Today I want to tell you about Rubberlips.
I want to try to tell about the indeleteable memories of those moments in which , with just an offhand remark, she blew away the lives of scores of men; and about those vivid, haunting images of her cruelly perfect and supremely addictive body.
Rubberlips was not a woman like all the others.
In place of a heart she had an orgasm.
An open wound in place of the sex.
A scary scream in the deepest of her eyes.
No, Rubbberlips was not a woman like all the others.
Before kissing me she used to cut her lips with a razor blade, because she said she had to learn to fear me.
And when we made love she always insisted on paying me, because she said she had to learn to use me.
When she walked in the streets all men turned their heads to watch her passing by; and if in a crowded place some dirty old man would take advantage to touch her tighs, she would turn around and kiss him with passion, opening his trousers and pushing her hand inside; but she used to laugh on the faces of the many lovers who madly in love would tenderly attend to her every wish, showering her in flowers and precious presents and she always spat on the roses they were offering her.
She was as sweet as sharpened blade.
Beautiful as childhood memory.
Beautiful as no one other yet.
No, Rubberlips was not a woman like all the others.
(to be continued... maybe)