STRIPPER
The braying cattle lack patience for
slow tease. I have a blue bikini top
and a G-String, cut for rapid release.
Down front sits a quiet one. He seeks my soul
as well as my snatch.. He gives a damn. He wants the archetypal whore with a
heart of gold. He hasn’t got a hope in Hell.
I dance
the gauntlet of grope, place his trembling hand on my breast, whisper thanks, and kiss his forehead.
Tits out, I throw my G string to the
trough-fodder and walk off.
The man
with a care won’t come back. They never do.
© Copyright. Arthur
Chappell
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