ALL YOU YOUNG
Dear Young Dude,
Or, as Tennessee Williams might put it,
“Young, young, young dude.”
Happy Birthday! Your post said you
were shit-faced, already. A Fireball shot for each year? Bull-shit. That’d be thirty,
and you’d be dead. Half that, you’d be in ICU.
Maybe less. . . .
Way ahead of you. By thirty years. All
you young dudes . . . Like in that Matt the Hoople song. Before your time.
And mine? Stop thinking aching joints, saggy jowls. Think thirty
more years of getting fucked, and doing fucked-up things.
That weirdo Lars, who swung both ways?
Who made the fetish porn movies? Pregnant bitches sitting on balloons, smoking?
What we did, back then, would make your skin crawl. Your smooth, powdered baby
Thought how cool it’d be to fuck a bi guy. Like a Mick Jagger,
or some artsy-fart. Strap-ons, spiked urine cocktails. Some scat freak wanted
Lars’ latest smoking bitch to shit on him.
‘Cos I wouldn’t do it, Lars dumped me.
And Howie, that married guy, from
work. Always with a briefcase, like he was in Secret Service. But in that
briefcase was a sandwich, blindfold, and handcuffs.
One day at lunch, down the block, we found an old mattress in an
alley. As Howie munched on the sandwich (rare roast beef on rye), I sucked him
off, blindfolded, hands cuffed behind me. Wearing a pink leather miniskirt,
with glass on my knees.
“I fell,” I told Keith, my boss, about my bloody knees, and torn
hose. Sneaking off the freight elevator, I walked right into him.
Smirking, ‘cos that elevator was Keith’s and my secret spot.
Like the Talking Heads would say, I had some “Wild, Wild Life.”
Once, while visiting my brother Frankie, in that rural Christian
rehab, we both hooked up. Him, with the visiting organist’s son, me with Frankie’s
A dreamy-eyed felon, we fucked in their room, while Frankie and
the kid went off, somewhere.
Probably the woods. On lots of trees, scriptures were carved. No
matter how far you went, no matter how dark and scary the woods felt, another comforting
Bible verse showed up: “But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while
we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Romans 5:8.”
Yeah, we’re all sinners. But I fucked up anyone who got in my
Like that cute Spanish chick Howie hired. Mariah. Who snuck coke
on the ladies’ room sink right after Mariah left? So the bitch-in-charge would
Who called Howie’s house late at night, giggling when his wife
Who switched on the gas, in all the burners, in Lars’ kitchen? After
his power was shut off? Left him in a drunken stupor, with candles burning.
Before strangling young dudes at their request, I strangled some
who fought back.
But years of strength training paid off.
More than thirty.
Right now, that Fireball has burned up
your gut. Maybe the first shot did. But you trusted me, so you kept downing
them. You trusted me at your place.
After fucking me up. Twice.
One more: That was powdered bleach,
not aspirin, in my cheating husband’s coke. On our first anniversary, we were
alone, in a candlelit room.
Who’d ever believe I flunked
Cindy is a Jersey girl who looks like a Mob Wife & talks
like Anybody’s from West Side Story. She works out 5-6 days a week, so
needs no excuse to drink or do whatever the hell she wants. She’s been
published in the usual places, such as Shotgun Honey, Hardboiled, A
Twist of Noir, Megazine, Beat to a Pulp, Out of the Gutter, Mysterical-E,
Dark Dossier, and Twisted Sister.
She is the editor/art director of the ezine, Yellow Mama. She’s a
Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights activist.