As some of you have probably, by now, come to realize, I’m a dedicated word-whore. I love the damn things so much that I’ll give them away to any Tom, Dick or Sherry in public, at noon, in the town square—with or without protection—no matter who is watching (or reading, as it may be).
“Hey, Bub, I’ll give you a fiver for a non-fiction-quickie…”
“Save your money, sailor, it’s no good with me… come over here behind the dumpster and unzip your journal.”
While it’s true that my words probably aren’t as pretty as Emily Dickinson’s or as shapely as James Michener’s, they usually satisfy in that special way that you can’t get just anywhere on the street, and certainly not at my price. They come from that special part of the body that lies inside the experience, they’re the motion in my ocean, that special move that makes you want to cry out and always leaves you wantin’ more. Yea, baby, who’s your daddy, now?
So, being the aficionado that I’ve become, I have also learned from my brothers and sisters-in-crime, those purveyors of prose, who (like me) tempt their johns with the sweetness of verisimilitude heightened by the profound passion born on the edge. Want to laugh while she pleasures you? No problem… just stroll by her pad and she’ll tell you all about her “feminine loins more fuck-me-Elvis humid than a friendly, thousand-island plastered grin”, Brief Es’pinachons to her weebles, and Sloppy Chicken Sex… and that's less than twenty-four hours worth of production.
Now I ask you… what could be better than that? Oh, and while you’re there, tell Amuirin that Bubba sent you and she’ll berate you in a manner that even your long-lost ex-lover could never bring into sway. Go check her out… I promise she won’t waste your time with hollow promises-- just don't expect a discount. And if you like what you see (and I don’t think that’ll be a problem), let her know about it— she may just lay a little extra sumpin’-sumpin’ on ya.