The Waiting....

Lately, she is calling me pet names like “Shoo-Shoo” or occasionally, “Sparky.” She also smells like cheap vodka instead of that god-damned rum, so maybe I should let the pet names slide for the time being, or at least until she discovers the euphoric twists that gin can put on the brain. Then, maybe, just maybe, she'd call me Saber-Tooth, or Falcon. But for now, with the vodka blurring my edges and putting me on fours, I am Shoo-Shoo, sometimes Sparky.
It doesn’t matter to me or emasculate me the slightest because I'm in the waiting room. She could spit on me while fucking me, then call me Johnny and it wouldn't matter. In the waiting room there is no feeling, no sensation. It's all sterile. Some old magazines and insipid wallpaper. But on the other side of the wall, something will happen. Whatever that something is, no matter the importance it may play in the grand scheme of things, it will occur and then old Shoo-Shoo can kiss my ass. I just need that fucking VISA to arrive.