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A poet went to a bar full of strippers on the night his wife left him and took the kids along with her.
They had been married 25 years and she said she was tired of his lack of spontaneity. She was tired of monotonic activities and couldn't stand it any more.
They had been married 25 years and she said she was tired of his lack of spontaneity. She was tired of monotonic activities and couldn't stand it any more.
I mean he was an award winning poet. Wrote beautiful poems that touched the mind and soul, captivating hearts and stealing the daughters of men.
She said all he did was write, eat and sleep. Repeat. Their love making was becoming a disaster.
She said all he did was write, eat and sleep. Repeat. Their love making was becoming a disaster.
She was tired of listening to her friends at the garden club talk about how their husbands' egg plants were working wonders on them so much that they didn't need to exfoliate every day, just once in two weeks, while she looked wrinkled and tired with no stories to tell.
So she left and the poet found himself in a bar full of strippers. He ordered a drink, gin and tonic, watched how the girls played with the poles like they were born for this.
he watched how other men paid huge bills for a dance that wasn't even up to an hour...
he watched how other men paid huge bills for a dance that wasn't even up to an hour...
he had always hated bars like this. He thought they were unoriginal and just fantasies. Something to distract the mind from the ever present reality.
But he was here tonight cos his wife left him. He needed company so he paid for a stripper and a little extra to get a private room and a little extra for physical contact.
A renowned poet had no business in a bar full of strippers drowning his sorrow.
A renowned poet had no business in a bar full of strippers drowning his sorrow.
And into the private room he went. The stripper's name was Joyce. Red hair. Red lips. Body distinct and detailed like the female statues in Greece. She came closer to perform her act on him but in the middle of the act, she sensed reluctance.
"You okay hon?"
"Yeah I am fine.", the poet said. "My wife just left me."
"I'm sorry hon. That must be really hard."
"You have no idea"
"Is that why you paid extra extra for the physical contact?"
"Yeah"
"Okay. Say no more"
"Yeah I am fine.", the poet said. "My wife just left me."
"I'm sorry hon. That must be really hard."
"You have no idea"
"Is that why you paid extra extra for the physical contact?"
"Yeah"
"Okay. Say no more"
With that, Joyce took out her tongue to dance around his ears. The poet shuddered, moaned and shuddered. Again. This was new territory and it made the poet do a pirouette around climax in quick successions.
She asked him, in the middle of the sensation he was feeling.
She asked him, in the middle of the sensation he was feeling.
"What do you want?"
The poet said,
"Spontaneity."
"Say no more hon."
The poet said,
"Spontaneity."
"Say no more hon."
And with that, Joyce's jaws extended with her tongue bloated. Her teeth, razor sharp, like an alligator, sunk deep into the neck of the poet, ripping out his oesophagi in one full swoop as blood made art in the private room the poet paid extra for.
His body wriggled as Joyce feasted on his neck flesh, ripping out the bone while his head rolled onto the couch and then the floor making a home for itself in his pool of blood.
Joyce, with a smile licked the blood off her face and said,
"Well there goes your spontaneity."
Joyce, with a smile licked the blood off her face and said,
"Well there goes your spontaneity."
Wow I didn't know they will be so much love and insults for this story. Guess people will be careful now when they go to strip clubs 😂😂😂
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