do me a favor y'all
will you compare this to my other piece and tell me which is stronger? well technically theyre the same piece, just this one is much more subtle.... so yeah that would be supah cool.
Have Phallus: Will Drill
All the men told Marty that she looked good, hands wrapped around the shaft of the double, sweat and grease mixed indiscriminately and running down her still soft cheek where she would roughly wipe it away with the back of her hand. She would stand on the derrick’s deck when the well would blow and they would tell her that she should be in films, all soaked in oil like that. Long blonde hair pulled back tight under her yellow hard hat, they were just itching for her to shake it out in flowing waves, but she’d just scowl and spit on the deck, marking how their amphetamine red faces would fall.
Twelve hours on, twelve hours off. That’s how they worked, which is tough when it’s the off hours that kill you, kill you because that hard rumbling steel isn’t between your hands, your legs, your feet. “rest up,” the foreman would jab, “you need your beauty sleep.” But she rarely slept, instead turning it over and over in her mind: all the steel rods that weren’t quite hers; that’s didn’t quite sit between her thighs. She knew them better than she knew the mound of her inadequate womanhood, that idiotically coveted bit of flesh that made them call her a softneck, when she could roughneck better than the best of them. And all without meth, without Adderall, even without coffee.
One night one of the men found her in the living quarters. He had just come off his twelve, black-face-grease-paint on his cheeks and arms, glassy eyes, and gaping pupils looking to swallow her up. She sat under a single lamp, her brow heavy over her eyes with a technical manual in one hand, one heavy booted foot slung onto a chair, and the other hand resting on her inner thigh. She looked up into his animal face, staring hard, searching and knowing what he meant, but no color left her face, her eyes didn’t widen in sudden realization. Marty only furrowed her brow, frowned slightly, and turned back to the manual. He stood there with new awareness written over his features as clear as if he’d just bitten the fruit off the tree of knowledge. Later that night when the others asked him how the dame was, he would mumble back “Ain’t no dames on this rig….”
Have Phallus: Will Drill
All the men told Marty that she looked good, hands wrapped around the shaft of the double, sweat and grease mixed indiscriminately and running down her still soft cheek where she would roughly wipe it away with the back of her hand. She would stand on the derrick’s deck when the well would blow and they would tell her that she should be in films, all soaked in oil like that. Long blonde hair pulled back tight under her yellow hard hat, they were just itching for her to shake it out in flowing waves, but she’d just scowl and spit on the deck, marking how their amphetamine red faces would fall.
Twelve hours on, twelve hours off. That’s how they worked, which is tough when it’s the off hours that kill you, kill you because that hard rumbling steel isn’t between your hands, your legs, your feet. “rest up,” the foreman would jab, “you need your beauty sleep.” But she rarely slept, instead turning it over and over in her mind: all the steel rods that weren’t quite hers; that’s didn’t quite sit between her thighs. She knew them better than she knew the mound of her inadequate womanhood, that idiotically coveted bit of flesh that made them call her a softneck, when she could roughneck better than the best of them. And all without meth, without Adderall, even without coffee.
One night one of the men found her in the living quarters. He had just come off his twelve, black-face-grease-paint on his cheeks and arms, glassy eyes, and gaping pupils looking to swallow her up. She sat under a single lamp, her brow heavy over her eyes with a technical manual in one hand, one heavy booted foot slung onto a chair, and the other hand resting on her inner thigh. She looked up into his animal face, staring hard, searching and knowing what he meant, but no color left her face, her eyes didn’t widen in sudden realization. Marty only furrowed her brow, frowned slightly, and turned back to the manual. He stood there with new awareness written over his features as clear as if he’d just bitten the fruit off the tree of knowledge. Later that night when the others asked him how the dame was, he would mumble back “Ain’t no dames on this rig….”