Shorty

    I saw shorty from a distance, I in the VIP section of the club, popping bottles with the clique, she moving sinuously on the dance floor. The movement of her body struck me not as that of a human being, but of some unwieldy force of nature--of a cyclone, perhaps.
    Oh, and her booty. Her booty in them jeans, it jiggled temptingly, in a way that, years later, I would liken to jelly. She was no ordinary chickenhead, this one--no, she got it from her Momma, endowed with ample laffy taffy--which, in those days, was what we called the parts that kept jiggling once she, herself, had stopped moving. “Shake that laffy taffy,” we’d cry, in those golden years just after the war. “Shake that laffy taffy.”
    I approached her, and assured her that I was enormously wealthy, pulling a wad of hundred dollar bills--what we called a knot, or a bankroll, in those years--out of my pocket and, in a show of detachment and apathy, threw it in the air.
    “I know you paid,” she whispered.
    “What you wanna do?” I asked.
    Only an hour later, we were back at the crib--what we would call a house, or dwelling then--engaged in a game of erotic truth or dare. Though I could see in her eyes, and the detached way she fellated me, that this was not love, I didn’t mind--because, as I well knew before taking her home in my Benz, even before seeing her gelatinous posterior moving this way and that, contained only by those Apple Bottom jeans, in the club-- that she, shorty, curvaceous and good-smelling as she was, was nothing more than a bitch. It ain’t tricking if you got it, and it ain’t misogyny if it’s popular enough.
    When she finished, I gave her a few hundred for a shopping trip, turned over and fell asleep.
    I often wonder about shorty, now. How did she get home that night? What was her name?