Pretend This is An Awesome Promo
There’s no pleasurable tingle in my clit right now.
I derive zero satisfaction from any of this.
Any time spent on my back feels like defeat.
This is me on the bottom fulfilling a commitment looking more and more regrettable with each additional day of hindsight.
I don’t often find myself in this position.
The man above me reeks of body odor, and I detest everything about this moment in time. I find him undeserving of his place.
It should be mine.
You probably think this song is about you?
Typically, I’m on top, in control. In places where I don’t fit, I make myself fit. I’m like water, with the intention of being a tidal wave.
Nothing can hold me back forever.
Yet, these moments exist where I lose that sense of control and gain an undesirably unfamiliar sense of vulnerability, it reminds me of being younger, less assured, at the whim of my father.
Too psychological for you?
Moments like these I can almost step outside myself, gaining that rare objective view, take in a moment of clinical detachment to see myself behaving in ways highly unlike me, controlled by an idiot puppeteer who doesn’t care to understand me, and I, a meaningless marionette drawn by strings into another tableau I’ll inevitably walk away from with a sour taste in my mouth, at best.
I bet you think this song is about you, don’t you? Don’t you?
This isn’t an allegory in anyway relating to my lack of trajectory in HOW, by the way, no matter how much it may seem like it.
This is yet another episode in the side hustle, or main hustle, not sure which, of Flo the Ho(there is no ‘e’ at the end, for that would change the definition of the subject, nitwits.)
The man above me, a paying customer, fucks like a defective piston with no rhythm and enjoys listening to Carly Simon’s You’re So Vain on repeat.
Pretty damn lame, if you ask me. But we do what we must. It’s not like HOW pays the bills to any degree, thus Flo the Ho remains a Ho.
Dante Morrell, my manager, thinks I should stick to this.
Here, with this man above me doing his thing entirely for his own benefit.
I don’t want to be simply this. I’ve worked hard to attempt to be something more. I’ve worked hard to obtain agency in my life, a benefit so few are afforded in this life.
Put simply, I hate being a ho. Sure, it’s got transferable skills: Flexibility. Intuitiveness. It requires an ability to take a pounding. Hell, if I lose every wrestling match I’m ever in it isn’t like I don’t already get fucked for a living, right?
It’s not all bad, most men are so into themselves and their own pleasure they don’t notice my eyes looking up at the ceiling, memorizing the design, thinking ahead, thinking behind, it gives me time to think, as I separate mind from body and go to my happy place.
Here we can talk about HOW.
I admit it is awfully lame being tossed out of a ring by a guy in a wheelchair; a man who’s catchphrase appears to involve rhyming abuse with ‘dooze’; a man who seems to cop most of his concepts and characters from movies written by smarter individuals than him.
It was awfully lame of me in that ring, looking for my first win, stopping, for some reason, like a deer in the headlights with an unfortunately stupid-looking ‘huh’ expression on my face as Doozer and his like pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes, (as if it were unexpected that they were making an attempt at possum).
So I got knocked out of the ring.
So I didn’t win.
It’s probably not a healthy attitude to have.
If I were smart, more adaptive I could adopt Doozer’s confidence. Instead of propping my head up on the headboard of this guy’s bed pretending to moan for him. I could be picking myself up from the precipice of loss and defeat with the assurance that when I finally do show up, I win titles, claim hall of fames, and, much like Doozer, confuse everyone with even a passing familiarity with me causing them to ask, why the fuck does anyone think this person’s promos are even remotely special?!
The Doozer promo I watched was like a warehouse of 10% jokes. (Jokes that only 10 % of people would get, or, a very specific group of people were the target audience, FYI).
And that’s the rub, right there.
Way I see it, there’s history here in HOW. History I’m having trouble accessing. There is no six-degrees of Kevin Bacon for Doozer, or Cool Jiles, or whoever else. Everyone is related in a very real, direct way. It’s a mosaic of connections tying everyone together like your typical collection of european inbred royal families.
And then there’s me.
Flo the Ho.
I fucks with everyone and no one.
One of these things is not like the other.
For someone who just wandered in off the street, how could I not have difficulty catching my bearings? How could I not look at some idiot in that battle royal sitting in a wheelchair and think, okay… is this some kind of… demented make a wish thing?
No, no that actually happened. There was a collection of individuals who did the thing I wish I’d thought of, and Doozer stopped just shy of winning the ICON title for himself. And now here we are, proverbially, of course.
Me, and Doozer in a match with both high stakes, and no stakes at all. What have I got to lose, really?
What good name have I cared to curate?
I could come down to that ring set on kill. I could come down to that ring with a set of kitten claws and ears. My one strength here is unpredictability.
Like me suddenly bucking my hips, forcing the man above me awkwardly onto his back, and setting myself on top.
He’s surprised, and unexpectedly aroused.
This was not part of the agreement, however. Not part of what he expected, or signed up for. Flo the Ho was supposed to lay back and give him a few minutes of release so that he could proceed through his week relaxed.
What will you get this week, Doozer?
What you expected?
Or will you just get fucked?