Fucked In A Motel While Raining Outside mp4
"I'm serious, pal, and get your ass in gear." I snapped my fingers at him, "Twelve bottles of wine, fifteen thousand bucks, ca-ching! Move it!" He moved it. "Speaking of ass in gear," I pulled out my phone, hit redial, "Where's my hooker?" Just coming in the door." Cool."I waved my hand and I guess they must have been able to spot me because I had a steak hitting the table in front of me and a the guy and his girlfriend across from me saying thanks and a very uptight FBI agent that I'd run across in my travels once before showing up at my table with three very attractive and well build and well dressed women accompanying the Federal Agent."Hi Amy, how's tricks?" I asked the agent."Red." She acknowledged me and ignored my joke. "This is what you asked for."I stood up from the table like a gentleman. "Ladies." The blonde is Ashley, the brunette is Bridget and the red head is..." Let me guess. Charlene?" She laughed a delightfully musical note of grace."No, actually, my name is. The tiles, once white, are now green with mildew fed from the fetid water and decorated with thick rusted needles. He left. Fine he left. Said it was my fault. I agreed. But only to him. I can’t blame myself. There was more to it than that. So much more. But that’s the way it goes. He’s over and done with me and I sit here rotting. Waiting for the scar tissue around the hole in my mind (where all of the things I believed about him have been distorted, warped, changed and ripped out) to harden. Waiting for the scars across my torn fingerprints to close and fade into one of the many lines that say so much without speaking. He worked his way into my fingerprints. Fingerprints do change. They are lives. You can read a fortune upon them and, if you follow the curves, distinguish individual pain. Fingerprints burn and cry and bleed longer, harder than eyes ever could. I wash them daily, my scars and fingerprints. Caress them. Sometimes I see him. Just long enough that he can thrust.
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