Red Room Where the Writers Are

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There was nothing else to do but satisfy the skinny, creepy poontang for the third and last time. On his bed the bitch Sandy had cut Jimmy and herself above their genitalia then stuffed his lanky, half-soft piece inside of her wetness. What was she thinking? He hated blood stains on his Hilfiger sheets. Besides, Jimmy was sloshed and cranked-up, a type of reservoir dog in heat. Getting hard again was impossible. Splashing three times with one condom was a gangbanging train headed for the wash. He knew it was overkill but he couldn’t resist.

Jimmy was underneath and a puppy in the arms of the true romance woman. However beautiful she was, and whatever her arrogance suggested, he still had poppy flour for brains while yielding to her sexual suggestions. Facebook foreplay was Jimmy’s game over the Internet, and he had recently met three anxious, lonely women using it. Sandy wasn’t one of them. In the Sheets to the Wind bar, she bought him a Heineken and offered to massage his life. He accepted but only after sharing white dust off the cuff.

It felt like rose bush thorns tearing up his nose, with soft springtime surging through his veins, Jimmy’s time and spring pumped in his chest when the knife blade plunged into his jugular vein. He grabbed Sandy’s wrists and snickered, wondering what the game was until, her words, we’re now blood lovers gushed through his mind; and he had swallowed his last breath.