Everyone has left my place except you. It's 6:40 in the morning and I
can hear the first birds of the day outside on Norfolk Street. You
haven't put your boots on yet and you're curled up on the couch
smoking a cigarette. I do another line and start to look through your
record crate that you brought over after your gig at Dark Room. We've
never hung out alone and we've only hung out in a group a couple of
times since we met through that mutual friend of ours at Ludlow
Guitars. I pick out Elliott Smith's Figure 8, wondering why you'd
bring this to a club, and put it on the turntable. I bring you over
the plate of coke and you put out your cigarette and do the last line.
You get up and walk into my bedroom and close the drapes to keep the
sunlight out. I just smoke and watch you. You're staring at me while
you take out your earrings and unzip your jeans. You slowly shake
your hips to get your Skinny jeans off. You crook your finger and
call me over. I lay you down and kiss you on the mouth. You undo my
belt buckle and use your feet to kick my jeans off. "Wouldn't Mama Be
Proud" is now playing on the record and I think it's kind of ironic.
You tell me you want me to fuck you in the ass. I oblige and the way
you moan makes me never want to stop.