Author: Guede Mazaka
So yeah, I know he’s fucking around with that waitress. Honestly, I don’t get what he sees in her, other than the bouncy tits and the pretty blonde hair, and hell if those aren’t a dime a dozen in this town. I ride him about her because of her lack of brains, not because I mind him being a tomcat. Never knew a man that wasn’t.
And what Dwight is, what he’s always been is Old Town, through and through. He’s a whore, I’m a whore, and maybe we come together on the street sticky from different kinds of jobs, but it’s all the same in the end. I could be faithful to him, maybe, if there was the money to carve away the street and the men’s pricks and the press of a hot gun against my thighs. He could’ve been faithful to me if he’d come back before that bitch Ava fucked up his head. He’s still crazy about her, even if she’s dead. Especially since she’s dead and not around for me to hold up and show just how fucking wrong she was about everything, just where she pushed and screwed and scarred him. Dwight’s crazy about what she made him, though I could’ve told him that that’s nothing in comparison.
He goes to that girl and she’s soft and nice as it gets in this end of town. She spreads because she feels sorry for a man, because somewhere in her pert little head’s the idea that all it takes to turn a guy around is the right fuck. I could tell her different. Fuck, I could show her—get my hands up beneath that lampshade of a bar uniform she’s got and then sink my teeth into her too-red lipstick…someone needs to show that girl how to do her face. Even whores have standards.
I could squeeze my hands between her legs and I could fuck her in ways Dwight can’t ever, unless he suddenly decides to grow two dicks for both holes. I could make her pant and sob and I could eat it all up while she went melting and faint on me. I could make her lick off my fingers and then tilt her head so she’s got to look me in the eye, to see what’s never going to make Dwight turn around.
He’s a man. And I’m a woman, and we’re riding the steel express to hell. It’s not black and white, it’s not colored. It’s just complicated layers, with some that go on in the morning and come off at night and some that never go, no matter how much scrubbing you do. It’s his mouth on my cunt and my nails on his shoulders, and bloody guns hanging by both our sides. It’s the way he looks sometimes when a nightmare wakes him, and the way I hate myself when I think how close it was to real slavery before he came and got me out.
We’re walking a thin line. We sell our bodies and we keep the rest, we take no prisoners and we get no rest because they’re always pushing the line. It’d be easier to take if we were just dumb dolls, no thoughts and nothing but breasts and a nice wet warm hole. We’re the stick in their craw. And because of that, we’re always poking into the wrong place, never quite fitting, constantly drawing blood even from our nearest and dearest.
I hope she knows what she’s getting, poor stupid bitch. Someday that forgive-you act won’t cut it and there’ll be no one around and then she’ll find out what she’d made of. She better read Dwight’s lesson, or better yet, mine that I leave on him.
I wonder what she does when she finds one of my marks. Does she kiss it better?
Christ, she’s emptyheaded. And Dwight’s just a little broken for needing something like her, and I’m standing beneath the streetlight, counting the hours. I’m waiting.
I lift my head, blow out a smoke ring, and laugh like hell.