You’re a whore, girl.  You’re a whore, bitch.  You’re a whore I’m fucking; and strangling; and on whom I’m coming.  Forgive please the breach of parallel structure, as I only wanted to impart some class to your tacky, sticky ass.

You, are a whore.

Though you are completely goverened by the small tags afixed your various garments…you’re not a money whore.  You’re not a money whore even given your tacky, expensive clothes…many of which remain swimming in the puddles of beer and pretzeled bread that is my floor; ripped and trodden upon.

I’m gross but you’re grosser.  And I ain’t talking Econ One Oh One.  

But enough self-congratulatory ballyhooing.  

Time to asses fault.

It’s your fault.

You see, you’re a whore of your own making and I’m…well…that makes me a pimp.

Pimps hate women.  For whatever reason; because of whatever oerbearing mother; because of whatever person in high school that fucked our dreams of prom-night hijinks and first sexual experience; we, pimps, hate women.

So why do I hate you?

I hate you because you are, and what we’ve done are, exactly what I wanted of tonight.  Men don’t leave the house hoping for good conversation, few drinks and a promise of a dinner date.  Well…some men do.  The segregatory lines are drawn against those men, because that is their ever only recourse to female contact — save the Drunken Pitty-fuck.  

I give you no promise.  No more dinner.  You’re not interesting.  

You’re a hole.

As I elevate myself to the supposed heights of masculine triumph, let me explain the position to which I’ve been so rudely and foreseeably thrust.  Different than the men who desire to remain Dinner Dates, me and mine wish to have a wonderful dinner date, replete with witty banter, flirting eyes and “inadvertent” touching.  On the surface that’s not different from the Smallcocks or women in general…but with one crazy, big and obsequious difference (is that right?  Obsequiious?  What does that even mean?):  We want that to parley into throat-gagging, pussy-stuffing, leg-bending, ego-boosting Animal Sex.

The mother-fucking capitals are proper.  Fuck you.  Its a proper noun to us most barbrous of men, hence Captialization.

Nine Inch Nails’ sarcastic ode is our rallying cry.

So why do I hate you?  You gave me everything I wanted.  You gave it to me casually and without hesitation.  You gave me all your pussy and I took it all back.  You did so in order that you might feel some form of human commune and thence self-worth.

You fucking failure.  You’re complicit in your own exploitation, like a Jewish death camp work coordinator.  

The natural conclusion, then, that begs the question of your own eponymous hatred, is why you hate yourself to the degree that you, too, have become a P.I.M.P.

It’s men like me, really, that have hoisted upon you such crushing weights of self-doubt that you can’t see any beauty in yourself or any worth outside your ability to get fucked.  What was that you said to me?  “Please don’t come on my face”, I think it was.  Then later, “Don’t call me bitch.”  Then later, “You like that?  You like your little bitch?”  Then later still, “Okay, come on my face.”  Why do you capitulate so fully?  

I mean, shit girl, you didn’t even make the lateral move.  “Come on my tits.”  Doesn’t ring a bell does it?  You never once thought of doing anything but capitulating to MY will when I refused even to acknowledge yours.

Shit girl, you didn’t even STOP getting fucked.  I may be fuck-head but I’m no rapist.  “Stop it.  I’m out of here.”  Ring a be…why do I even ask, of course it didn’t.

You just sat there in your bunk, broken, waiting for death.  

You hate yourself because you didn’t have to courage to, even were I a rapist, suffer the indignity of physical abuse for the preservation of your self.

This then begs the question of whether you were just so frightened by this sudden turn of events, you had no clue of what to do but ride out the emotional violence and survive.  Almost a good argument except, well, it’s happened before, hasn’t it?

After the last time we fucked — a time, I must say, in which I was a complete gentleman until you put my hands about your throat — you told me about the last time, as if we were more than casual encounters, about your same such sexual encounters, as if I owed you a debt of sorrow.  Who are you?  Why do I care what happened to you or your mother?  Existentially, I guess I’m sorry but….really….sympathy is usually – as a general human rule – reserved for the inner circle.

This then began my seeing you as willing victim and closes the circle started above (if this be a flow-chart).

But then the final question arises from the muck of this narrative:  What is the reality of you?

You’re, quite simply, a sufferer of a self-inflicted persecution complex.  You don’t know how to exist outside your guise as victim.

Guise?  Did I mean that (especially in light of “obsequious”, above)?  Yes.

You’re not a victim, you’re a victimizer.

Your self-gratifying and self-serving existence as the perennially hurt made me hate you, made me feel superior and gave you what you wanted…an affirmation of your own sick version of human commune and your own self-worth.

Even now I’m waiting for coffee to brew and the batter to settle as I make breakfast in a lame attempt to show you how wrong the implications of last night are.

I’m doing your work for you.

You fucking P.I.M.P.