Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Dear Boy I Fell In Love With During A Lunch Break At The McDonald's:
You have no idea what I could do to you. Given a solid two to three hour block of time, a fairly sturdy mattress and a variety pack of condoms, I am confident enough to say I would ruin you. It all started when I took a gander at those shoulder blades of yours. I knew right then and there I wanted to sink my teeth into one, perchance during a reacharound. Then the hair. Dear sweet infant of christ, that hair, it is BEGGING for me to put my hands into it and yank your nice tall head down to my mouth for a raw, teeth-grinding hot hard long frenching. You, and your hawt scrawny ass, and your mad fire fashion sense, and the way I bet you smell (like late night band practice at your boy Kyle's loft in Red Hook and Parliaments and Ivory soap and Red Stripe and angst) all combine to make you NSFW. You are a trip to the bathroom to work out that knot as we tramps like to say. I don't ask for much, lord knows. But if there is justice in this universe, then one night our paths will cross at Lillie's and we'll do a bump off your band's van key and then I will take you into the bathroom and mount you like a fucking Koons sculpture and tear your favorite black t-shirt that you got from a thrift store in Oregon. You're fucking KILLING me with that shit. You, young man, are what the old folks call "a sure-fire panty soaker". I celebrate you and the fact that you, by just being you, made my nipples hard. Word.