we wear our hunger in our haunt

Now shake me off your knife 'cause I want to go home.  And then the words were gone and I felt so much better, upon regaining composure, and can there be anything worse than feeling foolish?  Well, I can think of plenty.

I came home to a bunch of mean empty, crawled into bed and dreamed for two hours straight about playing this game, a partners game, like some strange mix of spades and pet rescue saga, and every time I thought I was doing it right, that I was on the right track, that I was on to a winner, my partner would tell me how insignificant I was, in the grand scheme of immediate things, and then blocks would fall, and the trick would get trumped, and I'd be set, and the pets would fall out of their pet carriers, and I played hand after hand after motherfucking hand of this sisyphean game.  And I know that this dream lasted for the whole two hours because when I woke up, I was certain I had fucked my jaw up for good and for real. Dad says they make something for that, some kind of a bite guard that I can't spit out, like a retainer, but I am afraid for the places to where that clinch would run, best to keep it in my mouth and close to my brain, where I can keep an eye on it.

He said, "Oh my god, in four years, I'll be fifty."  I said, "Let's take it one day at a time, Mister."  He said, "Yeah, 'cause you're so healthy."  And I said, "But I haven't been as rough on my body as you have."  He said, "Maybe I've lived it crazier, but you've lived yours harder."  And then I was a little embarrassed, how his overall rightness proved my overall dumbness, because, we're all adults, let's be honest: I, who gets penetrated nearly daily, have never penetrated anyone else.


I have been thinking about writing another sex thing.  I was thinking about describing in excruciating detail how we, how you, then how, ah, sleepy time, nap time; is a springtime for hedonistic hitlers everywheres.  And he never disapproves or judges, he just reads it, his face makes no tells, he turns off the screen, and then he goes back to doing whatever it was that he was doing before.  Sometimes I think about making a mistake on purpose and putting it right in the middle, some real lorem ipsum get-down shit, just to see if he is listening, and it is my darkest brightest hope that he will say:

the manner in which

you thump out the notes

without the slightest thought

to their meaning

is unforgivable

and your lack of passion

is unforgivable

I shall have to beat you

And then he will, and I will know that, for sure, that I have captured his attention, if not his imagination, at least for a little while.  But he won't, if historical record provides any sort of reasonable basis for probability theory.

And if I ask him, "did you read it?  And if so, did you like it?"  And he will say, "uh huh" or "sure" or something to that effect and then I'll say something else and then he'll ignore me and then I'll get real tired of all that bullshit and make a quick noose out of words, and then I'll push, I mean, he'll fall right into it, but I'll help him down before he turns too blue.  And then, with his head hung low but his eyes looking up at me, he'll rub his neck and smile at my comedy, and he'll say, in a way that pardons all of the badness in me: Long Hair don't care!  And then he will probably fuck me senseless if there is no life getting in the way, and, ha ha, I win, because that's what I was going for, anyway.

Every time I look at the David's body I think how striking the resemblance is, scary similar, if its cock were about ten times bigger.  You've got the body of an old master's god and a heart made out of marble and I'm glad modern cocks are bigger than the ones that existed during the renaissance, because I have to say, the David would probably not do it for me.  Not that I'm a huge cock kind of girl, but they don't call it a G-spot for no reason.