Years ago that woman came into the bar, her three-inch stilettos clacking on the worn hardwood of Woody’s floors. She wore a Veronica Lake peek-a-boo, dark brown and thin flat lips that never smiled, not once, even when she was being serviced by the men in the bar. She’d go over to them, look them in the eye, put a hand on their crotches, and say, “Come with me,” or “Get lost, sucker.”
The guys in Des Moines ate it up. She’d walk out the bar, her stilettos leading the way with the puppy dog in her trail, go back to his place, screw his brains out, and then leave – not even saying goodbye. And somehow, a week or so later, she’d walk back into the bar, pick out another, and it’d start again.
Until she met Johnny, poor Johnny with a mild overbite which she took for being good at fellatio. So the story we all heard was this. She’s riding him on top, starts slapping him, telling him to hit her hard, real hard like he means it, and then in comes this other guy with a gun, they fight, and Johnny ends up shooting the guy.
Johnny was the last one she had. After that, we heard she went back to Chicago or something like that. Johnny spent five years in hard labor.
And me? I had a small dick, so I stayed out of it.
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