In despair over our recent split, you pick up a blacker than black prostitute on Morris Avenue in downtown near the train station after dropping off a friend at home.
The street walker has no teeth and says, "She ain't fuckin around," she's. . ."got kids to feed."
She promptly jumps in your vehicle and grabs your cock, groping, whistling, "You got the flava boy!"
I know this is true because you had a hidden micro cassette recorder in your shirt pocket and I don't know why you felt the need to record.
You pay for a motel room and bang her hard, calling her 'Gumby' all night. Then, seeing triple from the thirteen long island ice teas consumed earlier, you demand to take off the protective condom.
She complies, whole heartedly, high on crack that fucking stinks up the room and you function enough sexually at this point to blow a deep, loud, free-styled load in her dry pussy which I clearly hear as a human MEOW on the recorded playback.
In the morning, you awake feeling pretty damn good, considering. . .until you look across the expanse of cum spotted sheets and see her naked body covered with scabby, and some freshly oozing sores, probably ones rubbed off during bodily contact.
"Don't worry honey, that's just the poison ivy," she croaks groggily.
You run out crying, not even driving her home. After arriving shakily at our former home--sans underwear with the rough crotch-seam of your Levis mercilessly digging into your flaccid, tender dick--I find the unlabeled tape on the kitchen counter.
Later that night as we both sit motionless, benumbed in darkened rooms on opposite sides of our town, you think of the forgotten boxer-briefs and begin to worry about voodoo.
*(Author's note: Broken Hearts Are For Assholes is the title of a song by genius lyricist, Frank Zappa.)
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