Chuckie wore a see-through negligee;
she was barely even there...Eli ******
the journalist and staggered in drunk..
The mountains of Montenegro were
pristine like snow-cones; Chuckie
didn't mind Eli ******* the reporter,
as she sat smoking, too wet to light up.
Her cigar was a thick roll of crack
******* but sweating so hard &
huffing the damp glass hose until dry
heaving & falling to the floor. "Chuck,
sit upright a-for ya choke," said Eli,
lifting his feathery wife by the hairy
ethereal armpit. "Uy, you're too wasted
for drugs. You needa drink somethin,"
he slurred helpfully. Nodding, she fell
into his arms, or against his chest &
also back to the floor but throwing her
over his shoulder, he went to find the
kitchen. The reporter was still naked,
trying to sneak out on tip-toe but he
caught her. His face glowed red beneath
his spiky shock of natural ***** blond;
***** because he'd been rolling in puke
& sweat & ***, his & hers. "Oh, you
ought to be my brush!" he cried, setting
his wife across a glass table & leaping on
the girl knocking her off her bare feet,
& dragging her through the carpeted house
to a spare back room filled with industrial
drums of various shades of enamel house
paints. Aware of what was coming, she
stiffened preparing for the artist to use
her scrawny body, all 4'8" of it, as had
previous generations, when Yves Klein
& Ann-Margret, her childhood idol,
created memorable masterpieces utilizing
the nubile **** female body as a living
paint
brush