Your calloused fingers, rough from playing guitar with no pick, dig through mounds of my perfectly quaffed fringe mullet. You knaw at my small breasts and moan, "Baby, you're tits are just like Chloe Sevigny in the Black Rabbit." I don't correct you even though I know it's really, "The Brown Bunny, that lame VincenT Gallo flick." Fuck that, I just want you to dive head first between my thighs while I smoke Cadillac Newport 100s and think about the perfect tattoo to get on my wrist. It's say, "All things know/ All things know", a nod to Chicago but Sufjan Stevens, totally subtle yet any real fan would know. Sometimes I feel so deep I could drown in my own thoughts. I met you at the Beauty Bar. I hate drinking but managed to slug down a few Stella Artois so you'd think I was drunk when I brought you home to my Williamsburg apartment. Damn, what's a girl gotta do to get laid in this city? I mean, I talked your ear off about Rainer-Maria Rilke and Bukowsky. You'd have to know that I was at least somewhat educated. As you tug at the belt loops of my vintage levis and I kick off my Marc Jacob pumps your geisha-themed sleeve tattoos graze my inner thigh. I just about came when I ripped your shirt off and saw the label, "Marc Jacobs". This was so meant to be. Ps. Thanks for the rim job!