Ellen’s Oiled Vagina

and Horses Rising Up Against Jockeys and Whipping Them

Vom Patti

It was a perfectly ordinary day at the track, except that there was an oiled vagina involved and the horses rose up against the jockeys and whipped them. The oiled vagina in question belonged to Ellen. It belonged to Ellen, because it was Ellen’s vagina and Ellen was both a capitalist and a feminist. (But that doesn’t necessarily make her a bad person.)

Basically what happened was that Ellen bet five dollars on the six horse and lost. It was the last fiver she had had in her purse, and after she had lost that fiver there was nothing but one dollar bills and some coins left.

»God damned fucking cunt», Ellen said to herself and walked to the ladies’ room, where she dropped down her pants and rubbed some oil on her vagina.

»One more drop for good luck», she thought to herself, squirted a handful of nice hot oil out of her portable oil dispenser and spread it all over her glistening little twat. The last race of the day was about to start.

»7.25$ on the eight horse», Ellen said to the girl at the counter and handed over the money. By the time she had reclaimed her place next to the finish line the horses were already galloping around the track. The eight horse was on the third or fourth place but looked like it still had some strength left. It got closer . . . closer . . . closer . . . ahhhhhh! Inconspicuously Ellen inserted not one but two fingers in her recently oiled vagina in order to celebrate the moment of her victory with a favourable series of psychophysical sensations.

Suddenly something of a most unexpected nature took place before her very eyes: The black leather whip which until recently had been in the unremitting grip of the eight horse’s jockey now appeared to be held between the eight horse’s teeth. The eight horse was fiercely waving his head from side to side, thus exposing the jockeys in front of him to numerous sharp strokes of the whip.

The jockeys were jumping off their horses, leaving their precious whips for the horses to wield. Some got stomped to death, others escaped with bruises and wounds all over their sleekly athletic bodies. Not one of the horses did cross the finish line. Having scared their jockeys away they stopped, turned around and walked silently to the stalls.

»It was the eight horse», Ellen said to the girl at the counter. »The eight horse was about to win.»

»I’m sorry dear», the girl said, »but there are no winners in a war.»

»I want my fucking money!» Ellen cried, but the girl at the counter merely shook her head. Ellen was fucking pissed off. Her money was gone. Her spirit was crushed. And her vagina had never felt this dry.

(For JJ and CZ)