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Allison Floyd

"Cum fuck these sluts' hot holes!"

Winston knew that he contained great and beautiful things. To the world, he was a customer service puke. But he knew this to be strictly a matter of appearances.

"Tight wet pussy is waiting for you!"

Winston clicked on the screen with his cursor. He didn't find the images of women's splayed genitalia particularly titillating, in a sexual way. Such displays had long ceased to produce an erection in him. Yet, after a day of vomiting empty niceties at emptier faces, this part of his after-work routine was somehow infinitely satisfying to him, in a way that sexual release could never hope to be.

"These dirty whores are hungry for your cock!"

Without glancing in his direction, the manicured woman placed a well-used tissue in his hand. "This is garbage," she said, by way of explanation, and pulled out her cell phone.

"Thank you, Ma'am," said Winston.

"The youngest teens allowed by law want to gobble your cum!"

He couldn't define what it was, precisely, about the gutter vernacular and bent, prone, and spread-eagled young women that gave him solace. Empathy, perhaps? Regardless, it was the only thing that did. He had sought the counsel of a stripper during a lap dance.

She shrugged. "Maybe you feel like garbage," she said, and jiggled her ass.

"Our hot young hos crave your hard cock!"

"This is garbage," the gentleman said, into his leather briefcase.

"Thank you, Sir," said Winston.

But the man had already gone.


Allison Floyd, writer/poet/performer/recluse will probably not amount to much good. Hobbies include walking alone at night in dangerous areas and looking somber. Her work has/does/will appear(ed) in a number of small press publications, and appears online at Decompositions.

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