was muh favorite chair!!

Ms. Beane (uncomfortably, looking around for someone else to interview): Thank you, Mr. Jenkins.

[A commotion from behind Ms. Beane draws the camera's attention]

Ms. Beane (rushing back to the wreckage): There appears to be something happening back at the house!

[As she arrives, a small bleach-blonde leaps unassisted down from the hole in the side of the house, smirking with satisfaction. She's suffered only minor scrapes and scratches. She spots Ms. Beane and tosses her the keys]

Blonde girl: Here. Take care o' that for me, will ya?

Ms. Beane (ignoring the keys): Miss, do you have a moment to comment? What's your name? Can you tell us what happened?

Blonde girl (looking into the camera and smoothing down her hair, smiling winsomely): Mah name's Darla Jean Wiley. Dale, you lyin', cheat'n mother(bleep)er! I know yer laying in OUR bed with that (bleep)in' tramp you think I don't know about! I picked up yer truck from the shop and took it on up to yer mother's house, just like you asked! Yer gonna hafta take it back to the shop yerdamnself, or get that trashy (bleep) to do it for you.

[Darla Jean stalks off smugly. Ms. Beane returns her attention to the camera.]

Ms. Beane: There you have it, folks. Cheating on your girlfriend and then asking her to take your truck to your mother's house can be hard on your insurance rates. Back to you, Tom!

This was my entry for Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic 7: Describe the events leading up to this picture