I can't stop thinking about your granite cock. I can't stop thinking about the way your mouth and tongue played upon the nape of my neck, making me moan reflexively, like a helpless child. I conceded all power to you, in that moment. The way your rough, masculine skin, felt beneath my scintillated finger tips. I just want to wade in the iridescent blueness of your sorcery.
"Yeah, and on a night when the lazy wind is a-wailing, around the Cutty Sark, the single-handed sailor goes sailing, sailing away in the dark." ~ Mark Knopfler Single-Handed Sailor
The thought of your fat cock in my mouth. Throat-fucking me. Tasting every inch of you; running my tongue from the thick base of your dick, slowly up to swollen head, rubbing the tip across my lips, before allowing myself to devour its entirety. I just want to worship at the alter of your cock. And the ultra-satisfying moment when I can feel your orgasm building as it courses through your rock-hard shaft, you throw your head back against the wall; contorting your body, and unloading in my waiting mouth. "This is the best blowjob I've ever had in my life, baby. You are such a good girl. You're my good little girl, baby."
"And yawning under all those bowls was the upturned mouth of the biggest bowl of them all...a regular Beelzebub of a bowl, bone dry and insatiable...waiting, waiting, waiting for that first sweet drop." ~ Kurt Vonnegut, The Sirens of Titan
I fucking need your contact high. I haven't eaten or slept in days, yet my energy is being culled from an ancient source. My primal id need only feast on unadulterated passion. I'm running on primordial fumes of debased, animal lust. I just want to be your good little sex bunny; to make you so happy and sate your every appetite.
I want to burn with that event horizon. The flash of intense heat and light that streaks across the nocturnal inked sky, illuminating the universe for only the briefest of seconds. And in that withering second all is revealed, and every emotion that ever existed is felt.
"Everything that ever has been always will be, and everything that ever will be has always been." ~Winston Niles Rumfoord
As if the true romantics aren't always awaiting their next spectacular disaster. Maudlin sadomasochists like us need reasons to feel like shit about ourselves so all is right with the world. I know I can come off tough, or cool, or like a jaded fuckdoll, but I'm truly delicate; so vulnerable. So if you plan on wrecking me, you better do it in thrilling fashion. Make the pain worth my while. Smash me into a thousand little pieces. Just rip me asunder; tear me open, mother fucker. Because I can't handle some half-ass heartbreak. I don't want any coy bullshit; cut me with the full length of your rusted blade of furor.
"The love song must resonate with the susurration of sorrow, the
tintinnabulation of grief...for just as goodness cannot be trusted
unless it has breathed the same air as evil..." ~Nick Cave, on love and pain
How can I go back to a tedious, decaying life, once I've bore witness to the burning grease fire that is you? I could very easily get addicted to that level of chaos. To your intoxicating freneticism; this blurry ribbon of color in a sea of dull nobodies. My drug of choice.
"Come writers and critics who prophesize with your pen, and keep your eyes wide, the chance won't come again." ~ Bob Dylan, The Times, They Are A-Changin'
You saw what you wanted and you fucking took it. Like it always should have been yours. Bravado, the slightest hint of arrogance, abstraction, sentiment, and raw sexual power.
The way you slick your hair back with both hands greased in sweat and my desire, as you kneel over me. Cavalierly aware you are in total control. You lean in and slither into my ear, "I wanted to fuck your ass as soon as I saw you standing over the jukebox. I knew I was going to fuck you from the first second I saw you."
"You are my sex goddess, aren't you? My little nymph." It echoes in my head, taking me right back to that indigo-gray tableau. Your engorged, throbbing cock impaling my trembling little slit, making me whimper and beg for more.
"Shake it, Sugaree. I'll meet you at the jubilee. And if that jubilee don't come, baby, I'll meet you on the run." ~ Jerry Garcia, Sugaree
Watching you stride in, looking so fucking cool; devil-may-care, like the lost New York Doll. The crimson incandescence of the dive bar, the shudder I felt when you
put your hand on the small of my back in those first minutes, playing records. The way you ran your hand up the alabaster smoothness of my legs, unafraid. I knew I would let you kiss me, and touch me; I wanted your poison. Walking through the desolate, mist-shrouded streets, along the train tracks. Vampires of the night; drawing the other's blood. The inherent symbolism in handing you my keys. Feeling like we already knew each other. Maybe in another life, or just somewhere in the dark recesses of our subconscious; longing for some negative astral phantasm of ourselves.
"The night's too quiet stretched out alone. I need the whip of thunder and the winds dark moan." ~Tom Waits, Make It Rain
