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Unsuccessful Lady Pimp

So I met Virginia

and I left Virginia.


I figured I'd be Lady Pimpin.

I figured I'd be a Libertine,

 a Femme Fatale manhandling "cute" to make men suffer.

Oh I thought I was destined

to slaughter up a piece of dick

without blinking or thinking about it.

Rich political mercilessly sensitive egomaniacal dick at my distant leisure. What a treat. In theory... a fucking treat.


I was ready.

D.C.?

I was ready.

I had all the carnal knowledge older women had offered me during my time in the south. I had all the cynical hurt of an intelligent whore. I stretched. I ate nothing but pineapple. I was ready to destroy whoever I could with a switch of my hips. I told my heart to leave-fuck a fuck and leave the key on the table. I slammed the door shut.


But then, before I could grease up my hamboning machine,

I coped feelings. I did. I was with somebody and I coped feelings. My heart sat on my face with languid grace. Bitch doesn't quit. I'm having a hard-time talking on the phone.


Inconvenient feelings. Feelings that make it impossible for me to indulge in arbitrary sexual cruelty. I had prepared myself for ruthless delicious and detrimental fucking, in the name of revenge. Revenge that would probably wind up giving me a vengeful STD. Revenge that, in retrospect, makes absolutely no sense.


So now I'm very upset.

I'm kind of happy this asshole don't have an invisible deed to my pussy anymore.

But I just signed it over to someone else.

So I didn't even get a chance to wreck it myself.



Now I'm just a lady.

A grumpy bitch with an impending sense of doom and perky tits.


I am the worst lady pimp that ever lived.

I'll never be the madame of a Charity Brothel.

Not with my heart grinding its junk up in my mouth parts.

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