Before and after, it's all of $.99.
The Lipless Gods remains FREE.
God knows what I'll do with Exit The Skin Palace once it's done.
Maybe I should post my unpublished novel The Colonists somewhere.
It does feature an otherwise unemployed woman paid to dress up like Sarah Palin and peg a guy. That kind of shit has resonance in an election year.
In fact, here's a choice selection from The Colonists. Enjoy:
“I can't collect unemployment, which you knew already," said Irene. "Dumbly, or hopefully, I quit my job in California and then moved here looking for something new. I knew the economy was stinking when I did that, but I had to. Fight or flight, you know? Now of course I can’t find work. My folks send me money, what they can, and my mom is at retirement age although given all the chaos in the world she isn’t comfortable not having a job. My brother is one of those people that thinks everyone should build a cabin and stock it up and learn how to kill animals and plant a garden and all that shit because the dice are rolling, rolling, and can only come up snake eyes.
“But anyways, in order to afford,” she motioned to the interior like a game show hostess, “all this splendor, I’m dipping my toes into the underground economy.”
“I’m not selling drugs.”
“Well that’s good.”
She took a big sip of water.
“Oh, hold that. After I tell you what I’m about to tell you you might think selling drugs is preferable.”
She told him about attending a Halloween party last year. She dressed up like Sarah Palin. Irene had a kind of square shaped face, the same hair color and hair cut, the same kind of body as the former Alaskan governor. She won some kind of stupid party prize, most desirable, basically, but put in a much more crass kind of way. So months later, she gets contacted by someone, friend of a friend of a friend, that had seen her at the party. This guy thought she was awesome. Awesomely hot. They met and he proposed a business deal of sorts.
“Once a week,” continued Irene, “I dress up like I’m about to address the party faithful, hair up, those glasses on, lipstick, nice businessy clothes, and when I get a knock at the door, I let this fella in, and maybe five or ten minutes later,” she paused for effect, “I’m pegging him. You know what that is. Do you? Of course you do.”
She swept her hand to indicate the living room floor.
“Right here. Right where those standing fans are. He would be facing my shins or if he looked over his left shoulder he could look you in the eye, say ‘Hi, Stan. Name’s Phil. I pay Irene $150 a session to fuck me in the ass with a strap on.’”