This week's prompt is:
followed by this statement:
Some time ago Molly from Molly’s Daily Kiss and Sinful Sunday collaborated with Wubbs for the Breast Cancer Awareness month. Wubbs has approached me about spreading the cancer awareness during Movember. And of course, I definitely wanted to help. I let Wubbs speak:
We are coming to the end of Movember. Thousands of men around the world have spent the last month growing a moustache and now they will be considering: do I keep it or shave it? Movember is a month long awareness campaign to highlight men’s health issues, among them prostate cancer.Any positive awareness is a good thing. My collaboration with Molly and the Sinful Sunday meme for Breast Cancer Awareness was such a big success that I asked Marie, if she would be interested in collaborating with the If Just One Person Reads This cancer awareness project that I run. Once again someone will question why? I will always answer why not?Use this prompt as you would normally, this isn’t a prompt to write about cancer. Have fun with it!All participants of this week will be linked on the pimps page on Wubbs’s site. If you have a blog button, please make this known in your blog post, so Wubbs can copy it and place it on her site. If you do not have a blog button but would like to make one, then go to the Grab My Button generator. It works like a charm!
Let us know how you were inspired, tell us your stories. Help us spread the word about cancer awareness.
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To tell you the honest truth, I'm not completely sure what to say about this prompt...so I am going to write myself into a corner and stay there until I can behave. It could be a long night...really.
I must ask you a question,
but I'll save it for later,
after the last whispered mention
of the unrepentant satyr
has lifted into the air -
a dizzying array of rumors,
half-truths, but who cares?
Certainly not the whores
who hang suspended from his arms
like cheap costume jewelry -
a lipsticked collection of plastic charms,
fishnets and hairsprayed foolery.
They laugh as loud as his money talks,
smiling and licking their lips,
fingering his cuff-links and teasing his cock,
shifting their breasts and exaggerated hips.
He smiles too wide, exposing teeth
the size of dimes, an overdone black moustache
puffed up above his lips - underneath
an intrusive nose that seemed to bleed cash.
Their dresses, several sizes too small
and his suit, several sizes too big
look ridiculous, like caricatures or dolls
being sold like suckling pigs.
In their heels, the tower above him,
looking down at his greasy parted hair,
their hyena cackles and glassy eyes dimmed
by too much wine and not enough care.
The longer we look at him and his hired entourage,
the less we linger on ourselves.
So easy to let our own egos be massaged
by the widening cracks in his image.
He dances, sandwiched between three women,
to a rhythm that doesn't match the music.
His face contorts into a pained smile, like a sucked lemon,
and he moves with tremors and ticks.
Others watch, sneers plastered
on their high-boned faces,
eyebrows raised above eyes that have mastered
Do any of them realize that he doesn't give a shit?
Or that it isn't anyone's business who he pays
or who he fucks? None of us need a permit to submit
to our desires or indulge a wayward gaze.
So easy to look down on those who feed lust,
open their legs and welcome it,
fasten it to their thighs and bust
at the seams to keep it.
So much more difficult to admit our own needs,
in the beginning, before we risk everything
to become truly human, and bleed
the virginal truth of our very being.
He presses his ass into each juicy thigh
and purrs audibly as they stroke his pinstriped
cliche of a suit. The onlookers try
to hide their sneers behind crystal and wine.
Inside, every one of them wishes they could be
that unencumbered by reputation, that unaware,
that naively, blissfully free,
totally and utterly without care.
In their perfect suits and sequined gowns,
glued to their chairs for fear of appearance,
they swallow their own sharp misfortune -
the burden of coherence.
Let me ask, before the music stops
and the coats are retrieved,
as you place your hand on top
of mine: Do you believe me
when I say, I would rather be him,
in cheap polyester, wild-eyed
and sallow-cheeked, than them,
bound by simulated perfection.
So, I have to say...that was hard. And I'm not sure how I feel about it. I sat down with a prompt that really left me hanging. I took a swing. Maybe I missed? Regardless...it was painful.