Sin Hellcat

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I saw Jodi again the other day. She’s a whore now making twelve thou a year, doing quite well at it. I remember, way back in college days, thinking to myself, now, Jodi’s not the marrying type. There stands (or sits or lies prone) a career woman if there ever lived one. It was nice to know I’d been right, and that she was doing so well.

She offered me some, no charge of course, for old time’s sake, but I just couldn’t get into the mood. I mean, it would be like taking free legal advice. I mean, it’s the girl’s profession.

So we sat around at her place — lovely little apartment in a hotel on Lexington Avenue — and talked over old times together, college days and what happened to so-and-so, and what we’ve both been doing since, and we both got a little smashed on Scotch — a bottle of Vat 69 given her by one of her admirers for some symbolic reason or other.

It had been ten years since I’d seen Jodi, and Lord how she’d changed! Those huge soulful dark eyes were even deeper and more level and piercing than they’d been when she was twenty-one and could still remember back to the loss of her virginity. And her body had filled out very nicely — lovely surging breasts and firm hips and the kind of solid thighs that can constrict a man if he doesn’t watch himself — the inevitable result, I suppose, all that filling out, of her constant activity. She’d had two more abortions since last we’d met, she told me, making a grand total of three, and the unlicensed fraud who committed (I can’t say performed) the third one slipped a bit, and now dear Jodi can rest assured that there will never be opportunity or necessity for a fourth.

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