His balls were as small and hard as a snooker set as they collided with her bush, overgrown like a poor man’s yard. “Gordon,” she said, sharply. “Gloria,” he replied, stretching her name out like a ballerina’s limb. Later though after Gloria and Gordon tooth-baringly climaxed she went to the bathroom in his hotel room at the Marriot in Geneva. As she began to clean herself off, licking her own tits in front of the Helvetic mirror, milk squirting from her nipples to land like a Pollock on the reflective surface beyond which she caught her own pregnant hirsute Venus of Willendorf form, she noticed a brush wedged behind the courtesy shower cap.
Gordon was bald and the brush held, like a heartbeat, an incriminating hairball. It was blonde, the same shade as the hair of the hooker they had passed (though it looked more blonde lit by the fluorescent light than the seedy red bulb of the brothel’s threshold.) she realized that smile Gordon had given her wasn’t politesse; it was recognition. Crying she sat on the closed toilet seat. “All men are jerks,” she quietly sobbed as both her hopes for a future with Gordon and his own seed—evidence of a passion; a promisary note of passions to come—slid slowly down the cool porcelain of the toilet to rest, shimmering and rank, in a puddle on the bathroom floor.
Submitted by male musician, Bournemouth via Brooklyn.