Saturday, February 19, 2005


He lacked precision.

His lips were too loose and his tongue was too big. It wasn’t so much kissing as drooling into my mouth.

And when someone can easily spend the night passed out in a pool of their own vomit, it’s not as if personal hygiene is a priority on their To-Do list.

But beer is beer, and it makes you do strange things.

I remember there was this one time in a shower stall…
Well, maybe I’ll tell you some other time.

My two roommates were out that night. One of them was smoking cigarette after cigarette on a bench somewhere with a short Indian man. Fuck if I know where the other one was.

So I sat straddling his thigh, the dull diffuse pressure felt good, a promise of things to cum but without being so forward as to locate my clit. The narrow strip of my black thong was being pressed up into my atrium, a slow creep of moisture invading the meshwork.

Then suddenly there came a tapping, as if someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

To be continued…

May the soul of Mr. Poe forgive the author her irreverent trespasses.

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