#5229 - Fall 1989 It was the bleak end of fall, days before the cold would soon wrap its icy fingers around the banks of the missippi, so the misfit street punks I was living with now, would have to huddle closer over bottles of rot gut whiskey. Irene grabbed a handful of my hair, pulled me up on to all fours and smacked my ass with a belt, I yowled, and she laughed. Irene flipped me over so I was ass up, in a sort of doggy style, she tugged of my clothes, my ripped fishnets, yanked of my docs even though they were only half unlaced, those she threw into some dark corner.
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