Bowling for Concubines

Yes I fell for a stripper. Oh my erotic professional rather. They made me feel okay with the world for just a smidgen of time. Smidgen time is the best. And lo when nothing else seemed to pique mine interest, the pretty lasses brought forth the charm and gregariousness out of the briny deep. Pallor returned to my cheeks. Cheeks ripe for the squeezing. Then they wouldn’t help no more, the lovely vision of a beautious dancer elicited nothing remarkable, no resonance came. Dark times at Hogwarts, snippy snape broods away brushing pretty petals away.

But this one, the Quebecois goddess. Tall, red hair, kind face, picture perfect for me. I like a simpleness to the femmes, no need for modesty but little amounts of painted face are right up my alley. Bowling for concubines. I affectioned her mainly because she reminded me so of sweet Melanie, the girl next door I never had. The married one with two kids who drew out the ether of my love and crushed it with reality. Not a homewrecker son.

I was all alone those days, I tired of everyone, no joyful rebellion, no atlantis, no exit. The women saw something in me I denied myself, so full of that acrid hatred of the self. Empty mirrors attached to fists. I indulged in vices from a safe distance, none of the harsh drugs or daredevil antics. This girl kept me sane in an insane world, or so I thought. Thoughts are what get ya. They slither and burrow in the mind and exact some unknown, malformed vengeance for no fathomable reason. So alone with my thoughts and scribblings of a madman poet, I wandered Toronto with fervor, fever and assortments of moods and personalities. Hobnobbing, gorging and purging, drinking and spending, freak off the leash heeding reckless. Devil may care, devil without a cause, rebel without pause, rebel make hair. My journey was scattered with experience and characters.


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