Heat-Stroke
Lust walks coolly by as you step from the corner onto the street, her
denim-clad legs rasping against each other with each strutting
step, her beaten Adidases moving in perfect rhythm.
Her broad hips slide and slope, and the line of her breasts
pushes against the tautness of her t-shirt; her hair
bounces in its sleek ponytail. She is short, with fierce eyes and a large
ass,
and everything about her is the air of tightness, the air of sirens, the
praying
mantis queen. She looks at you, her eyes meeting your like hookers
meeting a John, the clean shaven one in a charcoal-gray suit
with a briefcase in his hand-
(hungry gropings in the backseat of your dad's Volvo with the redhead
whose name you don't remember going down on your wife before she was your
wife in the master bedroom during your boss's Christmas party driving down
that dark street to paypaypay to be tied up and spanked by one of the
underaged girls in satin and fishnets masturbating into your mother-in-
law's fishtank)
- and she dismisses you.
She passes you with a grin that makes young boys pitch erections
and prepubescent girls squirm uncomfortably in their panties, and you
feel crest-fallen, and there's nothing to be done about it.