I Am Cunt. I Am Cock. I Am Work.
And why this title is absolutely necessary
He says—take care, darling—as he zips up. I can see still twitching. Sweat cooling on his stomach. Two crumpled twenties slide from his greasy palm onto the glass shelf by the bed. The red curtain billows behind him. The damp Amsterdam win pushes in. The door clicks shut like a bolt-action rifle. Soft, but brutal. Almost polite if it wasn't so l…
