A handsome waiter gave her champagne and she
savoured the biscuity flavour as the
cheers echoed round the room: Jeez, she’d
made it to a 100—who’d have thought?
There was fussing by the ballroom door and
she guessed a cake was forthcoming so they’ll
want a speech but how do you
sum up a century?
She knew what she wanted to say but
doubted they would want to hear it:
“I miss my husband, Harry, more than you
can know because he understood
before I did that I needed
so much sex that one man would never do and so
with the love only a real man could possess he
brought me men to fuck, singly or in
handfuls and once—oh my—
twenty men and me, all
weekend and no holds barred and Harry
taking me last as always
reclaiming me with deep kisses and
deep thrusts, just like when he...
well he...you know...he
came and went, so to speak, his
last sweet breath in my mouth.
Hey that killed the mood! Close your
mouths and drink up kids and
kidettes and—oh Jesus—
demi-kidettes: I’m bailing before
promise you! And one of this
teeming mass of family is going to get the
big lock box with all the 8mm rolls and the
explicit photos and the
diaries!—oh “Dear Fucking Diary”!
LMFAO, as I
believe you say. Well whoever it is,
dear God I hope you read it all before you
burn it and everything I did—we did—
disappears from the world.
Now I’d like to propose a toast to
Harry, God bless him, and sex! but my
goddamn glass is empty so if that
cute waiter would refill me he might get a
blowjob he’ll never forget though he’d
better not grab my hair because the
roots aren’t deep and he’ll
I’ve still got my