[TW: Rape, Violence]
The city night is in front of you, the bar is behind you. The scent of gin and cheap perfume mixes with cigarette smoke from the trio by the bar’s door. Then there is you—your name isn’t particularly important, but you are a he—stumbling out of the bar, slicing between the semi-circle of smokers and onto the sidewalk.
You’re tipsy, not drunk. A five O’clock shadow clings to your face, giving you the appearance of a brooding poet. You’re not a poet. In fact, you hate poetry—you consider modern poems too pretentious. But this story is not about your personal literary criticism; this is a tale about you and everything that makes you you. I guess that includes your literary criticism, and your penis.
It is your penis—or rather, your bladder—that moves your story along its downward arc. Your climax comes before your story begins, back in a dark corner at the bar. The hand job from the waitress sends you over the brink. You are half afraid you’ll piss in her hand. Instead, you ooze white stuff and are safe from a different kind of embarrassment. But if you had peed then, your story would be different because you will not have to pee at the moment you near an alley.
Words = Life
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