Black hair pours down her neck and pools around her shoulders and the back of the velvet sofa. Her bangs are a severe chop--like an Egyptian. She's unconscious, but her heavily shadowed lids are not totally shut, revealing thin crescents--slits of white that match the powder rimming her nostrils. How someone can sleep after snorting that much shit is beyond me. The pristine-ness of her snow rimmed nostrils is broken by a small trickle of blood. I stare, hypnotized, as the blood works its way down over her lips and then to her chin.
She stirs a bit and murmurs something about one of my tits being larger than the other. This catches me off guard--is she interested in me? I hadn't had any lesbian feelings since I've been with The Wiz, but the suggestion of her interest makes my gash moist thinking about hers. I unsnarl the piece of surgical gauze from my brassy pony-tail and use it to wipe the blood off her face.
This tender moment is interrupted when I hear someone fumbling with the lock to the apartment. Startled, I drop the blood-stained gauze into the pile of coke. The Wiz is back and he looks surly. "What are you two bitches up to now?" he demands. I examine his face before answering: it's been days since I've seen him, and the fungal growth of a new beard obscures the precision of his Star Trek side-burns. "Are you dykes hittin' the coke again?" he snorts in disgust. I stammer: "Be cool, Wiz honey, I can explain." "Shit, bitch. I keep on fucking telling you: It's "Mark" not "The Wiz". You make me sound like a fucking pimp or something." Suddenly something in me snaps. The Wiz has been rough with me before, and I usually like it. But today is the wrong day. "Fuck off, Geo-Boy" I shriek, and then I punch him in the chest. Hard. Hard enough to break a nail. He goes down like a sack of shit. He lands on his ass and his head flops forward into his lap. I expect him to come back up, 'cuz now he's droning on about the moon's crust being stratified. "No it's not!" I yelp and kick him in the ribs with one of my chrome tipped stilettos.
The Egyptian regains consciousness. The sight of The Wiz in a heap makes us both frisky. We've been HIS sex slave for too long. Tonight is girls' night. We strip and lick each other's smooth hairless crotches for several hours, all the while that academic heap of shit remains unconscious. I hold the Egyptian in my arms and stare at the huge poster of the moon Wizzy has on his wall. Maybe he's right, I think to myself.
Maybe the crust is stratified.
(c) 1997 Pete Mandik
