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Array
(
[sid] => 109069
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Lady's Room -
[time] => 2005-11-04 14:09:55
[hometext] => Jessica Holter, AKA Ghetto Girl Blue is Founder of The Punany Poets
[bodytext] => Towels for tips. It was a modest existence, but entertaining, to say the very least. Club life releases the beast... Carnality. The Lady’s Room was more like a lions den. A cage for malevolence, cattiness to masquerade itself in heavy perfume designer costume flawless coiffe intricately designed claws that could effortlessly remove prowling jealous eyes from their sockets stealing confidence from competitors like pick-pockets They came here to stand in my mirror pretending to powder their noses, Out tipping. Striking poses. Eliminating opposition. Loudly divulging secrets across stalls, I sold tampons, lip gloss, weed, roses mints, gum, and condoms in lockets, clocking duckets in buckets pretending not to really be there and not to care, but cleaning the floor as the least of them fall on to it covetous greed painfully desirous competition to win the affinity of the lionized male who hunts for felines who dare go toe to toe to win a night of sublime good times Cat fights are bloody creating wounds that cut deep into the soul where the heart pumps worthiness a measurable source of a temporary life that is defeated by the union of Mother Nature and Father Time whose hands are mighty, not to be placated by vanity They followed her into my office A pride of lions, boasting primping, preying, eliminating She could have been any one of them, frolicking about this diamond studded jungle where the meek die in the dust She was just a cub. Nervous. A little girl in The Lady’s Room of a club unprepared for this warfare, that was but a primal circus of lust. I found her sobbing and vomiting into the toilet squatting before it in the stall reserved for the handicapped She couldn’t understand how I knew that she was pregnant but confessed it through tears of regret I put the "out of order" sign on The Lady’s Room door Consoled her in discourse preparing her for this course a testament I said to the wonderment of motherhood, a gift for which catty ***** holds no merit Wiping her tears away, convincing her that she could bear it I picked her up off the floor and sent her home to prepare for her war It was a modest existence. Towels for tips. But every once in a while I gave them more. by Jessica Holter [comments] => 3 [counter] => 160 [topic] => 31 [informant] => GhettoGirlBlue [notes] => Edited for Language by Moderator [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 4 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => StoryPoetry )
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