ISSN 1758-6488
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Men in Love Fiction |
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HORSESHOES.
The Banner over the bar says IF ONLY COUNTS IN HORSESHOES. On what used to be the dance floor, guys in their beefing-up thirties play pool at halfsize tables. Baseball caps turned backwards all say BULLS. “Drink up,” Candy says. “Employee Life Partners and their dates drink free.”
Spot-lit chrome poles rise from the bar. Strawberry, Candy’s newest temporary life partner, stalks the bar top. Bare oiled stony-sculpted breasts, G-string disappeared in the slit of her cheekwork cheeks and lipwork lips. She humps the air. Nobody watches. She humps a chrome pole in time to Connie Francis singing “Stupid Cupid.”
Candy’s the youngest shill at the scam. Starved-down Crack Queen body. No teeth in front. Skin splot-freckled like sidewalk at the start of summer thunderstorms, molested at ten written all over her life. Strawberry has a tuft of twisted pubic hair the size of a pingpong ball sitting atop her string.
“Why’s it dyed purple?”
“Great. Ask her that. Hey Honey, five dollars.”
Strawberry splits, slides, spreadeagles over to squat above our drinks. The tuft looks red.
“Go on, ask. He says it’s purple.” She tucks a five in the string.
“I thought it was purple when you were down the bar. I see it’s red now, must be the light.”
Strawberry groans as if in orgasm. “It’s unh spots make unh it look uhn funny Oooh.”
“Don’t you dance in the spots? It’s supposed to be strawberry, a logo, like. What good is it, when it doesn’t look strawberry under the lights?”
“Stop ragging on my pussy hair.” Her hands run up over breastwork, down her twisting body, pinching, tugging, stroking. “House rules is you both got to give me a damn five please, fast, clients might just possibly don’t want to see you interrupt me mid-fake-come? And the jerkoff boss, evil-eyeing every twitch to see is my heart in it. Don’t be assholes then.”
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