Pappy Van Winkle. Truffle fries. Wagyu burger. He fingers her thigh high stockings. Silk. Satin. Leather. Lace. Ringside. Mad Men booths. The James Bond set. Six hundo. Who’s counting? He owns Indigo. She owns six books. A ratty backpack. A chocolate dog named Soda Pop Curtis. Another round. A write off. He built the city of bridges. Mr Magoo glasses. Nightcap? She thinks about the dead six. Hemingway. Angelou. Morrison. Fitzgerald. Hinton. Morrison. She fingers her thigh highs. The bodywash of numb smells like teen spirit. Or Jean Nate. Her tongue wags inside her head like a box of chocolates.
Flash memoir! Act one. Scene one. One hundred words or less.
I’m practicing the art of less is more. Condense. Strip. Cocks. Lips. Tits. Stir the roux. And this shit ain’t easy. Saying more with less. It will get you. There. That sweet spot. That g spot. Just fucking do it!
Think of a risque moment. Slip of tongue. Slide of zipper. Make it say everything with less than. Skip the adjectives and the filler shit. Make it smell like an obsessive lover. Write down the shiver. Tempt me with the taste of sex. Or love. Or hate. Make me feel. YOU!
It's like making chicken stock. You increase by reduction.
Rock on!