Bacon & Eggs Page | 3

Buried Alive

"Buried alive in down with just an opening; snuggled between fresh air and a delicious man; listening to the beat of both rain and heart; the sins of living are washed away…" I wrote.

Woke up, looked at the clock, blinked, squinted, two-thirty-seven; rolled over. I screwed the pooch once upon a time. I haven't slept much of late and I didn't sleep much then. I'm a shallow fuck who likes to fuck.

I wasn't always, and for the record, despite all the drugs and booze, I still don't think I fucked my dog. Yes. Yes I did. Like a televangelist humping the camera. What's more, when he was done licking my nut sack I fucked him again. On twos and all fours and well into the night I pumped that bitch. Only once did she reach back to bit the hand that spanks. My bitch was in heat and my cock was rock. He howled with every push and squealed with every pull. I striped his back, bled his nipples, pound him until my legs quivered with exhaustion; the doorbell rang.

God dam neighbors called the cops, I answered the door naked, drunk, and with my junk still strapped on. My dog hanging over the couch panting like some Great Dane behind me is what did it. Guess there are laws about floppy ears, leashes, and holes you can drill. That I reached for the officer's nightstick laughing offering her a go before her partner relived me of my toy was no help. She cuffed me and left me unattended, the prig. My husband divorced me claming mental abuse, the fucking cunt. That's what got me here; my attendance at the "samarco490" basic humanity training program for broken moral compasses…Michigan…U.S. of A..

"Buried, just an opening, fresh air, delicious man, beat of rain and heart, the sins of living washed away." I rewrote. And again.