POSTCARDS FROM THIS HOOKER

I stay in this shit dog motel twice a year with The Texan. This room has seen a lotof action, bullshit, and varying levels of hustle. Not just from myself. He’s been bringing local talent to this hole for a very long time. There’s been laughter, lube, and tears. As well as a gun in his mouth one very desperate night many moons ago. It’s also the first room I ever sucked his cock in while he was on the horn with his wife. We partied a lot harder back then. These days I’m hoping another chick is sucking his dick while he’s texting me. 

 

He yearns to revive those times, but I can’t and won’t—not to mention that none of my vices are having much effect on me these days. He can’t do the shit he did back then either. It takes a toll. Mortality is an interesting beast. I’m completely at peace with it, but his ego still aches for that “rockstar” status. Whatever. I’ve met and dated famous so-called rockstars, and guess what—I rarely (or never) say this sort of thing, but here goes—my not-trying life puts most musicians to shame.

 

 

 

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