Lust shish-kabobs me, drives a spike asshole to throat. Pinned there, wriggling, I comfort myself: what’s more respectable than being martyred? Screwing up my neck and crossing my eyes I examine the skewer of lust that has skewered me thus. Not iron, not silver or stainless steel—oh horrors!
It’s one of those cocktail swords for fruity drinks. It’s plastic baby pink. Oh the indignity! The sword’s hilt protrudes from my neck—seeing all this is a heck of a yoga—and on the back of the hilt—
Oh hell.
It’s an olive. A juicy green olive spraying its vinegar and olive guts into the lustful mouth of this cocktail canned St. Sebastian.
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