“I could never tell my coworkers about my weekends,” he chuckled to himself as he slipped on the second glittery gold platform heel. He was careful with his nails as he fastened the strap. His hair was perfect. The night was his.
He watched himself walking toward the mirror, coming to a stop nose to nose with himself, a smirk painting his glittering gold lips. “It’s a shame, really.”
“Do I look pretty, Judy?” His wife had given up long ago and in secret followed his fashion advice. In some ways she had a girlfriend. Still. She wanted a husband… “It’s a shame, really.”
“Exactly” he exclaimed, tearing himself from the mirror with a flourish of his draping silk blouse. He squeezed Judy’s cheeks between his palms, his acrylics shying away from contact. “They’d adore me, wouldn’t they! How couldn’t they!”
With Sherry on his breath and Cher on his mind, he sauntered toward the door. “Have a good night, my love! See you in the morning!” He slid into the limo and told the driver the way to the first stop, to pick up supplies, as he poured a glass of champagne.
The cab pulled up in front of a dilapidated motel. His heels were first to hit the pavement. He stood up with an easy poise, strolled across the empty parking lot and rapped his nails on a door stained with the number 9, the metal fixture long since removed. “Get your ass outta bed, Benny!”
Benny woke up to anxious tapping. He immediately felt sick. How long had it been? “BENNY!” Fucking shit, it won’t stop until I answer it. Fucking Charlene. Dude, thinks he’s chick. Whatever, it’s not gay if they pay you to suck your dick. Plus, he’s good at it…
“About damn time,” Charlene said, glancing down at Benny’s tight briefs. He shook his head and wiggled across the room. “I don’t know how you waste your day like this, Benny. It’s 9 o-fucking-clock. P.M.”
His coke-covered dick sparkled like a unicorn horn. Charlene licked the residue of the last line off Benny’s quivering, smaller-than-average penis. Charlene slipped the two red bags into the lining of her sequined purse and left without saying goodbye.
The driver glared angrily into the back seat, anxious to get the whore out of his cab. She gave him an address and set to fixing her make-up in a compact. “Take it easy on the bumps,” she said, laughing hysterically a moment later as she grasped around frantically in her bag to check her stash.
Her swagger into the club swayed with the energy of that last limo bump. She felt better than she looked, but her saunter didn’t know it. She swam in the disco colors and bobbed to the boy across the room. She had her prey. From a forced distance, the dance floor was a desert, the boy a starving child, and she a hovering vulture. Her wings cocked, she bounced to the music.
Here’s what she really looked like: her stilettos slipped constantly on the alcohol-slicked floor, her wig barely clung to the patchy black hair underneath, the sweat on her brow caked her make-up unnaturally around her eyes. When she clumsily thrust her hip against his thigh, the boy could make out a faint trail of white powder dripping from Charlene’s nose. “Dad?” he said.
The silence on that ride home was golder than Charlene’s handbag.
This piece was created by Chase Springer and Alexander Tague through an exquisite corpse type game where they passed lines back and forth between each other. Alexander started it and Chase ended it. Sexy is back…
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