The Jimmy Choo Blues
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 Jesse Rawlins
 Jesse Rawlins
The Jimmy Choo Blues
by Jesse Rawlins  FollowFollow
Addicted to tawdry tales that sometimes make her blush, Jesse's trying to craft her own. Despite it’s scantily-clad acclaim, her more published story (When the Pheromones Dance) was not so well-received by her mortified Catholic mother. Fearing mother’s wrath, Jesse fled to the nation’s Capital—and securing White House Press Credentials—covered Science & Technology Policy during the Clinton Administration. But buoyed by Lewinsky Lewdness, Jesse suddenly spiraled into a life of prostitution … and spent six orgiastic-years pretzling for Corporate America. While some of Jesse’s stories get treated like used tampons— publications like Red Fez, the Flash Fiction Offensive, and flash-zine Shotgun Honey have graciously published her work. Her back bent from writing smut, the author now resides in the U.S. Poverty Level (but fortunately not below-it). You can learn more here:
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Issue 104 · fiction
bizarro ·  
The Jimmy Choo Blues
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The Jimmy Choo Blues

My Swiss Gucci watch read midnight—

I felt just like a pumpkin. My body round-n-plump. My insides wet and squishy. The parted-smile I’d worn all night—splitting my frozen face in two—like a hellish dose of Botox.

The DJ hopped. The music popped: and dazzling colored lights pulsed across the floor.

I leaned my virgin ass against a beastly throbbing Yamaha (that had to weigh eighty-pounds). The innervating reverb made me feel more wanton … as I downed my dozenth Cosmo.

But like every other night in lusty Santa Monica … all the guys ignored me: even though I wore my spankin’ deep-blue Jimmy Choos. Those sleek thousand-dollar booties—which sport the ultra-modest four-inch fuck-me heels. And the studded ankle-collars … designed to slyly prolong foreplay (assuming the shoes come off).

Tossing appearances to the wind, I crunched a cheek ballooned with ice … a pathetic attempt to cool my multiple frustrations. When the remnants easily slid down my moist-and-willing throat, I knew I lacked the energy … to play this burdensome game till closing.

And rather than call a cab—

I flipped caution a middle finger.

Five blocks from my place—you stepped out of that alley ….

I suspect you’d ducked inside to have yourself a pee. But unlike the way I would’ve … you didn’t look self-conscious. And instead of staying put, you followed me down the street.

When I crossed over you did likewise. Each time I stopped … then so did you—

I crossed over once again … and again … you then crossed, too.

Tingles climbed my spine. Regardless of your intentions: the imagined thrill of being wanted was almost more than I could bear.

I paused outside my door … feeling almost breathless. I could tell you’d closed the distance—

But suddenly you halted.

I almost screamed in anguish. And let myself inside.

I planted those Choos behind a window—

And yanked aside the curtains.

Basking beneath a streetlight you boldly stared at me.

And much to my surprise … I boldly stared right back.

Neither of us tired—

So after fifteen comfortable minutes …. I opened the door—

And called you in.

Ten years melted like milk chocolate: left in the summer sun.

Until that wretched winter day ….

I denied what I had witnessed—

At what I’d seen with mortified eyes ….

And to erase that gruesome horror: I tried drinking myself blind.

Of course that didn’t work …. Now I’m totally fucking angry—you stupid bloody turd.

For ten contented years you happily shared my bed. So each time I tried to sleep, your constant memory plagued me: like an unholy horde of bed bugs. To dispel those creepy-crawlies I had to buy a new one.

Headboard. Mattress. Foundation. Footboard. They all had to go.

Still that wasn’t enough to dispel your wicked curse.

Sheets. Comforters. Pillows. Shams.

I burnt ALL in our backyard: to repel the dastardly devils—you likely left behind on purpose.

You cold selfish prick.

This morning I held your funeral.

Now in case you haven’t noticed ….

My virgin ass and I are braving rabid torrential rain—

Easily ruining these old-blue yet sadly-sexy Jimmy Choos.

I’m not mad at you anymore. I’m totally depressed.

But I’m not the only crying person in this regal cemetery. The sobbing girl three headstones down … has also lost her cat—

Under the uncaring thumping tires of a violently screeching car.

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross claims I’ve got one stage left in this god-damned grieving process …



  3 weeks ago
Thank you kindly, Leopold for time and attention you devoted to reading and Liking this story!

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