Pool Sharks

These women own that felt, cue balls cracking sharp as the crowd breathes heavy. Every shot cuts close, racking nerves, but losers take every dick on the green by pub law. Pants hit the floor. Somebody bends over the rail while somebody else shoves in hard enough to rattle the balls. Whoever wins, the rest fall same way—face down, legs spread, moaning into the felt while the next one pulls out still slick and the one after pushes right back in. Somebody always gets fucked on the table. Rules say so. Tonight the only question is how many racks they run before everyone there has spent inside them.