A monologue from the play by Walter Wykes
NOTE: This monologue is reprinted with the author’s permission. All inquiries should be directed to the author at: sandmaster@aol.com
LIZ
Oh, give me a f***ing break! He could care less about the dress! It isn’t the f***ing dress he cares about! What he really wants is to rip it off as soon as possible—
isn’t that right, Dan? He’s trying to figure out the quickest way to strip you down and get his hands on those sl*tty little t*ts of yours!
That’s what he’s doing! That’s what he’s been doing all night—undressing you in his mind … picturing you in various positions …
various attitudes of distress … wondering just what you’ll let him get away with … how far you’ll let him go …
if you’ll have the nerve to tell him no when he starts to get really nasty. He’s probably got a little stiffy right now just thinking about it.
He used to do the same thing with me. Maybe he still does—although he’d never admit it. Maybe he’s picturing all three of us right now—
right here on this couch—legs and arms and tongues and hair all intertwined like snakes—writhing and twisting and probing.
He’s trying to work out the geometry of it.
The mathematical possibilities. It boggles his mind—the number of ways he could violate that pretty little body of yours.
He’s trying to pick just the right one—or the right combination. You won’t even see it coming. He’s smooth, I’ll give him that much—it’ll sneak up on you.
He’ll wait until you’re comfortable, until you’re really feeling safe, and then—BANG!
Suddenly you’ll find yourself acting out a scene from some cheap p*rno you couldn’t watch for ten seconds without puking your guts out!
You have no f***ing clue what’s going on here!
If you’re smart, you’ll thank him for a nice evening, turn around, walk out that door, and never look back. If you’re smart.
But you’re not—are you? You’re not smart at all. You’re a stupid f***ing wh*re. So why don’t you just pull that sl*tty little dress over your head and get it over with!
