The whore

Along the side, stood a silhouette of an adorned wearer of wire-like clothes, if you ask me the plain look of the actress is a little like boredom and the little cotton threads clinging onto the silhouette speaks stories; Stories never told by the red-carpet girl, who wears the silk of a renowned gay problematic dresser. The silhouette moves and dances as the actress, flashing for the lights, bright white and light green streaks which catch them for the immortality pleasure.

One little shot worth a few hundreds, a little to none work, do as the man pleases and go home for the night with teary eyes, shaky legs and drenched in sweat, exhausted with memories of brushing and kissing men and women in the cheeks.

Slump after the night, weakened shoulders, dry pat the wet clumsy stick on the teeth ridges, tasting the bitter litter of the buffet.

They never specify the time and date, just be ready on a short notice. The man switches up them leading the lady into the night and emerging with the silhouette half an hour later. Some speak, some swallow, some spit but none open their white lie mouth in the area where tabloid and center page of the magazine is made. Then the silhouette is traded in the street, this time it blows.

The actress is a transaction into tomorrow’s work and paid in fame and riches while the prostitute is paid instant with regret and green. The silhouette stands, wipes and leaves the back door waiting for the next guy to fill her pussy and hand her green to keep her wailing child at rest.