whither they goest go the ass wigglers.
so its a conference of women, and the point is that this particular
event occurred because a lot of tough shining new women have demanded this and that, like men not going inside them at will, either naked or with instruments, to tear them up, knock them up, beat
them up, fuck them up, etc. and suddenly, the ladies have crawled
out of the woodwork, so I go to pee in the classy lounge where the
toilets are, and one of the ass wigglers doesnt talk to me. I mean, Im
peeing, shes peeing, so who the fuck does she think she is. so the line
is drawn, but its been drawn before, in fact its been drawn right
across my own goddam flesh, its been drawn in high heeled ladies
boots trampling over me to get into print. I mean, I cant make a living. the boys like the ass wigglers.
so I work you know. I mean, I fucking work, but theres work I
wont take on, like certain kinds of ass wiggling at certain specific
moments, the crucial moments, like when the male editor wants that
ass to move back and forth this way and that, as a result, I am what
is euphemistically referred to as a poor person. I am ass breaking
poor and no person either, a woman is what I am, a hisser, a goddam
fucking poor woman who stays goddam fucking poor because she
doesnt fuck various jerks around town.
its the white glove syndrome, the queen must be naked except for
the white gloves, while hes fucking her raw she has to pretend shes
sitting with her legs closed proper and upright and while hes sitting
with his legs closed handing out work assignments she has to pretend shes fucking him until she drops dead from it. yeah its tough on her. its tougher on me.
I dont mean for this to be bitter. I dont know from bitter, its true
that morning fell flat on its ass and when morning breaks its shit to
clean it up. and I dont much like sleeping either because I have technicolor dreams in which strangers try to kill me in very resourceful ways, and its true that since the ass wiggler snubbed me in the toilet
of the ritzy hotel I get especially upset when I go to pee in my own
house (house here being a euphemism for apartment, room, or
hovel—as in her own shithole which she does not in any sense own,
in other words, where she hangs her nonexistent hat) and remember
that the food stamps ran out and I have $11. 14 in the bank, bleak,
Arctic in fact, but not bitter, because I do still notice some things I
particularly like, the sun, for instance, or the sky even when the sun
isnt in it. I mean, I like it. I like trees. I like them all year long, no
matter what. I like cold air. Im not one of those complainers about
winter which should be noted since so many people who pretend to
love life hate winter. I like the color red a lot and purple drives me
crazy with pleasure. I chum inside with excitement and delight every
time a dog or cat smiles at me. when I see a graveyard and the moon
is full and everything is covered with snow I wonder about vampires,
you cant say I dont like life.
people ask, well, dont sweet things happen? yes, indeed, many
sweet things, but sweet doesnt keep you from dying, making love
doesnt keep you from dying unless you get paid, writing doesnt keep
you from dying unless you get paid, being wise doesnt keep you from
dying unless you get paid, facts are facts, being poor makes you face
facts which also does not keep you from dying,
people ask, well, why dont you tell a story the right way, you woke
up then what happened and who said what to whom. I say thats shit
because when you are ass fucking poor every day is the same, you
worry, ok. she had brown hair and brown eyes and she worried,
theres a story for you. she worried when she peed and she worried
when she sat down to figure out how far the SI 1. 14 would go and
what would happen when it was gone and she worried when she took
her walk and saw the pretty tree, she worried day and night, she
choked on worry, she ate worry and she vomited worry and no matter
how much she shitted and vomited the worry didnt come out, it just
stayed inside and festered and grew, she was pregnant with worry,
hows that? so how come the bitch doesnt just sell that ass if shes in
this goddam situation and its as bad as she says, well, the bitch did,
not just once but over and over, long ago, but not so long ago that
she doesnt remember it. she sold it for a corned beef sandwich and
for steak when she could get it. she sold it for a bed to sleep in and it
didnt have to be her own either, she ate speed because it was cheaper
than food and she got fucked raw in exchange for small change day
after day and night after night, she did it in ones twos threes and
fours with onlookers and without, so she figures shes wiggled her ass
enough for one lifetime and the truth is she would rather be dead if
only the dying wasnt so fucking slow and awful and she didnt love
life goddam it so much, the truth is once you stop you stop, its not
something you can go back to once its broken you in half and you
know what it means. I mean, as long as youre alive and you know
what trading in ass means and you stop, thats it. its not negotiable,
and the woman for whom it is not negotiable is anathema.
for example, heres a typical vignette, not overdrawn, underdrawn,
youre done yr days work, fucking, youre home, so some asshole man
thinks thats his time, so he comes with a knife and since hes neighborhood trade you try to calm him down, most whores are pacifists of the first order, so he takes over yr room, takes off his shirt, lays
down his knife, thats yr triumph, the fuck isnt anything once the
knife is laid down, only the fuck is always something, you have to
pretend that you won. then you got to get him to go but hes all comfy
isnt he. so another man comes to the door and you say in an undertone, this fuckers taken over my house, so it turns out man 2 is a hero, he comes in and says what you doing with my woman, and it
turns out man 2 is a big drug dealer and man 1 is a fucking junkie,
so you listen to man 1 apologize to man 2 for fucking his woman, so
man 1 leaves, guess who doesnt leave? right, man 2 is there to stay,
so he figures hes got you and he does, and he fucking tries to bite you
to death and you lie still and groan because you owe him and he
fucking bites you near to death, between yr legs, yr clitoris, he fucking bites and bites, then he wants breakfast, so once you been through it enough, enough is enough.
ah, you say, so this explains it, whores hate men because whores
see the worst, what would a whore be doing with the best, but the
truth is that a whore does the worst with the best, the best undress
and reduce to worse than the rest, besides, all women are whores and
thats a fact, at least all women with more than $11. 14 in the bank,