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My own secret life 
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Crooning, she's lifted her legs and clamped her calloused heels to my cheeks:
I look left to the wall mirror: In the mirror, my doughboyish belly, twice her size, covering her: A great heavy sack dropped from a height, crushing her: Her arms, legs, neck and head splayed by the flattening impact: In the mirror, my pelvis wagging though its minute arc: My semaphor cock wagging a signal: Arm hidden between her thighs: Head secretly leaping inside her, there: A signal transmitted over a great distance: A signal—my spasm felt through the latex the stop-bit—only she will ever decrypt. To her it might mean: 1. At last I can stop; 2. He got more than he paid for; 3. Now he'll get off me; 4. Make sure the condom hasn't come off. The craft of being a whore is making a fat man come fast. But she's loose, over-lubed; her crescendo of crooning won't do it. {300} 5 Comments:Hello, glad to see you back, and well. Your journal stands like a lesson in freedom, against the "rising tide"... By Thanks! I'm glad to be writing again. Like the mute king in Once Upon a Matress, "I've got a lotto say".... By
Thanks DP (and sorry for the moderated comments, but the spam was just too, too much. And so stupid). By I like your stories a lot, but mostly I like how you tell them. I'm glad you're back. By Thanks, lola. I don't know if the world is hungry for this kind of "telling" or not, but it's interesting. And I think whoring is becoming more and more a central though buried metaphor for most of what goes on in our fin de siecle "end times" ... By All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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