a re-post to celebrate
You grimace as you swallow yet another shot of absinthe. I think you're cute when you act tough. As you run your clove scented fingers through my unwashed hair I think of autumn and Helvetica. I want our love to be as authentic as that between Verlaine and Rimbaud. No second chances, no happy endings.
You push me against the cold bricks, dirtying my new vintage Velvet Underground T-shirt. You slide your hand over my stomach and back, softly singing from Tegan and Sara's latest album: "tell me where, tell me where".
I undo your bulky belt buckle and play with the band of your American Apparel boyshorts as you bite at my neck and collarbone. I want to be fucked tonight. I want to be pressed until my reality fragments onto the pavement.
I slowly work my fingers inside you and discover that you're using the smartballs I bought you for your birthday last month. Strong PC muscles are almost as sexy as Mireille Darc's monologue in Jean-Luc Godard's Le Weekend. You're fumbling with the clasp on my bra when the intermission ends. People begin wandering back towards the auditorium, but I decide that the second act of the postmodern feminist interpretation of Candide can wait. I pull your head against my chest and exhale, "start again, start again."
You push me against the cold bricks, dirtying my new vintage Velvet Underground T-shirt. You slide your hand over my stomach and back, softly singing from Tegan and Sara's latest album: "tell me where, tell me where".
I undo your bulky belt buckle and play with the band of your American Apparel boyshorts as you bite at my neck and collarbone. I want to be fucked tonight. I want to be pressed until my reality fragments onto the pavement.
I slowly work my fingers inside you and discover that you're using the smartballs I bought you for your birthday last month. Strong PC muscles are almost as sexy as Mireille Darc's monologue in Jean-Luc Godard's Le Weekend. You're fumbling with the clasp on my bra when the intermission ends. People begin wandering back towards the auditorium, but I decide that the second act of the postmodern feminist interpretation of Candide can wait. I pull your head against my chest and exhale, "start again, start again."