the Bucky Four-Eyes Cotillion

Thursday, March 08, 2007

Whoreville Redenbacher

It's hard for a working girl to shuck off the greasy, well-used condom of her past and strive for something better, something nobler, something far removed from swallowing sausage and spitting spooge. In some cases, it's her heart that holds her back, for she was meant to be a whore, and deep down, right next to her IUD, she knows it. Sometimes, it's the money that keeps her saggy ass on the streets - it's hard to say "no" to cash up front, even if it is only two dollars at a time. Tax free, that adds up after a few months, you know.

Me? I stayed in the game for too long because I was terrified of one fierce pimp named Livey.

Livey the pimp
Fo' shizzle.

When I first moved to Illinois, Livey saw me coming a mile away (although, with her one eye, she wasn't quite sure from which direction I was approaching) and hurried to greet me and offer me her "benevolent" protection. Being the tender young whore that I was, I was flattered by the attention and her seeming kindness to a stranger in town. She made me feel special, and even though I knew I wasn't the only girl turning tricks on her behalf, I was certain that Livey and I had something different together, a deeper spiritual understanding that transcended the roles of a jizz-spattered hooker and her sponsor.

I guess I should have known better, especially the first time she bitch slapped me when I only brought home three fiddy for the entire night. She's just stressed out, I told myself. A pimp's got a lot on her mind. But the slapping started to happen more often, and I started to see less and less of Livey when she wasn't there to collect her money and/or bitch slap me. I continued to deceive myself until the night I came in early from my shift (it's always prudent for a girl to come in off the street when she can't feel her own labia anymore) and found Livey making a bunch of familiar promises to some new whore in town, plying her with high-octane catnip and Mogen David. Dejected, I made up my mind right then that I needed to get out of the game and free from the clutches of the vicious little tortoise-shell pimp.

Easier said than done. When Livey caught wind of my plans to fly the cooze coop, she cornered me in my room and let it be known in no uncertain terms that her lack of front claws would not prevent her from cutting me open like a whore-shaped Jiffy Pop bag.

Serious about that two dollars

For a few more weeks, I stayed on to work, terrified of what might happen if I disobeyed Livey. You don't really know fear until you've had a flatulent one-eyed cat hold a straight razor to your throat. Essentially, I was her slave at that point.

So what happened? How did I get to Michigan without incurring the pimp's wrath?

Well, truthfully...I don't think Livey actually knows I'm gone yet.

I knew that leaving a dangerous thug like Livey would require a cunning plan and some inside help. Secretly, I amassed a huge stash of the most potent catnip available on the grey-striped market, and I recruited several confederates within the organization to make sure that Livey was kept 'nipped up enough pass out. Anytime she would wake up, she would be told it was the same day, and then given enough 'nip to fall into a pimp's slumber again. The night I left, I knew it would arouse suspicion if I carried a suitcase or boxes of any kind, so I picked out a few of my most sentimentally valuable items (of course, that includes the rhinestone bicycle) and tucked them into my rectum for safekeeping. Then I fled, ran like the wind, put the pedal to the metal, vamoosed.

For all I know, Livey still thinks it's February 20th and is completely unaware that I haven't brought her any money in weeks. Just the same, it'll be a while before I stop looking over my shoulder, jumping out of my skin every time I see a tortie perched in someone's window. I hook in disguise now, fearing that Livey will find me and fuck me up. Do you have any idea how hard it is to turn tricks while wearing a Groucho nose and glasses? Kids, stay in school - don't end up a paranoid, pussy-whipped whore like me. If my cautionary tale can save even one of you from a fate similar to mine, I'll feel like all of this was somehow worth the trouble, worth the agony, worth the heartache.

Now, can someone please help me get this wingback chair out of my ass?

8 of you felt the overwhelming need to say somethin':

Blogger here today, gone tomorrow said...

I am not worthy of haunting your blog.

6:53 AM, March 09, 2007  
Blogger thatfarmgirl said...

Are you on something? More importantly, can I please have some of it? Bucky, you have CLEARLY missed your calling.

10:49 AM, March 09, 2007  
Blogger Squirl said...

Bucky's been a story-teller all of her life. She's a natural.
Only the Photoshop is new.

3:13 PM, March 09, 2007  
Blogger greatwhitebear said...

pimp kitties, diarea bags, filling Circus Kelli's van with taco bell farts... God, you are a sick woman!

Would you marry me?

5:31 PM, March 09, 2007  
Blogger Mike said...

This really does give a whole new meaning to the term pussy-whipped, doesn't it?

Man, I hope no one ever gets an IUD and IED confused. That would be ugly.

8:28 PM, March 09, 2007  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

It never ceases to amaze me the life lessons I click away from this site with.

"it's always prudent for a girl to come in off the street when she can't feel her own labia anymore" is the finest bit of etiquette I've ever heard.

I'm just waiting for your version of The Rules to come out.

8:09 AM, March 10, 2007  
Blogger Unknown said...

Wow, Bucky. Just... wow.

11:08 AM, March 11, 2007  
Blogger eclectic said...

I want a disco (eye)ball like that! You know how many parent-teacher conferences I could totally eff up with one of those? *heh*

4:21 PM, March 12, 2007  

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