Locker Room Talk
In one hand he held the pussy, and the pussy was moist.
With one hand he hooked the pussy. Did his chubby
hairy ring finger slip inside? Just for a second.
He was careful not to lose his wedding band
up there. Really the pussy should have been
better tended. It stunk like old cod, alewives,
salmon, tuna, whitefish, rotten trout, small mouth
bass, a bucket of putrid lobsters, the bottom
of the Mariana Trench, gefilte fish, the skin
behind a dead woman’s ear. The pussy was
such a miserable cunt. The pussy was a whore,
a slut, had clearly been finger-banged,
was common property, was hiding a wire
coat hanger. The pussy was relaxing in a bathtub.
It was a little bit bloody. He knew what the pussy
was doing in there, and it was disgusting.
Yes, there should be some punishment for the pussy.
He spanked the pussy. He dug his fingernails in.
He hadn’t even bothered to trim them.
He wanted to feel the pussy spasm in his hand,
like the heart of a rabbit bleeding out in the snow.
The pussy was too hairy. Have some decency.
The pussy was a hot piece of ass. The pussy
was a ten. The pussy was a four. Look at that pussy.
Would anyone vote for that? Can you imagine that,
the pussy of our next president? The pussy walks
in front of him, you know? And when the pussy
walked in front of him, believe me, he wasn’t impressed.