Thanks, Easter Bunny!

The bunny jammed a Cadbury Egg into her mouth, biting down, chewing, sugary yolk oozing out over her lips and down her chin. She rang the doorbell, using her strong tongue to lick up the dripping goo and return it to her mouth.

And then she swallowed.

The bunny’s name was Carrie, and she was a stripper and a whore. Carrie had no illusions about her occupation, no “exotic dancer” or “gentleman’s escort.” She took the job because her best friend Jessica had been working at one of the strip clubs in town, and the money was outrageous. When she saw how much Jessica was making she didn’t get jealous- she got furious. She knew she was five times better-looking, and she knew she could use sex to get paid. Not that she had ever done it before.

She’d been a good girl, all her life, and even in college she’d been sexually responsible: no drunken free-bangs to frat guys, no sloppy make-outs to girlfriends. But there was that bitch Jessica- with the face of a wolverine- pulling five hundred dollars in sweaty singles from between her invisible breasts. Carrie wanted in, and tabled the dream of professional dental hygenist in order to earn for tuition and save for the future. It wasn’t hard work, and it wasn’t dirty. She just had to turn off her mind and share her body. The sex part was easier than the dancing anyway. She figured she’d do it for another six months max and then get back to school… maybe eight months. She’d see…

She used the back of her finger to wipe the chocolate off her teeth. She’d been having low blood-sugar crashes lately and a strange guy’s house is no place to pass out. She balled up the foil wrapper and tossed it in the shrub, staring at the front door ahead of her. Suburbs this deep she figured middle-aged man, 40 to 45, wife and kids away somewhere for some reason. Family men were always fast, always came in a flash, paranoid and frustrated, trying to get her out of the house as soon as possible, as if her black Jetta parked out front screamed “whore.”

The front door opened and Carrie found herself facing ten little boys, ages eight through eleven. They were wearing party hats, and there were balloons tied to chairs inside the house. The table was covered in colored eggs and coffee mugs of vinegar. The boy who had opened the door wore a name tag that said “Alex.” One of the boys puffed his cheeks and blew a bubble with his gum.

The bubble popped.

Carrie felt her face getting red as they looked her up and down. One of the older boys gave her a look. She knew that look.

She smiled politely, then apologetic, “I think I have the wrong house.”

There was a silence.

Carrie was frozen, petrified wood.

Alex, hand on the knob, took a deep breath, his eyes locked on Carrie’s chest. He angled his neck upwards in super slow-motion, “No. This is the right house…”

The children parted, and somehow, for some reason, Carrie found herself walking inside. She stepped into the house and was still. One of the boys put his face up to her cotton tail… and took a deep sniff.

Her eyelids fluttered involuntarily.

They had surrounded her, and Alex slowly closed the door behind her, the hinges creaking in the cool April air. Carrie said a prayer.

The elderly Mrs. Guttman walked down the sidewalk, her dalmation Violet on a short leash. She spotted the black Jetta on the curb and shook her head in disgust, confiding in the dog: “Whore.”


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