Resurrection

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There is no wound whose pain cannot be salved by the soft touch of a beautiful woman.

For me, it’s more like a little bump-and-grind, beauty optional.

It’s a good thing I’m not picky because Candy, the little filly rubbing up on me like buttered toast, wasn’t gonna win any beauty pageants. Short and a little on the bony side, sporting a wild mane of greasy hair, which failed to cover the pockmarks on her face, she wasn’t exactly a model of attractiveness. But that’s okay. You can’t feel ugly in the dark.

Not that I was bashing her, or anything. I was still there, right?

We both understood it was a business transaction. We weren’t looking for love. I was just renting a good time from a woman who wouldn’t bat an eyelid when I broke out the vat of Jell-o and a snorkel. She didn’t care about my broken heart or want to hear how my day went. She wasn’t looking to be the next Mrs. Trigg. All she cared about was the big, hard bulge pressed tight against her sweaty little hand.

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