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From: "ovids meta" <ovidsmeta@hotmail.com>
Subject: Stop it (part 2)
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"All set," she said, closing the door behind her. She turned around and
smiled at us, shrugging, her eyes squinting from the glare of the low
spring setting sun. "Well?"
Sue. Sue. It never failed. I didn't want to stare at the poor kid and
looked through the window of the small shop she'd ten seconds ago
closed. Lovely flowers. So many colors. I laughed to myself, could
see Sue walking in every morning to get some exotic specimen for her
office, chatting with the kid, engaging her, making her think she was
critical to Sue's well-being, feeling her out. Beautiful flowers,
wonderful smell. What? Fuck. I shook my head, marvelling at Sue's
impeccable taste. Mid-twenties, married, a little grungy, somewhat
spoiled, undoubtedly happy, intelligent and built. Firmly built. I
could tell by her shoulders. Powerful. The kid could take a pounding.
Sue. Sue.
"Come on," Sue said, locking the kid's arm with her own. "I want to go
somewhere special."
The kid grinned, sheepishly pointing to her jean jacket and light blue
dress. "I'm a little informal so . . ."
"Nonsense," Sue interrupted. "You're heaven on earth." They started
walking arm in arm and Sue turned to me, bringing up the rear. "Don't
you think so darling?"
Beautiful asses. So very different. One long and narrow, the other
full and . . .
"Darling?"
"Yes, my love," I responded, slowly. "The child is a creation of divine
inspiration. Divine."
They two asses laughed, one jiggling, they other swaying.
****
"Oh, come on. Don't you taste the strawberries?"
The poor dear shook her head, her eyes glazed and reflecting the
candle-light from the table. I shook my head. What was the use? These
kids these days.
I was about to say something, but our pony-tailed waiter came by and
started clearing the table. Fag. Look at the cunts sitting with me,
asshole. Look at them. He saw me staring at him and threw a dazzling
smile at me. I wanted to cry. No. No. Dumbshit. I've got a hairy
ass. What are you going to do with that, for Christ's sake? Do you
know how tight that kid would be? Oh fuck. What the fuck. Kids these
days. I tried once more, pleading with him. Look at the bitches. He
turned away, uncomfortable. Fuck it.
Back to the red poison. I took another sip, slumped in my comfortable
chair, letting it caress my tongue and burn the back of my throat.
Idiot, child. It was there. So there. Big, juicy, red, dripping
strawberries. Oh fuck, I could feel their texture. I took another sip
and a different, subdued taste, the smell of wheat bread came up to my
nostril, tingling the hairs. I could do this all day.
Sue was watching me, rolling her eyes. "Give it a rest, already."
Give it a rest, you stupid, fuckin'. . .
The kid piped in. "What was it, again?"
"This," I said, taking the bottle in my hand and filling her glass a
little. "This is Lynch Bage. Pauillac. Eight-nine."
Sue shook her head. "It's a simple fifth growth and you're going to
water? What would you be doing if it were from the Domaine?"
"I would slit one of my wrists to purify my body for them."
"Maybe an enema would be better, darling," Sue said, turning again to
her prey.
They laughed.
Fuck you bitch. I took another fresh bottle and poured the crimson,
purple into a clean glass, handing it to the kid. This should be
interesting. "Try it," I grinned.
"No, really, I'm way too far gone."
"You'll break my heart. Please"
She laughed. Don't laugh. This is serious. She rudely raised the
glass. Slow. Slow. That's not a fruit drink for crying . . . She
closed her eyes and took a gulp. I wanted to cry. Slow. It was like
shitting on a Rembrandt. Slow. Oh God, that's like . . . Let it do the
work for you, baby. It's strong enough. Let it happen.
She opened her watering eyes wide. "Wow. That's . . . Wow."
I smiled, silent.
"Wow."
Sue laughed.
"Yes. That's right," I leaned forward, happy the kid had experienced it
for the first time. "It's massive, isn't it. Overwhelming. Better
than sex."
The two laughed.
"Oh, it is. Fuck . . . I'm sorry. You, my sweet, have just experienced
the sheer, audacious, monstrosity and joy that is Mouton. It shouldn't
exist, but it does. These two vineyards are almost like next door to
each other and look at the difference. It's . . ."
Sue kicked my on the shin. I turned to her. Fuckin' selfish bitch. Do
you want to get slapped? Don't smile at me. I'm here entertaining this
kid, lubing her up for your unwholesome plan and you kick me? Sue's
brilliant smile never left her face and she turned again to the kid, who
was watching us, a little concerned.
I ignored them, as they started talking about her husband, the graduate
student in history. The world ceased to exist around me, a blur, as I
poured myself a full glass of the charms of the life-giving Rothchild.
A toast, dear, beautiful friend.
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