Karina Bush


Friday night. It’s an animal market. Hordes of bodies. They all want to be part of it. It’s party time.

Every weekend the Stag Parties. Packs of dribbling drunks.

Eat. Shit. Drink. Dump cum. Drink. Puke. Repeat.

Halloween costumes. Carrying a blow-up doll. Someone dressed as a cock. Shouting and swagging and bullying each other. Little boy gang playing the last game for one. Last night of freedom.

A gang gathered at my window. All dressed as Superman. Fat Superman. Fat Superman II. Fat Superman III. Hippy Superman. Asian Superman. Superman’s Dad.

Clark Kent.

They put a cape on him. Pushed him at me. And 50 euro into my hand.

A stag in the headlights.


Like a newborn calf.

Like someone’s retarded little brother.

Like he needed his inhaler.

Like his X-Box just green screened.

I tried to take his hand. Gently lead him to the bed.

Rigid. Couldn’t move.

“I don’t bite. I promise. I’m normal.”

Nothing. A mute.

It couldn’t be the stag. Unless he arranged his marriage over the internet.

I tried to make him laugh. Collapsed on the bed.

“Save me Superman!”

He was way too frightened. It happens. I was in my Dominatrix dress. I could have mashed him into a pulp. Scooped him into the condom bin.

I told him he could stay for the 20 minutes. And his friends will never know what happened here. What happens in Amsterdam stays in Amsterdam and all that crap. He sat in the chair and played on his phone.

Time to go.

I ruffled up his hair. Took off his cape and wore it. Took him by the hand back to his pack.

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