Apparently, the guys had broken into one of the rooms at an old, abandoned retirement home, and set themselves up something pretty enviable: a mini-fridge stocked with the "good stuff," a tattered couch, and a mattress in the bedroom. They were having a shindig tonight, and it's supposed to be "chill," or so I've heard. Paul was driving down to chauffeur us. He had the previous night been there, so he knew how to get there, and generally he's the one who catches wind of these sort of gems.

We arrived around dusk at the time when the liquor was in full display on the cheap, worn table. Amongst the bottles of Jack Daniel, Bicardi, Jim Bean, and Captain Morgan, were shot glasses, cluttered in such a way as to suggest little use; after all, the fluorescent lights with which the room had been equipped hadn't needed to be flicked on yet. I think these kind of promiscuous gatherings begged for only two lighting options--either a dusky, lackluster natural light, or a harsh, palpable fluorecent bulb.

A couple of guys put on disgustingly banal hip hop, and started to dance with a couple of nondescript blondes. The carpet on which they danced was a stained ocre color, matted from years of various furniture arrangements and shoes not taken off at the foyer. The whole scene was disgusting; the dicking around just to get laid; the motions one had to deal with when, at this kickback, all the attendants were carnal and intemperate bastards--as I said: the dicking around. Fuck it, cynics always lose, and nothing ever comes out of analyzing the whole damned situation. Embrace the fucking hilarity of it all; use it, manipulate it, so that you can, too, get ass.

On the couch sat two cross-legged girls, not more than sixteen years of age. One had oily black hair and a tawdry white skirt that went down scarcely to her mid thigh; the other, red hair on a talcum white face, wore a sickly halter top that exposed a pierced navel. I could just imagine the redhead, ravaged by so many greasy men, curling smoke about her lips as she sat on a soiled bed in some guy's apartment, whom she had met only the night before--yes she had that air of debauchery about her. Anyone would have wanted to be one of those greasy men.

The girls--the pretty girls--weren't the kind to bat their eyes or--they weren't ladies, suffice to say, and that's enough to be said. They were just as crass and hedonistic as the boys, preferring martinis in wax paper Dixie cups. Though, they knew the game, and would give indignant lip if called a sullied whore, but they took great joy in the sport. Their hand was the goal, taut moisturized skin, gussied to empower them to capture the victor, whomever they chose. Not between the girls and boys, but amongst the girls, did the control exist. The boys--damned silly boys--were objects for their leisure and pleasure; they aped like fools, cavorting in something which they had little part. Pretty girls played with dicks like a symphony. Applying bow to string, they played and played and played played played--with taut moisturized skin, dark pretty freckles and moist glossy lips, they did play their boy marionettes. Lovely, lovely girls.

All ladies (and girls) hold spell over boys--they do. An alluring smile and a ruthless gusto cast it. Easy, easy boys.

From The Lonely Londoners, Sam Selvon

Also, for the old test who singing, it ain't have no thought at all about where this tanner come from, or who throw it, man, woman or child, it ain't make no difference. All he know is that a tanner fall in the road, and he had to watch it else it roll and get lost.

When you come to think of it, everything in life like that. Maybe afterwards if a friend go to that woman and say that the test is a lazy fellar and worthless, she wouldn't throw any more money if he pass up that street. Or if the fried say he is a poor old man having a hard time she will throw a bob the next time he pass.

From Burmese Days, George Orwell

"Is my hair very untidy?" she said.
"It's beautiful."
"But has it got untidy? Smooth it for me, would you, please?"