Reflections in Porcelain

This was my gig: white lace apron, cut-out bra and crop. I crouched above him every Thursday in the marble bathroom, pissed on his bare chest as let him lick me dry. He wasn’t the first to love the thought of the redness of a bottom, mark of a heel. So when my ex dropped three tabs of sunshine and decided I’d screwed his best friend, I thought I knew what to expect. Hadn’t the drag queen across the street, pistol-whipped, sat silent on her folded raincoat?There is nothing anyone can do