I was giving my legs a quick shave when Travis came into the bathroom in my bedroom. Slapping me on the ass hard he said, "Your bitch husband is downstairs serving drinks and food. You should hear his friends, they're really ripping him to shreds with insults and he likes it."Fluffing my eyelashes I said, "Yeah well, he's a bitch so that makes sense. By the way, I want him sleeping on a cot in the spare bedroom, army surplus type. Since he wants to be a bitch, I want him taking cock. He's going to suck it and be fucked by it, starting with the men downstairs. He can fluff them for me."He dropped a file on the bathroom counter and looked at me in the mirror. "You did well at the truck stop. I didn't think you had it in you to be honest. I thought you'd chicken out or wear out. You suprised me."I looked briefly down at the folder. "Did you hear me about Ron? What's the file?" I asked finishing up on my eyelashes. Nodding he replied. "Yes, I heard you about Ron and I was already. And the crowd went wild, some of them standing on their feet and baying like hounds, their applause sustained longer than any of the other poets who spoke before him.The fellows on his team were in awe of him when he let his emotional intellect loose upon the stage. Basically they were competitors just like him. Everyone wanted the praise, the applause, the high score that came with a successful poem. The slam merged art with the deepest competitive impulses of these poets. A zero-sum game when individual poets sparred and a winner- take-all spectacle when teams competed. The prize money at the end of most slams was a mere fifty bucks, but money never mattered more than praise, respect, esteem, recognition. People liked him more when he won, and he was a disappointment when they weren’t enraptured by something he recited. He could be as controversial as any other slam poet, but not so much as to offend. He combined controversial subjects with a deep, black ghetto voice, as though the.
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