Be Extravagant / 5.10.16/ 10:43-11:13

Two boys died and one boy didn’t and there was a girl and she survived too but she lost a limb just above the joint and – in the ten years since – has littered her nub with tattoos of spiders and sparrows and lines that spiral up her shapely thigh like ropeburns on a bedpost.

And yeah, I think that’s sexy.

Who wouldn’t?

I mean scars are much more my cream jean scene what with their soft pink lifts and tragedy but ink on nubs just make my heart hum like nothing since I stumbled on anime at the tender age when I still thought the whole pussy ran up front.

But then porn happened and my whole brain went crazy with deepthroats and gangbangs and gape and I think before that it was this one Helmut Newton photograph of a naked lady in an alligator or maybe it was the one of the black heels on the dash.

Actually, it was definitely White Women that shaped my yens and my M is often suffering for it though my practical inclinations have gone more Taboo since I’ve reached that phase of occupation wherein I understand that wet Italian models are nothing more than potent potable held up by bennies and champagne and that’s just boring, boring, boring Sidney so let’s just say it’s Kay Parker or Honey Wilder or death in the bedroom.

Actually, let’s not.

I am open to the wilderness of sexual proclivity now more than I have ever been which is a sin because of the opportunities I let squander for the squared-off implement of love and meaning and simpering being and bitching about my woes when lusting after the feel of a bygone nub is about as exciting as that one time I fucked a pillow pile to the overdubs of Emmanuel.

One time?

We both know that’s a lie.

The truth is that it was probably only one or two times that I actually came and I’ve often been lead to understand that fucking isn’t really fucking unless someone cums which is why blind forays in East Side shitters don’t mean a damn thing to the kids anymore.

Yet open, I remain despite closing the doors to indecent succor because it helps my fantasy foster a contorted notion of the girl next door who – I’ve heard – drinks shots out of her prosthetic when the mood takes her or if a boy asks if the boy is as pretty as the dead one I didn’t know because the other one was homely as sin.

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