Some drunk guy called me late one night in a mutual friends kitchen.
Moving in closer, eyes wild in the reflection of my own, he said,
“Suck my cock, Blondie Beeeaatch!”
Placing a hand on my shoulder, pushing firmly, nodding towards his crotch.
“Suck my cunt first then.” I said,
raising an eyebrow, almost bored, without missing a beat.
“YOU’RAAAaaaaaa CUNT!” he spat,
and I stood:
still, smirking, staring him square in the face.
Eyeing me up and down, he grit his teeth, he bit his lips,
“Will you suck my cock Puuuuuhleeeeeze!?”
His words like grunts, forced through cigarette breath.
If nothing else, I knew, he was way too wasted to get hard anyway;
making his request really kind of funny,
laughable, cute, emasculating.
“Hmm, not today.” I shrugged,
twirling my long blond hair, taking another swig of my whisky mixed drink.
“Can’t say I wont ever, but not today.”
Our friend, effeminate in a silk floral robe,
was bent in half laughing, cackling at this, he loves a show.
“Will you suck my cunt tomorrow?”
“Well, I don’t know now do I…” he snarled.
“Right, so, if we see each other tomorrow, we can discuss it.”
“He really respects you.”
the friend said later, earnest.
I laughed at this too.
I know that sometimes, to some people, in some states,
I’m nothing but a mouth and a cunt, hair and lips and legs;
and to them I say, suck it.