Isn't postprandially a great word ? I like it very much, myself, and therefore post partially, you see, is what happens after a party. Hence the title ; and the illustration ; and also my sorry state.
I am crushed, utterly and totally. It's Sunday, well past noon. I just woke up, at a bare crawl I went about some reduction of morning business. We partied until all hours of the night Saturday, which I mean literally : the birds were solidly singing Morning by the time I kicked all the nudes outta my bed and crashed, finally, an expiration in the eager light outside.
But now I'm seated more or less comfortably -- they suffering of cocktail flu are never truly comfortable -- with a mug of iced water I sent a slave for, and thereby write, such as can be done. The last item I clearly remember are the fabulous steaks in the late evening. My Porterhouse went down so readily, so easily, so well. The whole two and a half pounds of it, faces criss-crossed in delicious creole mulatto tones, the inside rather cold. A mouthmelt, like so many others, such as only few experience -- and I, daily. Multiply. Perpetually. All the dog manded titme!
There was an old whore there, also. At the party I mean. At least early on ; I remember seeing her, my gaze fixing upon her anciently fixed tits. They looked great in her dress, well built for a well built -- and eager, too -- ninteen year old. Her exemplarily toned legs comfortably stood atop most decent four inch platforms. Not screaming bloody murder through excess like's the lot of youthful nubiles (if they be worth two spits or half a squirt -- in the respective holes nature carved in lustruous luscious lasciviousness for the very purpose), but definitely making the point. The heels tell it all : you're not her. You'll never be her. You'll neither draw my eye at a party nor command my commendation. Of you I'll never say to my own escort (who, of course, knew her, from their gym, the only good gym in this liliput country tiny enough to only admit one of anything) "go talk to her, she's evidently curious about you two and if you don't it's too much like a snub. You're the younger woman, it's not her place to come to you, don't let her hang."
The old whore's leathery face, tanned under the imperious demands of daily Suns over (I'm sure) sixty years, crinkly and thoroughly lined under the incessantly ceaseless demands of her discipline -- to smile the whore's smile, again and again -- rather resembled a laptdog's. I quite enjoy lapdogs like her around and about, in strict preference of most any alternatives (no, "robust beauties" don't even qualify, don't even inch above water level). She dominated, readily, with the expert whore's ease, the elder gringo tub of paste in tow. Just to make the point, to clear my eye of any possible misunderstanding, like a civilised man among savages might discreetly flash Eton to another. I never knew her before, I never met her before, she knows what to do just as well. Between this Spanish speaker native and Romanian speaking natives the decades bridge, with ease, effortlessly. By themselves. Like anything else in this life worth doing, it does itself, coincidentally, while other things ongo.
She had a younger, darker whore with her, twenty-something maybe, their relationship clearly professional, vaguely tinged in mentorship ; the twenty-something very late in her life yet thoroughly clueless, her body carrying a superficial layer of extra fat readily testifying to the state of her spirit. No, it's not babyfat after adolescence, that ends with puberty ; although... The young'un was there to service the tub's associate -- some junior business partner, like for instance a "son" in these cucks' manner, made one day with some woman they don't remember for never having inside her owned anything. We didn't long linger -- they have to earn their daily bread, and us, after having ingurgitated our daily portion of animal life (& death) -- for no meal's worth the name if no part of it had parents, that loved it, and in bloodied pain begot it, and then you ate it -- went on.
It's going to escape exposition, that on ; for your needs such as they are suffice it to say that unrelatedly, outside the walls, the mendacious audacity of the idiot party continues unabated, raging as fiercely strong as it has for the past year. That's also a kind of party, yes ? Perhaps it'll never end. Perhaps three hundred years from now actual women and actual humans'll wonder what the fuck did "we" do, not knowing in their benevolent malintension that indeed -- there is no we. Just I ; and then the rest of you, such as you are, and can't be counted among anything. Not even food.
That idiot partyi eagerly goes about -- with "arguments", no less! "There's no other seasonal flus anymore", they'll gleefully point out. "Clearly the masks work", they'll clamor. Surely, after having fraudulently misrepresented every temperature increase of any source as "covid" -- going so far as to even eschew autopsies, and therefore making everyone dead these days the same sort of inconsequential, sub-human mongrel as they of the 1700s and prior -- isn't it a wonder that no other anything else "exists", after their fashion ? The necessary as it is unavoidable fate of the socialist mind : forever the infant's game of peek-a-boo, forever looking for and forever finding exactly the same thing. What thing ? That thing they who can not want misrepresent themselves as wanting, whatever it may be. Vacuous nothingness and perambulating undeath, of course.
So afraid's the stupid party of the -- to speak frankly, to them mostly hostile -- environment, they're now all burka'd up. Like little bitches, waiting for the Arab daddy ; or, fail that, at least his horse...
Yet I am not your horse ; and you are not my whore ; and so on.———
- Also a party, yes ? After its fashion ? [↩]