Culture
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Written by Abbie Mason
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Thursday, 27 October 2011 21:23 |
She’d had a rye life, whisky eyes seen through ice cube charms, propped up on a bar stool pedestal accepting only liquid worship - no chasers for her, and I caught her eye as she swept the bump ‘n’ grind persona of Friday night whores, draped Dali like across wide-boys arms.
Her half moon smile tainted by nicotine clouds as they fought to escape the confines of an inhale, and me the rabbit in headlights glare, tongue tied to this table, nursing a misplaced conception. She was slick as she oozed through the waves of melded bodies, caught in a chimera of sex and music; a deep throb within. Another notch to be nicked in her playground stick, a passing phase in her latest craze, she was warm in my lap like a pile of bones before the pyre, waiting .. just waiting, and I found I could climb the ladder of her spine, though her heart had escaped that cage long ago, all I could see was my dignity lying discarded on an unmade bed, and her proclaiming “I used to be a lady.”
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Last Updated on Monday, 19 November 2012 21:31 |