Willie Smith

by Horror Sleaze Trash on June 5, 2011

For Annette Haven

In sheer blouse,
high heels, nylons and
skimpy skirt disclosing
the moving wonder of her thighs,
she shakes henna hair
over a shoulder
and gets into the black chrome Lincoln
that drives off

to flash up to a California mansion.
The chauffeur with so much class opens the door,
before she swings out and the sun
spits her sunglasses and her lipstick
and she shakes
henna hair and walks
toward the mansion and the camera
adores her nylons
as high heels click on sun-drenched pavement.

And inside that lovely California mansion, surrounded by eucalyptus
and Norman Rockwell caricatures and a high oak-panelled high high ceiling,
clothes gone, disappeared in a heap, gone somewhere off stage –
totally nude, with a tiny little gold chain
around her waist and red polish on her toenails
and purple polish on her fingernails,
she fingers herself in a mirror
while the audience, hand in pants,
bogs in lust never wanted ended


I have been sitting inside the theater for forty-five minutes and still have my coat on. When I came in I was so anxious to start looking at the screen that I forgot to remove my coat.
I don’t want to start taking it off now, because somebody, maybe one of the burly crewcut drunks behind, will notice and think I am getting carried away.
It is getting damn hot. On the screen five or six young men and women are balling frenziedly.
It’s too late. I can’t take it any longer. I start taking off my coat.
Nobody takes his eye off the screen.



Johnny Choad, the last of no less than five stars, unloads. Wags off a drop. Steps from view.
Jenna, from the sofa, smiles up through a mask of jiggly semen at, less than ten erections from her lips, the lens: “Would you like to come, too?”
We flatter ourselves she addresses each individual in the multi-million man audience. But, when the image shimmies, realize she means instead the jerk behind the camera. Which hurts. Yea though the lechery intensify.
She chuckles, bubbling. Fade to credits.
Of the fate of the cameraman’s wad we never learn.

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