The metallic buzz of the doorbell rattled through the haze of her hangover. Her delivery of hand-kneaded sourdough bread from the Hasidic bakery had arrived, earlier than expected.
She hastily fastened the Free-Trade Cotton Towel around her bosom. It was scratchy, like the paws of her afghan hound Mao. She raced the twelve feet to the other side of her Loft Studio apartment and pushed aside the beaded curtain covering her window, peering out onto Bedford Avenue. She was expecting to see the usual Yarmulke, but instead found her eyes drawn to the black and white houndstooth fedora on the street below. Behind the fedora stood a 1965 Baby Blue Triumph Tigress motor scooter. She gasped, and quickly lit a cigarette. It was a marlboro - she hoped he wouldn't be able to tell.
He reached her landing, his last steps followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of a Bic lighter. She quivered with anticipation. The smoke of his clove cigarette wafted through the cracks in her warped, reclaimed door. It didn't really fit in the frame, but then, neither did she. A single knock was all it took, and she yanked open the door.
She was overcome by the pungent aroma of yeast.
"Are you Agatha?"
A slight nod was all she could muster, and he thrust his loaf forward. She took it into her hands, it was big. Bigger than she remembered. She averted her gaze, but found herself looking at a pair of size 14 high-tops. Her eyes rose to his bony ankles, which poked out provocatively from under his pedal-pushers.
"Is that P-Jack Popsicle and the Theory of Licks?"
She had forgotten about the Hungarian electro-pop emanating from her Bose SoundDock portable iPod speakers.
"You know P-Jack?" She said, cocking her hips to the side, exposing the creamy, unblemished skin of her thigh. "Have you heard them live from Addis Abbaba?" He hadn't. Following her in, he noticed that the shower was running.
"I'm sorry, did I interrupt anything?"
"No, sometimes I let the water run and put on a towel, just to feel something real."
He was hard.
"Let me find the album." She crossed to the Gorilla Coffee Crate that doubled as a nightstand and bent over, fumbling with the clickwheel. As she leaned forward, her towel slipped, exposing a single, ironically large nipple. He put out his cigarette in the burgundy-stained stemless wine glass sitting next to the futon.
He could no longer maintain his disinterest. He strode across the floor and placed his calloused hand firmly on her hip. She turned to face him, and for a brief moment drank in his vacant air of superiority. As he bent down to kiss her, he thought back to his freshman year at Columbia and the Anthropology professor that taught him Ginsburg and anal.
She pulled his hand-stenciled Tamil Tigers t-shirt over his head, pushing him backwards onto her futon. She knew that his cum would taste of weed and asparagus.

Fin

As we leave Film Forum I begin to feel the bottle of whiskey we snuck in with us. I know you feel it too as I take in the warmth of your embrace on the frigid winter night. The touch of your soft lips against my skin as we walk through the village, stopping only to look at records on the street, which no one is selling. No one is here but us. Moving quickly across Houston we drink more of the whiskey, and you tell me about your favorite noir. Your red sequined converse sparkle underneath the orange streetlights. We push each other into a nondescript alleyway and begin to peel off whatever layers of clothes we can afford to and I start to quote Godard while putting my fingers inside you. Although we are freezing I feel the blood inside my body rising to a temperature not seen since summer. "You really got me wet when you referenced Bergman during the movie." She tells me as I start alternating between licking her nipples and blowing warm breath on them. "I wanted to fuck you after you recited that bit from 'The Man who Fell to Earth.' I tell her as I take in another of her smokey kisses.

"Even though we walked to St. Marks from the Forum I don't feel cold at all" she tells me, still wrapped around my body as we arrive at her doorstep. " I want to give you something I've been meaning to since we met..." she tells me pushing me onto the bed. Walking in like a smoldering Barbara Stanwyk she gives me a femme fatale striptease before we fuck in the early morning sunrise, not letting the sunlight ruin our noir fantasy.

Noise Band in Your Pants

I spotted you across the basement over the shoulder of the guitar player. In such a cramped space faces were only visible for a glimmer of a second. Our eyes met, mine piercing through your horn rim glasses, totally bypassing the sequin on each upper corner. I brushed my bangs out of my face, pushing the whole deal over to one side so it hung down to nose level just left of my face. Underneath my second hand hound’s-tooth blazer, Argyle cardigan, and Fighting T-shirt my chest started thudding with maniac excitement.

I swilled down the last of my PBR, which incidentally was almost the whole can, and started shimmying my way though the crowd. I parted the sea of band shirts, blazers, and second rate moustaches until I was standing just near enough to see the unlabeled bottle of homebrew in your hand.

I began to dance furiously and people somehow managed to make some space. The band was playing something that sounded like a cat being beaten with a salmon and a wah wah pedal, but with a little more lyrical content thrown in. It was danceable, and pretty soon you disappeared your beer and were keeping time with my spastic flailing and hopping.

When the song stopped, so did we, mere inches from each other, sweating with well earned perspiration. You glasses were steaming up, and I said something along the lines of “I do declare! It’s a scorcher in here. “ I offhandedly addressed you saying to nobody in particular, “wanna go get another drink?”

“Sure” you said and my whole body did a little heel tap. We climbed the stairs and stole some beers, you being out of your home brew and me being too distracted to care what cheap swill I drank.

Somehow one beer later we were out on the porch talking about Fred Penner’s Place, Kurt Vonnegut, and Mario Kart. It was nostalgic foreplay at its finest. I told you about my art career, and you told me about your shitty retail job saying you’d much rather follow your passion for art, though your parents couldn’t afford it yet.

A half hour later we were riding our fixies (I can’t believe you ride a fixie too!) back to my house on Main Street, weaving playfully though the deserted streets and passing a bottle of whiskey off back and forth.

We were up the stairs and in my bedroom in the blink of an elephants eye, you glasses messing up my bangs and your neon pink flats getting lost along the way. I quickly unbutton your Mr. Rodgers sweater to reveal an architecture in Helsinki cutoff with a bit of black bra strap peeking from the cut out neckline.

I begin to nibble and suck your neck, while your hands peel off layers, unbuttoning and unzipping. I pull off your loose shirt. You attack my neck with love nibbles while my hands slide under your shoulder straps and pull down with one swift motion revealing your Tom Robbins Heroine beautiful breasts.

For a brief moment I think of Chomsky, then think of what all his worries are depriving him of while I drop to my knees and begin caressing and sucking your breasts. You pitch your head back and moan, and I breathe warm air onto your tight nipple while my tongue flicks all around the areola and firm bud.

You pull off my shirt and we collapse onto my bed, which is covered with transformers sheets I found at a yard sale last summer. Our clothes disappear though it takes an awkward moment to untie my Throwback Vans high-tops. Somewhere in the background the Kings of Leon are pumping out some tasty rock riffs, while I lick and kiss my way down to your peach fields. I feel my scruffy beard rubbing against the downy brillo of your landing strip, and I push your legs apart to reveal a not unkempt, but non-kindergarten arrangement of pubic hair. I kiss and suck along the inside of each thigh, moving towards your pussy then backing off, then repeating. Between each thigh I place a closed lip kiss on your clit, then flick it once with my tongue. Each time you wince, and after three of four passes, you’re gyrating your hips against the bed to try and head my mouth off at the pass.

I begin to tenderly lick and kiss you clit while my hands explore your abdomen, breasts and inner thigh. Then I grasp your buttocks and begin to work you clit hard with my mouth and tongue, teasing, sucking, and flicking until you’re squirming the way I like you. I play your pussy like old school Nintendo, moving my head to try to make you jump higher or run faster. Then when you’re getting close to the warp zone, I slip two fingers into your pussy and begin with a come hither motion that would make David Bowie proud. You begin to spasm around my fingers and your hips buck unpredictably. I latch on and suck for dear life, until your spasms subside, then I ease off, kissing your clit tenderly while my fingers retreat and massage your lips and fleshy outer folds.

Once you’ve regained your head, I ask for some. You eagerly pull off my American Apparel Briefs and begin to bathe my cock with your tongue. I let you suck and play with it for while before asking if you’re ready. You look up at me and smile, and I see it in your eyes without you saying a word. I produce a condom almost as if by magic and roll it on. You straddle me and that pussy that tasted so good is all of a sudden the center of my world.

You ride me hard, moaning and rubbing my chest while I play with your tits and tell you how beautiful you are. I flip you over onto your back and put you though my driving lesson, until you’re tensing and grabbing at the sheets and wall. I put you on your knees and face you towards the large mirror on the wall so I can fuck you doggy style while still looking into your eyes.

I begin to pound away while you meet me on every stroke. I feel the clenching in my nuts and you lick your lips and smile saying “c’mon baby, I want you to cum.”

I give one last push and lose it, both of us half gasping half yelling incoherently, until my orgasm subsides. We collapse, me on top of you and catch our breath. After a minute I slowly pull out, making you shudder, and pull off the condom. My dick is still pretty stiff though, and you notice immediately.

“Got another in ya?” you ask.

“Definitely” I say.

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."

She pushed him like a living toy onto the college grass. His mouth wooed her. Did you see the words? They caressed her sensuous pale skin like two sails on a sound. They fucked purposely out of sync with the inside music as April imagined the soundtrack of "Run, Lola, Run" beating away inside her brain. She rode his peacebone harder and harder until, amid his loud water cursing, he essploded. A little too soon, she thought, but this wouldn't turn into something anyway. Quite suddenly, she gasped, and spasmed in fireworks. At the top of her voice she screamed "This one's for Reverend Green!" in a burst of ironic joy. It was the type of night when you collected your animals with haste.

Wafting from the window of a studio apartment was the damp dark smell of a wet clove cigarette, still burning, burning like the desire in the loins of two young hipsters lounging on a fire escape. The metal was cold and glistening with water from a rain that minutes ago left them both soaked.

Jade lifted her sopping head to stare intently into Kenneth's bottomless eyes. She had to squint to see into the depths of his soul. He was, after all, wearing thick black framed glasses. Kenneth wiped the droplets off of his lenses with his striped vintage shirt. As he lifted the fabric, Jade got a glimpse of what was underneath. His abdomen, shining like the moon, glowed delicately. She breathed in sharply. He set the glasses back onto his slightly crooked nose.

"Jade..." said Kenneth, with a look of utmost desire and emotion.
"What is it baby?"
"Wait…Hmm hmm hmm woop woo woop..." huffed Kenneth, eyes shut in concentration. Jade wrinkled her nose in confusion.
"Baby, what the fuck?"
"I was quoting an Animal Collective song. It just came to me."
"You are so right." Jade began rubbing her hand down his chest, smoothing out the wrinkles of his shirt. Ever so slowly, she began unbuttoning his faded jeans.
"What are you doing? Someone could see!"
"Yea. Doesn't it make you hot?" Kenneth began to howl.
"Oh baby I know you like it rough." Jade snarled.
Kenneth let out a moan as Jade began running her fingernails along his shaft. It was already beginning to stiffen. They frantically ripped off each other's garments. As he was beginning to remove her scarf she grabbed his wrist.
"No. Let me." She put his hands behind his back and tied him to the handrail.
"There is no escape from this fire escape. Hahahaha." She giggled, pushing him down on his knees. Kenneth chuckled nervously and tested his strength against his bondage. It was to no avail. Her knots were strong from her participation in the subversive underground knitting movement. He gulped a small gulp, but a gulp nonetheless.

Jade began to undo her own pants. There were many zippers to unzip. She stood before him in her skivvies that portrayed many small owls doing macramé.
"These are my sex panties. Do they make you hot, you sweaty bitch!?!?!" Jade yowled. Kenneth cowered before this Amazonian woman. He fervently tried to hide behind his overgrown bangs. Her musk hit him in powerful waves. It was a mix of cigarettes, stray cats, moldy literature, residual love-making, and tempeh. He squeaked.
"Did you say something my little mollusk? Are you ready to come with me to my octopus's garden?"
"Are the Beatles clichéd yet?" Kenneth whispered.
"They're so clichéd that they're cool again." Jade hissed, flicking sweat and spit onto his pallid dick as she spoke. He braced himself. They were both in a fever from all the tension.
"I want to fuck you like an animal!" Jade screamed.
"That is so 90s! The 90s are in! Give me that grungy pussy and fuck me already you fucking bitch!" Kenneth yodeled. Jade got down on her hands and knees, and slowly slid onto his ready cock. Kenneth came.
"Fuck." he cursed quietly.
"I'm going to go wash up." She got up and went back into the apartment.
"Wait a second! This hasn't happened to me since the Morissey concert…" Kenneth grumbled, fidgeting against his bonds. It was just about dawn. The city was lifting its monstrous head from slumber. Kenneth yelled into the window as he saw Jade stir frying tofu for breakfast.
"Let me in!"
"Breakfast is almost ready!" Jade replied.
She smiled as her neighbors began to leave for work.

She saw him from a distance. He, like her, was swaying listlessly to the band onstage, hair fluffed high, hands in the pockets of his vintage leather jacket. He probably got it at Salvation Army. She nurtured a small feeling of superiority. She got all of her vintage clothing at a privately-owned thrift store that was only open two hours a week. No one knew about it. It was her special, dark place, and she couldn't wait for it to sell out so she could tell everyone she went there before it was cool.

As she watched, he adjusted his shades — necessary in the harsh indoor light of the Two Gallants concert. She couldn't see his eyes, and suddenly, she desperately wanted to. Would they be gray like the buildings in Williamsburg, or brown like the dirty orphans that lived on her stoop? She snapped her gaze down to his skinny jeans, and stared at his Keds. They were the same color as hers: white.

Self-consciously she wondered if her retro 1970s dress was ironic enough. It was garish, but not garish enough. Maybe someone thought she bought this dress sincerely.
Well, there was only one thing to do: look as uninterested as possible. She sucked at her Parliament Light, wondering if she'd get a chance to snort the coke she'd snuck in.

"Hey, could I bum a cigarette?"

Like a yuppie soccer mom looking at the window display of Pottery Barn, he was at her elbow, peering at through his shades, her aviators, and the long greasy bangs that hung down her face. She pretended not to hear him, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

"Hey, Carly Simon. Could I bum a cigarette?"

Carly Simon? So he was into seething out-of-control party girls. Didn't he realize that she didn't care about Carly Simon, out of control party girls, or anything else that he was saying? She raked her grimy fingers through her bangs, pulling them back over her eyes, and pulled on her Parliament Light.

"Why should I? Aren't cigarettes just a social construct?"

He paused, taking a swig of his Pabst Blue Ribbon. Then he leaned close to her and whispered, "I want you. Even if your dress is too sincere."

He took off his shades, and she saw that his eyes were blue. Blue like the veins that stood out from her pale white arms, blue like the veins that probably ran down his skinny, soft, white stomach.

She grabbed his oversized belt buckle, pulling his skinny hips close. The PBR in his hand spilled onto the people around them, but concerts were exhibitionist manifestations of the Panopticon, anyway. She slid her hands under his flannel shirt, running her hands over the wifebeater he was wearing underneath.

Before she could deconstruct the rest of his outfit, he slipped his hand down her teal leggings and into her Hello Kitty panties. She tried to appear as apathetic as possible as she dug her fingernails into his pale, slouching back. This was almost as good as the time she read Proust for the first time...but not as good as the time she read James Joyce's Ulysses for the first time. The only time she'd had sex that good was when the graffiti artist on the subway and she had copulated on the 6 train as a form of social commentary.

Now he was muttering band names into her hair, caressing her hair with the same attention he'd show a record player.

"Do you want to fuck on my used mattress in a studio loft in Williamsburg?" she whispered.

"No."

"Oh." She awkwardly turned to the side, and he slid his hand out of her underwear. "Whatever."

We drank and danced all night, and I normally fuck DJs over rocker guys, but open bar will do strange things to a girl. He danced like he was being attacked by a swarm of bees, and I knew he liked me when he only made out with two of my friends in the bathroom. He said he lived in “east Williamsburg”, but I know that meant Buschwick, so I suggested my place. He pulled my hips to his and kissed me allover my neck on the F train, and finger fucked me while we waited for the L train at 6^th avenue. I bought a 6 pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon on the way back to my place, as the commute was sobering me up and he wasn’t as cute outside of a dark club.

I took out his cock and his jet black fashion mullet wouldn’t have led me to believe he was a ginger, but his pubes proved me wrong. He nibbled on my ear and told me to check out his band’s myspace. I decided to put on my “Rap” playlist on my iPod, because it’s cool to be open to different types of music. He said something about not having a condom so I quickly dumped out my huge black purse I only spent $20 on at canal street to find one of the twenty free NYC condoms I had stolen from Union Pool the previous night. He picked up the photobooth pictures from the spilled contents of my purse, and commented on how hot the guy with me was. Bisexuals are so progressive. In our sweaty throws of passion, I completely ignored my roommates desperately trying to sleep on the other side of the wall. I knew all they could hear was the squeaking of us fucking on my ikea sofa futon.

As I took pictures on my camera phone of him passed out on my couch the next morning wearing nothing but baby blue American apparel briefs, I knew there was a revealing myspace bulletin in his future….when I came out of the bathroom and he had dressed himself in MY cheap Mondays thinking they were his, I knew he was the one. We laughed a kind of laugh that only comes from the happiness of finding that perfect sweater vest at beacon’s closet. He asked if he could use my eyeliner before he left, and as I watched him leave I knew we would have a long happy relationship for the next three months.

As I bent over to see what he was reading on his sleek white-as-cum 13" MacBook screen on his lap, I could see he had taken off his black H&M jeans. Licking my lips, I pulled out his (also 13") cock. And in mid-blow, as I read the latest neo-feminist screed on Jezebel, I said to myself, "Oh god" -- both reacting to the size of his massive cock and the total injustices faced by women today.

With my right hand, I could feel his balls rippling (I know "wtf right?"), ready to burst, through his pine green boxer briefs from American Apparel...

I smile as you enter the bedroom, your halloween makeup starting to smear only ever so slightly, even after dancing all night. I run my hands through your beehive hairdo as you slowly strip me of my cheap mondays. Zach Condon sings softly over my speakers while I help you pull off the black tank top you have on, revealing those fantastic breasts, held together by the agent provocateur bra I worked weeks at the cafe to buy for your birthday. You're wearing my neon orange american apparel underwear, which makes me smile more. "I was wondering where these went" I whisper in your ear as I slide them off. My mouth following down from your ear, down your arms with all the hand drawn tattoos and further down your body... I can hear you moaning softly, sweetly. Your eyes closed tightly, I start to peel off your thick black fake eyelashes. As we begin to fuck I start to think that I love you, but that you were still only the second hottest Amy Winehouse at the party.

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."

Something sharp was digging into her hip. She
unlatched the carabiner on his pants, sending all 30
keys crashing to the ground, and his Dickies following
quickly after. His too-tight briefs were pink, but
she just knew they were organic.

In the dimly lit room she could make out a poster. She
panicked. Was that Brooke Burke? He pushed her down
to his uncircumcised dick (he told her his penis was
ironic), and she was pretty sure his pubic hair was
shaped into a landing strip. His balls were definitely
shaved. Everything smelled like cologne.

"Oh that feels so good. How about some music? Have you
ever heard of Arcade Fire? They're kinda indie."

She heard the unmistakable bassline of ‘Haiti’ through
the Bose Wave Music System. "Have you heard this
yet?"

A wave of nausea washed over her.

"Yes."

Mid-blow she quickly scanned his bookshelf: Dan
Brown’s "The Da Vinci Code". Dan Brown's "Angels and
Demons".

"Oh fuck no," she said.

"I hope you don't mind, but I get a little racist when
I fuck."

Her head was spinning. She was going to vomit.

"Where are we?"

"Williamsburg, baby. Williamsburg. With the artists."

SMS: After you cut my hair I'm going to play with the hem of your dress until you sigh like Jennifer Tilly and kiss my breasts while we listen to Andrew Bird until sunrise.

"Don't forget to write, let us know what you're up to over the next few years." –Win Butler of Arcade Fire

Walking across the Triborough bridge. It smells like summer in New York—which isn’t a good thing. But we are making this pilgrimage together—with the rest of these well dressed figures for the final night of touring for Arcade Fire and LCD Soundsystem.

The show is loud and perfect. “New York I love you---but you’re bringing me down”. Arcade Fire is a cathartic encounter. Takes the air out of me, when you hold me from behind during Neighborhood #1—“Then I’ll dig a tunnel…from my window to yours.”

My feet are numb from hours of standing. You hold my hand the whole way home, the headlights of the cars guiding our way back to the city.

She knows he’s ready because she can hear the clatter of his all his belts – four, possibly five – as they hit the floor, buckle against boards.

He’s not so much in the bedroom as standing silhouetted behind the painted sheet that separates where he’s placed his bed from the rest of his studio. And it’s not so much a bed as it is a box spring and a mattress on the floor. But it’s real, she thinks. You know? Real. Like Bjork.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m ready.”

She moves around the hanging sheet, and he stands there, all his bones surfacing against his pale skin, paler in the blue light from his iBook. He is skinny, skinnier than the boys she remembered in high school, but there is a dichotomy to the way his face is white and his hair is black, sweeping over one eye – the way his body his tense but his lips are soft with organic balm. She knows he will taste like ginger, and she knows she will taste like coffee and Parliament Lights.

Pulp is playing – softly – and is it appropriate that it’s the Hardcore album, the one with the picture of the porn starlet on the front, right before they do the inevitable and fuck? Fuck hardcore?

Her clothes are wet from riding back to his studio in the rain, clinging to him on the back of his moped, and the buttons on her denim jacket stick. The light glints off all her one-inch pins (Cursive, The Paper Chase, Nine Inch Nails (just to be kitsch) and a plea to put an end to sweatshops), and off her black fingernails and all the piercings in her ears and the one in her lower lip.

The tension in the room is palpable, though the air is cool. She slips out of her tunic dress, peels away her lace, footless tights and slips out of her ballet flats. She unhooks her bra and throws it aside and as she rolls down her panties, he can see she hasn’t shaved in at least a week.

But it’s okay with him. He hasn’t shaved in four days.

She steps closer to him; he is trembling. As she presses her body against his own, he whispers into her ear,

“Don’t you think it’s strange we’ve been going to the same coffeehouse for three months and still haven’t fucked?”

“No,” she says. “I knew it would happen when you wrote that thing on the bathroom wall with a Sharpie.”

“You knew that was me?”

His hand reaches down to feel between her thighs, to softly thumb her clitoris like he would the E string on his acoustic guitar.

“Who else would write, ‘Wait, they don’t like you like I love you, Amelia?,” she asks.

He pulls her down to his mattresses, and it’s a long way, and an entanglement of their tiny limbs, but once they are there, he is on top of her, kissing her madly.

As he slips his knee between her thighs, spreading her legs with the same joy as when his favourite band puts out a new album and he’s yet to see the liner, he feels his cock grow hard and his heart start to pound to the bass line that backs the voice of Jarvis Cocker.

“I knew when I saw you reading that dog-eared copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being that I would make love to you,” he says.

She takes his cock in her hands, stroking and then surprises him:

“Roll over.”
“What for?”
“Just do it.”

He is confused, but he climbs off of her and settles down on his stomach. She sits and reaches for her messenger bag.

“What are you getting?”

“Relax, Winston.”

He thinks of Frankie Goes to Hollywood and tries. He can’t see her behind him, but he can hear the clicking of something metal, like a belt. Like his belts that clattered to the floor.

He can see her shadow falling over him as he stares at his hands splayed out before him, the Ms indicating he is only 19 still visible from the show the night before.

And then he feels it, a cold, wetness at his anus.

“What are you doing?”

“Shhh,” she says.

“I’m going to use my strap-on.”

He tries to roll over but she pushes him back down.

“This is progressive, Winston,” she says. “Don’t you want to be progressive?”

And Winston does very much want to be progressive. He closes his eyes and he lays there, and he keeps thinking about that Frankie Goes to Hollywood song, and keeps trying to relax as she begins to ease the plastic through the threshold. His cock is still hard, and his mind racing from the Aderall he snorted off the back of the coffeehouse toilet six hours ago.

She softly sings My Body is a Cage from Arcade Fire’s last album to him.

“My minds holds the key,” he mutters to himself as he resists tensing. “My mind holds the key.”

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!

You just scored some Coachella tickets from your best friend and ask me
if I want to go with you. I respond by taking off my thrift store shirt. I tell
you that undergarments are a symbol of the patriarchy and you agree. You
begin kissing my neck and whisper, "I want to hear you moan like Bjork
singing Joga." We fuck so hard that your carefully gelled hair falls down
into your eyes, and I think you look a little bit like Brian Wilson in his
younger days.

In The Backseat With The Headlights

The Headlights on Myspace

The Headlights Website

-All questions answered by Erin of The Headlights

What album do you like to listen to while making out?

yo la tengo, and then nothing turned itself inside out.

What song describes your first kiss?

ummm. some beach boys song maybe.

What is your favorite sandwich?

we went to this place in portland, oregon called Gravy. They had this AMAZING grilled salmon sandwich. i dont know if its my favorite...but it was really good

Do you find that being on tour helps or hinders your love life?

It's hard to be away from your mate on the road. But it really just depends on the couple.

Describe your perfect date?

making a great meal together at home. watching movies. just being home with the person you love.

Favorite Superhero?

Quail man...come on I know some of you watched Doug too.

What song turns you on every time you hear it?

D'Angelo record Voodoo is unbelievably sexy.

What do you think is the sexiest instrument?

Guitar.

Leather or lace?

lace.

Do you date other musicians?

yes i date another musician.

What do you like to do after sex? Sleep, cuddle, smoke, thumb wars, eat pop tarts?

That is for only us to know.

Do you kiss/make out on the first date?

I haven't had a first date for a while. My boyfriend would tell you yes though.

Have you ever written a song to get a girl/boy?

nope...that sounds like the making for a really bad song.

If you could make out with any musician who would it be?
hate to be cheesy but, my boyfriend.

Why do you think music is so closely associated with love/sex?
I think that music is always closely tied to emotions. so are love and sex. therefore, it's a perfect match.

Lastly…..what is your favorite love song?

This must be the place (naive melody) Talking Heads

You’ve been on tour for 4 days. I’ve read Side Effects by Woody Allen, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, and The Neon Bible. I listened to the new AIR album 8 times and still can’t get into it. I heard all the voices in the background during every call, while the line on my end just echoed some shitty Gorilla vs. Bear band—that I will probably end of loving.

I was mad when I got The Break Up in the Netflix envelope. I can’t believe you hacked my netflix account in order to make sure that I don’t watch Devo: The Complete Truth About De-evolution without you. The Lake House has mysteriously found its way as #3 on my queue list behind Employee of the Month and The Last Kiss. Fuck off! Thanks to you-- I might never get Zach Galifniakis’ new DVD or Sherrybaby starring Maggie Gyllenhaal. In your honor I put in Secretary with Ms. Gyllehaul and got myself off 3 times in the first 40 minutes.

When you get home I want you to walk through the door smelling like road trips and whisky. Turn up the speakers and play me the new Wilco album while I’m still sleeping and then climb in to bed and put your hand inside me. Fuck me back and forth with your fingers until I start to suck your dick to the sounds of Jeff Tweedy echoing in my Art Noveau/Flea Market studio. An hour later we will make vegan breakfast and then sleep for 3 days straight.

In The Backseat With The Submarines

www.thesubmarines.com/
myspace.com/thesubmarinesmusic


What album do you like to listen to while making out?

blake: depends on what kind of make-out but, sometimes 'astralweeks' by
van morrison.

John: The Best Of Bread by Bread. David Gates is so dreamy.

What song describes your first kiss?

blake: 'thirteen' by big star - mine was under the desks in first grade.
catholic school will do that to you.

John: Mine was in 5th grade and i can't think of a song that discribes the
situation. I wrote Holly Meyers a note asking her if she wanted to kiss
after school. When we met, I was absolutely petrified with anticipation
and she had to make the first move. Maybe an Alfred Hitchcock soundtrack?

What is your favorite sandwich?

blake: fresh mozarella, basil and tomatoe - with everything really fresh
and some amazing french bread and really dry white wine. ummm.

John: A total guilty pleasure is the grilled cheese with spinach and
chipotle sauce from Millie's in Silverlake.

Do you guys find that being on tour helps or hinders your love life?

blake: we're in a lucky situation of getting to tour as a couple. hotel
rooms and strange places do it for me, so...i would say it helps.

John: yeah. i agree with blake. it's fresh.

Describe your perfect date?

blake: hmmm well that has changed a little. truth be told i think we're
both ecstatic just to see a good movie, have a lovely meal, drink some
wine and come home. leisure's become a real luxury.

John: that sounds perfect. doing all of the above at home is just right too.

What turns you on?

blake: the unexpectedly innapropriate. or the unexpected and
innapropriate.

John: This is too naughty. I shall not reveal.

What song did you lose your virginity to?

blake: i think it was totally quiet, but maybe that's because i was just
concentrating.

John: I belive the record was Murmur by REM. I don't remember a specific
song.

Favorite Superhero?
John: Bootsy Collins

What song turns you on every time you hear it?

blake: almost anything by serge gainsbourg.

John: Especially if Bridgette Bardot is breathing in it.

What do you think is the sexiest instrument?

blake: on its own, definitely the cello. otherwise, if played by the
right person, they're all sexy. i've even seen sexy triangle playing!

John: The tambourine is fucking hot! I also love the cello but maybe
that's more romantic.

Craziest place you've ever made out?

blake: i still appreciate the airplane. it takes some incredible coaxing
to relax on a plane for me, so it's quite a nice thing when it happens.

John: Yeah, that was a long flight. It was exciting-even when the drunk
Afrikaner dude was banging on the door.

Leather or lace?

blake: thousands of of butterflies, blades of grass and rain dripping off
the spout.

John: Lace would go well that.

What do you like to do after sex? Sleep, cuddle, smoke, thumb wars,
eat pop tarts?

blake: have a great laugh, an all-out good giggle and then maybe it's
everybody into the shower! soap! fun! depends where i am, really....

John: "Everybody"!? That sounds like an orgy, Hazard. Where was I? For me
doing absolutely nothing is perfect. I'm never more relaxed in my life
than after.

Why do you think music is so closely associated with love/sex?

blake: i don't know, it's all so primordial, animal, chemical and basic.
i'd think music, sex and love have probably been influencing and helping
to create the other since the beginning of human contact.

John: The beat.

Lastly…..what is your favorite love song?

blake: tough to narrow it down! some favorite sad love songs are:
'for no one,' by the beatles and 'maps,' by yeah yeah yeahs. perhaps
favorite of all-time is 'birthday,' by the sugarcubes. it's not an obvious love song, but it's so deliciously weird about love and fondness.?

John: "God Only Knows".

I am wearing short-shorts made of Channel wallets duct-taped around my
waist. I smile as you brush against me, whispering "I'm like a new
Joanna Newson song, I take my time and make it last.' You look at my
Nikes and get a rather disgusted look on your face - but it turns to a
smile as you realize they are 2nd hand throwback-dunks. You know I
didn't support poor labor standards, and that I most likely have made my
own Spank Rock mash-up. It makes you hot, we go back to my place and I
set all 6 of my Tech 1200s up on day-timers so we don't have to stop.
The TV is on, News Hour with Jim Lehrer - lets you know I'm educated.
Prolly after sex I will talk about how we didn't really win in
Afghanistan. In the morning we'll get veggie cream-cheese bagels, if you
can walk.

She was on her hands and knees. He moved behind her, and using his
hand to guide himself, slide into her. Rocking his hips back and
forth, he found a steady pace and slowly fucked her.

She quietly moaned, and said,"Oh my god you're dick is so big. You're
dick is bigger than Colin Meloy's ego."

"That's right it is isn't it, yeah it fucking is, yeah," he replied,
and then informed her, "You're tighter than Bloc Party's set list."

As she neared orgasm her moans grew louder, and louder. She yelped
out,"Oh god, yes! That feels so good, talk to me dirty, please."

He replied,"Dirty, huh? Okay you dirty slut, yeah I bet you like my
dick, huh?"

"Dirtier than that!"

"Alright... you're just a cheap sell out. Yeah you sell out bitch.
Take the dick like you did for the major label. I'm Capitol, and
you're Liz Phair, suck the corporate cock!"

"Oh my god! I'm going to cum!"

We arrange records on the floor-7 across and 7 down. I hate your picks and you hate mine despite the similiarity of them all. I’m the Courtney Taylor to your Anton Newcomb and so to compromise we make a pact to listen to whatever album I cum on—regardless of whose pick it was.

We lay across the records and start to kiss. Malajube is blaring on your iMac—I have no idea what they are saying but I fucking love it when you slip your fingers inside me during Montreal -40 degrees Celsius. And by the time La Monogamie comes on I’m sucking you off as you pull on my long brown hair.

I become so wet and even dizzy-- like that day last summer when I found out I won the ebay auction for that Pavement “Slanted and Enchanted” Vinyl LP on my first bid. I lay down as your hard cock slides inside me to the rhythm of Casse-Cou. Three minutes later I’m cuming harder than the time you fucked me on your pork pie drum set.

I pull out the record from under me—it’s Kraftwerk “Computer World”. I win.

In The Backseat With My Brightest Diamond

www.mybrightestdiamond.com/
www.myspace.com/mybrightestdiamond

What album do you like to listen to while making out? Prince's Purple Rain.

What song describes your first kiss?
Raspberry Beret.

What is your favorite sandwich?
Starfish and coffee.

Do you find that being on tour helps or hinders your love life?
Hinders.

Describe your perfect date? Purple. Rain. Motorcycles. Big hair. Airplanes. Kissing. Bad movies.

What turns you on?
Prince.

What song did you lose your virginity to? No songs were played.

Favorite Superhero?
Wonderwoman.

What song turns you on every time you hear it?
I hate you (because I love you). That part in the song where Prince is "in court" with the girl and he says, "Raise your right hand. Tell the truth. Did you do it to your other man, the same things that you did to me? Right now I hate you so much I wanna make love, until you see, that it's killin' me baby, to be without you, cause all I ever wanted to do was to be with you!" and then he hits this really high note, and I fall over every time.


What do you think is the sexiest instrument?
Prince's guitar

Craziest place you've ever made out?
In front of the entire middle school after the 8th grade farewell.

Leather or lace?
Velvet.

Do you date other musicians?
Never.

What do you like to do after sex? Sleep, cuddle, smoke, thumb wars, eat pop tarts?
Be quiet.

Do you kiss/make out on the first date?
Um.. depends.

Have you ever written a song to get a girl/boy? Only once I wrote a song to get RID of a boy. I try not to be so passive aggressive anymore.

If you could make out with any musician who would it be?
Prince.

Why do you think music is so closely associated with love/sex?
Music is primal and has rhythm, direction, pace, climax and ecstasy.

Lastly, what is your favorite love song?
How come you don't call me anymore.

In The Backseat With Tad Kubler of The Hold Steady

www.theholdsteady.com/
myspace.com/theholdsteady

What album do you like to listen to while making out?
anything by Jon Brion

What song describes your first kiss?
Boston - Hitching a Ride

What is your favorite sandwich?
BLT

Do you find that being on tour helps or hinders your love life?
is this a trick question? I mostly just miss my daughter.

Describe your perfect date?
sex.

What turns you on?
confidence and competence.

What song did you lose your virginity to?
Steve Miller Band - don't remember the song.

Favorite Superhero?
not my style...

What song turns you on every time you hear it?
Hope Sadoval - pretty much anything.

What do you think is the sexiest instrument?
Piano

Craziest place you've ever made out?
hospital. But I had sex in a church once.

Leather or lace? lace

Do you date other musicians? try not to.

What do you like to do after sex? Sleep, cuddle, smoke, thumb wars, eat pop tarts?
bourbon

Do you kiss/make out on the first date?
I fuck on the first date.

Have you ever written a song to get a girl/boy?
why else would you write a song?

If you could make out with any musician who would it be?
Guitar player from the Donnas. Without question.

Why do you think music is so closely associated with love/sex?
not sure, really

Lastly…..what is your favorite love song?
Sunken Treasure - Jeff Tweedy

In The Backseat With John Roderick of The Long Winters

The Long Winters
myspace.com/the long winters


What album do you like to listen to while making out?
My Bloody Valentine: Loveless. It's a great make-out record, and it's a lot hipper than Judas Priest's Screaming for Vengeance

What song describes your first kiss?
The Honeydrippers: Sea of Love. It happened to be playing as we were getting ready for the Junior prom, and she leaned in and hit me with a big one.

What is your favorite sandwich?
Hmmm. Katz's Deli pastrami, on Houston street.

Do you find that being on tour helps or hinders your love life?
Well, it's not the best lifestyle if you want to have a commited relationship where you bake carrot cake together and talk in baby talk, or whatever, but we sure do meet a lot of cute girls.

Describe your perfect date?
We steal an old Jeep CJ-5 on the streets of Los Angeles and try to make it to the TIERRA DEL FUEGO!

What turns you on?
Pocohantas costumes, especially the little loincloth type. I have a little Captain John Smith thing going on.

What song did you lose your virginity to?
Parents Just Don't Understand by Jazzy Jeff and Fresh Prince. Sorry to say.

Favorite Superhero?
The 1960's Spiderman. He was hilarious.

What song turns you on every time you hear it?
Uh. Cat Power's the Greatest. Also, Mass Romantic by New Pornographers.

What do you think is the sexiest instrument?
To play? The bass, defintely, but I think the French horn sounds the sexiest.

Craziest place you've ever made out?
Ground zero in NYC after 911.

Leather or lace?
Leather.

Do you date other musicians?
I try not to. Usually there's not enough room for all the egos and overacting, and I'm not even talking about the girl. I prefer the sexy librarians who majored in etymology and laugh like nerds.

What do you like to do after sex? Sleep, cuddle, smoke, thumb wars, eat pop tarts?
I used to like to smoke, but I recently quit (again) so now I like to eat ice cream.

Do you kiss/make out on the first date?
In general, I'd say mostly no. I'm not adverse to it, but I don't put a ton of pressure on, either.

Have you ever written a song to get a girl/boy?
Are you kidding? Every freaking song I ever wrote!

If you could make out with any musician who would it be?
Linda Ronstadt in 1974.

Why do you think music is so closely associated with love/sex?
Beats me. Most male rock musicians are totally short, hairy dudes who are really overcompensating. Oh wait, maybe the rhythm of the drums stimulates ovulation.

Lastly…..what is your favorite love song?
Sweet Leaf by Black Sabbath.

Sonic Youth, TV on the Radio, Joanna Newsom, Spank Rock, Clipse, The Knife—it makes me hot to read your revised (for the 10th time) top ten list of 2006, with its carefully descriptive reasoning and quoted lyrics. No one will ever see this list after today—you’ll probably throw it away because blogging about it would be such a cliché not to mention a total turn off. I unbutton your shirt slowly on the cab ride home, one button per block as you unhook my bra under my vintage tweed jumper. Your roommates are away for Christmas so you start to undress me in the hallway. I’m down to my legwarmers and fingerless gloves as we walk into your apartment. You put on Sufjan Stevens christmas box set (the “JOY” ep) as we fuck against the mantle that’s strung with American Apparel socks- one for each roommate. (Which I notice are all filled with candy canes and Whole Foods gift cards). You make me cum twice during Sufjan’s rendition of Away in a Manger.

Artwork by Audrey Kawasaki

In The Backseat With Sparrowhouse

Sparrowhouse
Myspace.com/Sparrowhouse


What album do you like to listen to while making out?
"endless summer" by fennesz.

What song describes your first kiss?
"don't stand so close to me"

What is your favorite sandwich?
it involves avocado, muenster cheese, sprouts, lettuce, tomato, and thin slices of cucumber. turkey optional. i'm a sucker for white bread.

Do you find that being on tour helps or hinders your love life?
well, it's hard to say. there are people i wouldn't have met if i were not touring, but then it's been impossible to sustain because of distance. in the end, i guess you can meet people anywhere. i would have to say that strong relationships can sustain someone being away for a long time, but they are really hard to develop when you're in the middle of it.

Describe your perfect date?
scrabble and a movie

What turns you on?
seven-letter words. actually no, i'm attracted to someone who is confident in their intelligence and therefore doesn't go out of their way to demonstrate it. i want a girl who is empathetic towards others and who can teach me how to be still. also, lips.

Do you date other musicians?
i'd prefer not to.

Do you kiss/make out on the first date?
usually

Have you ever written a song to get a girl/boy?
no, but now that i look back on it, i think i've written many to keep them.

What do you think is the sexiest instrument?
turntables, by far.

Why do you think music is so closely associated with love/sex?
rhythm, harmony... anyway, what isn't?

Lastly…..what is your favorite love song?
"ne me quitte pas" by jacques brel.

Hime by Lisa Alisa

In The Backseat With Ferraby Lionheart

ferrabylionheart.com
myspace.com/ferrabylionheart



What album do you like to listen to while making out?
I guess some Joao Gilberto maybe. maybe Electric Warrior – T. Rex

What song describes your first kiss?
“Jump” -Van Halen

What is your favorite sandwich?
Grilled tuna panini w/ swiss and avocado

Describe your perfect date?
Cook at home, watch a vid, make crayon drawings.

Is a love song better if it’s true?
Of course.

What turns you on?
Well dressed girl.

Favorite Superhero?
Inspector gadget.

What song turns you on every time you hear it?
“Thunder Only Happens When It’s Raining” – Fleetwood Mac

What do you think is the sexiest instrument?
Trombone, or electric guitar(if played by Brian May)

Leather or lace?
Lace looks good on a lady. Leather is good for shoes.

Do you date other musicians?
Sure

Do you kiss/make out on the first date?
I don’t think so.

Have you ever written a song to get a girl/boy?
Do you think that would work?

If you could make out with any musician who would it be?
I guess Sade.

Why do you think music is so closely associated with love/sex?
A man put his fingers through his lover’s long silken hair and pulled tightly across her tender ear. Strumming, gently at the taut strands, soft, fervid tones fell from her dark tresses and passed over their bodies. He whispered a melody in her ear. With words that described an eternal love, the man sang softly. Her body rose. The two joined like a harmonious chord.

What are “deal breakers” for you?
If they don’t think my jokes are funny.

Lastly…..what is your favorite love song?
“Woman” -John Lennon

In The Backseat with Au Revoire Simone

www.aurevoirsimone.com
www.myspace.com/aurevoirsimone

What album do you like to listen to while making out?

heather: hmmm. depends on the boy i guess. i spent alot of time making out to my bloody valentine`s `loveless` back in highschool.

erika: nick drake pink moon is nice

What song describes your first kiss?

heather: through the backyards, by us.

erika: no songs that i can think of, but we were definately listening to nirvana nevermind

What is your favorite sandwich?

heather: muenster cheese, lettuce, tomato, red onion, avocado and pickles with mayonaise and mustard on rye or pumpernickel. or pastrami on rye. its a toss up.

erika: same as heathers veggie one, only on whole wheat and with cucumbers

Do you find that being on tour helps or hinders your love life?

heather: hinders
erika: both

Describe your perfect date?

heather: something involving science and prog rock and rain.

erika: meeting up late & going out somewhere kind of anonymous for sake like decibel in the east village

What turns you on?

heather: genius

What song did you lose your virginity to?

heather: silence, unfortunately.

erika: its horrible but i dont remember

Favorite Superhero?

heather: storm from x men
erika: james bond

What song turns you on every time you hear it?

heather: bjork`s `venus as a boy`

What do you think is the sexiest instrument?

heather: the drums, by far.

Craziest place you've ever made out?

heather: the color darkroom at my college. its pitch black in there and other students were printing all around us, and they had no idea what was going on in the cubby next to them, at least, i dont think that they did.

Leather or lace?

heather: gross. neither.

Do you date other musicians?

heather: i have.

What do you like to do after sex? Sleep, cuddle, smoke, thumb wars, eat pop tarts?

heather: i like to go on with my day...make a huge breakfast or dinner, depending.

erika: cuddle

Do you kiss/make out on the first date?

heather: not usually.
erika: yes

Why do you think music is so closely associated with love/sex?

erika: both are abstract

Have you ever written a song to get a girl/boy?

heather: ha...maybe.

erika: only to get someone off my mind

If you could make out with any musician who would it
be?

heather: sting. yup. lets just leave it at that.

erika: 1970s george harrison

Lastly what is your favorite love song?

heather: there are way too many to chose from, i dont think that i have a favorite. but lately i`ve been appreciating joni mitchel`s `all i want` for its honesty.

erika: peter bjorn and john, young folks

In The Backseat with Thunderbirds Are Now

thunderbirdsarenow.com
myspace.com/thunderbirdsarenow


What album do you like to listen to while making out?
"Reign In Blood" - Slayer

What song describes your first kiss?
"kiss the girl" from the little mermaid soundtrack

What is your favorite sandwich?
the deep sea double, available at Checkers

Do you find that being on tour helps or hinders your love life?
our girlfriends get mad at us for being gone, but when we get home... well, let's just say we bring sexy back.

Describe your perfect date?
a bucket of KFC and Real World/Road Rules Challenge on the TV

What turns you on?
showers

What song did you lose your virginity to?
the theme song to Beverly Hills 90210

Favorite Superhero?
Aquaman

What song turns you on every time you hear it?
pretty much by Death Cab for Cutie... they're so sensitive!

What do you think is the sexiest instrument?
John Popper's harmonica

Leather or lace?
Does this question have anything to do with American Gladiators? If so, Turbo.

Do you guys date other musicians?
just eachother

What do you like to do after sex?Sleep, cuddle, smoke, thumb wars, eat pop tarts?
MYSPACE!

Do you kiss/make out on the first date?
only if we're on Elimidate

Have you ever written a song to get a girl/boy?
"eat this city" was written for the love of a vampire

If you could make out with any musician who would it be?
Fergie, circa Kids Inc.


Why do you think music is so closely associated with love/sex?
haven't you heard? music is currently fucking sex. duh.

What are “deal breakers” for you?
picking the wrong suitcase on that Howie Mandel show

Lastly…..what is your favorite love song?
"Every Rose Has It's Thorn" by Poison

Those hipster jeans. The belt loops are like...

Loopholes.
You've put me through them.
I've looked through them at my heart's desire.
You've traveled through them.
I've knitted them JIT.
Life is short.
What a pity.
There is a loophole.
Right here in this city.
Right here in these words.
There is one who knows the way.
To end time's endless march and gain eternity in a loophole.
Two hands meet in mobius.
Everyday.
It's quite simple.
The shared life.
Shared experience.
The tick tock stopping resonation of ideas.
The gravity defying lightness of laughter.
The inexorable calm of understanding.
The integrity of good character.
The deft and daft of craft.
More brick than mortar.
Two palms blended into one eternity.
Forming a mobius.
One loophole.
Forever bending time's directed march into integral moments
of emergent delight.

Kindof like how a can of PBR is roundish.

In The Backseat with Birdmonster

www.birdmonster.com
www.myspace.com/birdmonster



What album do you like to listen to while making out?
Kid A

What song describes your first kiss?
Movin Out, Billy Joel

What is your favorite sandwich?
salami and pickles

Do you find that being on tour helps or hinders your love life? HINDER!

Describe your perfect date?
"Movin Out, and pickles"

Is a love song better if it's true?
usually worse

What turns you on?
my pork pie drum kit

What song did you lose your virginity to?
I got five on it, Luniz

Favorite Superhero?
Nasty Man (aka KG)

What song turns you on every time you hear it?
wait and bleed, slipknot

What do you think is the sexiest instrument?
cello

Leather or lace?
lace

Do you guys date other musicians?
not unless they are Joanna Newsom

What do you like to do after sex? Sleep, cuddle, smoke, thumb wars, eat pop tarts?
ZZZzzz. what?

Do you kiss/make out on the first date?
for sure

Have you ever written a song to get a girl/boy?
i play drums.

If you could make out with any musician who would it be?
see above

Why do you think music is so closely associated with love/sex? cause its just another form of sense stimulation

What are "deal breakers" for you?
ownership of masters. mwhahaha.

Lastly…..what is your favorite love song?
ill follow you into the dark, DCFC

In The Backseat with Via Audio

viaaudio.net
myspace.com/viaaudio



What album do you like to listen to while making out?
Any Earth Wind And Fire record.

What song describes your first kiss?
We Didn't Start the Fire-Billy Joel

What is your favorite sandwich?
Anything with a lot of avocodoes

Do you find that being on tour helps or hinders your love life?
Totally hinders the love life

Describe your perfect date?
Going to Wally World eating a bucket of ice cream plus Chevy Chase is hanging out.

Is a love song better if it’s true?
It doesn't matter if its true as long as it pulls the heart

What turns you on?
Pig tails

What song did you lose your virginity to?
Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm yours-Stevie Wonder

Favorite Superhero?
The Grifter (I was a comic book nerd)

What song turns you on every time you hear it?
Don't Stop-Brazilian Girls

What do you think is the sexiest instrument?
Bassoon

Leather or lace?
Lace

Do you guys date other musicians?
Danny the drummer/singer does

What do you like to do after sex? Sleep, cuddle, smoke, thumb wars, eat pop tarts?
cuddle and eat pop tarts

Do you kiss/make out on the first date?
Just kiss

Have you ever written a song to get a girl/boy?
I think Jess(singer) has 'bitter end'

If you could make out with any musician who would it be?
Prince. He is sexy. I would turn gay for him

Lastly…..what is your favorite love song?
Oppurtunity to Cry- Willie Nelson. More of a heartbreak song than a love song

We skipped thanksgiving dinner. All the invites this year were from vegan hipsters, and tofurkey sucks no matter how its prepared....so we drive to Santa Fe for a weekend road trip. We have two Ipods loaded up with music and audio podcasts of This American Life.

I have my Polaroid camera which I use to take pictures along the way: the taxidermy sign, the truck stop café, the dollar store, the jalapeño beef jerky. We get to the hotel around 3am and fall asleep right away.

We wake up late and you start to kiss my neck and breasts under the sheets. I reach to the floor and open my laptop. I start to play Band of Horses on Itunes as you slip off my Emily the Strange underwear. I can feel you getting hard in your American Apparel neon briefs when the maid walks in on us. We laugh and fuck until 4pm in the afternoon.

I was supposed to meet you at the MOMA for Les Savy Fav. We had to check our phones at the door, so I figured I would find you after the show. A couple songs in--I feel you come behind me. You kiss the back of my neck and tickle my wrist.
I say, "Hi."
And you say, “2nd floor bathroom 10 minutes."

I was rather enjoying the terrible sound and awesome outfits, but 10 minutes later –like clockwork- I meet you. We fuck silently while people walk in and out--you taste like cigarettes. Only when I taste you do I miss not smoking, and I still really hate you for that. You apologize for not calling me back; I tell you I prefer it that way.

I go back to the show and stare blankly at the sweat stains on Tim Harringtons black unitard.

We held hands during the entirety of Ferraby Lionheart's set last night. This morning his lyrics seemed so appropriate.

"You’ll think I’m in a rock band and I’ll wonder if you’re too smart for me"

Rita by Cowboys & Indians

You go down on me and your tongue flips and twirls around my head. You
do it so well that I gasp out loud. You pull your mouth off, and tell
me how you learned to suck such good dick from an ancient Sikh Guru.
He told you that all energy resides in the groin so you must do
everything you can to let it flow free.
I push your head back down, and I think, "Wow, that's deep."
After you get me off I say,"Do you know Kim Gordon lets Thurston stick
it in her ass?"
And you say,"Oh really, I wanna do that."

Staten Island Makes its Case
by Hope Gangloff

Girl_WithBangs says:
Thanks for taking me to Silversun Pickups

NoJoyInMudville says:
Thank you for being my last minute date and for not judging my hatred of Pitchfork's skewed album reviews. lol.

Girl_WithBangs says:
Last minute...awesome.

NoJoyInMudville says:
kiddingggggg

Girl_WithBangs says:
what are you doing tomorrow night?

NoJoyInMudville says:
making out with you?

Girl_WithBangs says:
if only you were so lucky as to kiss me twice in three days.

NoJoyInMudville says:
Can I make you dinner and we can listen to The Crane Wife and hold hands?

Girl_With Bangs says:
The Decemberists make me so hot!

NoJoyInMudville says:
Thats fucking retarded and sexy. I want to kiss you right now.

Girl_Withbangs says:
What if I told you I was wearing nothing but your trovata sweatshirt right now?

NoJoyInMudville says:
I would say turn on Picaresque and think about me

Girl_Withbangs says:
I want to taste you right now


NoJoyInMudville says:
I want to kiss your tits while we both hum along to Sixteen Millitary Wives

Girl_Withbangs says:
I want to slowly untie your chuck taylors and unzip your rock and republics and take off your nintendo briefs and suck you off....while humming

NoJoyInMudville says:
I want to take off your Jenny Lewis tee and mini shorts and fuck you from behind while your still wearing your suede boots.

Girl_Withbangs says:
Vintage shoe fetish....heart.lol.


NoJoyInMudville says:
I'm coming over right now. I wont spend the night if you dont want me to, but I just want to see you.

Girl_WithBangs says:
I'll buzz you in if you promise not to say a word and just fuck me until it's tomorrow

We open a box of Red Vines and I suck on them-- which you tease me about—even though you know you love to watch. We are sitting in the last row of the theatre. The movie is good but I’m distracted by the way you trace my wrist with your fingers. You slide out of your Puro Sneakers you got in Argentina and begin to play footsie with me in my ballet flats I got at Urban. You reach underneath my Upper Playground hoodie and undue my American Apparel bra and start to stroke my back slowly. My headache from last nights Ratatat show at the Guggenheim starts to fade away. So, I grab hold of your fingers and begin to nibble and suck them as you start to trace your hands up my capezio leggings and tickle my clit. I quietly unbutton your tight black jeans (that are actually mine) and start to stroke you...

I knew what was going to happen from the onset. The way you softly inhaled the smoke from your Parliament Light, only to exhale deftly defined swirls, spelling Replacements lyrics in the ether. We sit in the diveiest of dive bars, populated solely by amputees and 9/11 victims. Your eyes glimmer like the pale blue on a Pabst can, even through your horn-rimmed glasses with plastic lenses that have no corrective value. Your sweatshop-free skirt is hiked just high enough to allow me to see your hyper-ironic Thin Lizzy tattoo, just inches away from those boyshorts you got from Neighborhoodies. You know, the ones with “I Am a Scientist” printed on the ass. You speak of Four Tet and Jean-Paul Sartre, often in the same breath, only to dip the end of your cigarette into the vintage “F-Troop” ashtray. After countless gin-‘n’-tonics, your stares only magnify, and you hint at the presence of your 1983 Volkswagen Golf parked outside. Before I can say “Grande soy latte,” we’re whisking by the squares in the promenade, screaming Undertones lyrics and, gradually yet decisively, rounding third base. When we arrive at your apartment, you’re quick to put the first William Shatner album on your reel-to-reel to player, explaining, “it just sounds so organic.” As he shouts “Mr. Tambourine Man,” we’re enthralled in the embrace of one another, smearing your Sephora all over my face. As I unbutton your dress, you assuredly remind me that it was made in downtown LA. In what seems like mere seconds, we’re naked and entangled, my ironic handlebar mustache giving you goose bumps with every forceful kiss. All at once, I catch sight of your signed Burt Reynolds poster framed on the wall, Shatner bellows “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds” and you scream “ahhh, daddy!” The sheer, unfiltered irony is overpowering in its raw sensuality, and I cum inside you, groaning a final Kierkegaard quote before burying my head in your frazzled, Debby Harry hairdo.

By Ashley Nu

You put the top up on your 1963 black Lincoln convertible, next week it will be too cold to ride with the top down--I hate how fucking cold it gets here. You park just outside the Hi Dive, Junior Boys is playing tonight but we have some time before they go on so I start drinking out of your flask—Bulleit Bourbon from the night before. We are listening to the mix I made you the first time you left-- New Order “Age of Consent” comes on, and you take my left wrist and kiss it. I remember putting this song on the mix because you used to tease me for being so young.

We crawl into the backseat and I straddle you in your Rogans and Pocketo shirt. You finger me under my Rock and Republic denim skirt and then suck your finger while looking out the window. If only I would have put “In the Backseat” by Arcade Fire on this mix.

Your cell phone rings—your ringtone is "Bigmouth Strikes Again"--- you got it at PocketFuzz last year on Valentines day when your ex-girlfriend started stalking you—the one that still works at American Apparel. It’s getting late so we head into the show. We listen to half the set—his voice is perfect but I feel dizzy so I lead you into the bathroom. I go down on you to the rhythm of the music echoing in from the stage....they are playing “Teach Me How to Fight” as I swallow you over and over again.

I could tell by the way you starrred at my glass eye that you liked the strong silent type. I tried to avoid lookin' at yer from across the barrr, but I hadn't had a woman in months and was beginnin' to wonder if my tackle could still bring in the pretty fish. After my 19th glass of grog I was ready. As I made my way in your direction, I found that my land legs still hadn't quite kicked in and I slipped on some blood from the earlier skirrrmish (Someone should really get a deck hand to swab that up!). I hit my noggin pretty hard on the way down, but the way you rushed to my side and slowly slid your hand along my peg leg told me it was going to happen. "My goodness, my lady, you're prettier than the first sight of land on the horizon after a year at sea" (you weren't but I was drunk). Without a word, you helped me up and led me out back where you blew a little wind on my mast. "Aye Aye! AYE!", I screamed as the feeling overtook me. I'll never ferget yer. And I'll always have the scar from where ya stabbed me after ya robbed me to remember...


;)Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day

When you pick me up from the end of my shift as a bicycle mechanic,
you grab me by the hand. My fingers are clean, but still darkened by
chain grease. I ride close behind you on your faded but well kept red
Puch Maxi, gripping your hips firmly as the pavement rumbles by
beneath us. We arrive at the Knockout, former site of the Odeon where
my friend's band is about to start their set. He gives us the nod and
motions to the bartender who pours us two shots of Fernet with ginger
ale chasers. We take the shots at the bar and retire to a dark table
in the corner to watch the set. The tiny hairs on the back of your
neck stand up as my lips touch you softly. You're busy unzipping my G-
Star Raw jeans. I slip my hand under your green and white cotton
skirt and touch your pussy through the black leggings you're wearing
underneath.

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.

HER HAIR DOESN'T CHANGE COLORS WHEN WE FUCK BECAUSE I DON'T WANT IT TO

I want her black streamlines, the tips on her collarbones, her scalp the start of something
that draws me to her, unlike the words that come out of her mouth, which dissolve as we
fuck, abandoned for onomatopoeia— syllables broken into open vowels, elongated mouth
strokes, fingers down her scalp and cheeks then back on my stomach so she can lift off a
bit and I can see a part of me that was just hidden inside her.

Tell me when you're going to come, she says when not gagged by my not small and not
big cock, her hair blonde when I want to delay it, black when I want release. She's
outside walking down the street, high heels, converse, flat bottom and barefooted; short
skirt, such tight jeans, like a baggy blouse or that black silk dress I've never seen her
wear; no underwear, except for a thong and maxipad panties; no tampon, shaved, hairy
bush with a string leaking out, a mouse burrowed in an armpit, a rat trapped in a polished
chrome vulva hotel, enticed by smell and the promise of something non-lethal; flat chest
a mouthful of heaving overstuffed breasts.

She only wants the things that I need, and she only wants them because I need them.
Smug, she reeks of it, like cheap perfume on a gold digger confident in getting custody of
her own unwanted children. I smell it and tell her I'm going to come, because I am. Come
inside me, she says. Not because I need it— my cum she can have— but because it brings
her closer to taking the things I do need, like to cum, right now. In some cities, it never
gets cold enough for people to see their own breath. Maybe that's why it's so easy for
them to forget they're alive. Outside, it's cold enough for me to know I'm alive.
Breathing hot in her mouth, my dick softening inside her, I forget why that's important
information.

I come in her mouth as she comes in mine, my dick in her hand, in her ass, in my mouth,
and I can't breathe as she turns into someone whose name I cannot remember, so I look at
the tattoo on my arm and call it out: skin. But we can't hear each other, our moans and
the slang of copulation manhandled mute by outside sirens and silence. The street's a
breeding ground for pedophiles and inferiority complexes. Try to stay away. Since when
did the word 'try' imply impossibility— failure, a construct of someone else. Pave a road.
Wear with use.

It was 7AM on Christmas morning, and I was up already, watching the last 3 minutes of the ebay auction for an authentic "Sympathy for the Devil" 45. All was silent, except the mouse click on my iBook must have been pretty loud -- it woke you up after I clicked the "Reload" button in Safari for the 12th time in a minute. I heard you carefully stumble down off the loft bed we built in the summer -- before we broke up and got back together again. You're still wearing nothing but my white belt and your red socks from last night-- your "Gettin' Lucky in Kentucky" shirt got soaked in Yuengling when the cab driver made a sudden stop on the Billy'sburg bridge.

You snuck up behind me and put your hands over my eyes -- they still smelled like the lavender hand lotion you sampled at L'Occitane when we were looking for gifts for your mom. You made me lose the auction in the last minute, which really pissed me off, till I saw that you had gotten me the new Gang of Four box set for Christmas.

I laid you down on my Twister Mat-come-rug. My tongue ring clicked quietly against your titty ring.

We're lying in bed...you're gently stroking my thigh higher, higher, until your hand rests on my pussy and you feel how wet I am already. You continue to read me Hipsterotica entries as I listen to the new Snow Patrol album and get wetter and wetter - I can't take it any longer, and beg you to put your mouth on me until I cum.

I run into you outside the Foreign Cinema and we walk with your dog,Chuck, who wears a bandana, several blocks to the Uptown. We share atall glass of Trumer Pilsner in a dark booth towards the back. You grope my leg, clad in Paper Denim and Cloth dark-washed jeans, as I sip our drink and remember that I have to work the counter tomorrow at Show Biz, selling Onitsuka Tiger sneakers. I can't stand it anymore after you reach for my belt buckle. We arrive at my apartment and the first thing you do after the door slams is press the buckle on my Chrome bag. I instinctively reach back to catch it, but youknowingly have your other hand gripping it by the corner. You set it down softly on the floor so my shiny black Macbook isn't damaged as you violently push me onto the bed. Ever since that afternoon we traded glances over mimosas at Boogaloos, I knew we'd meet again.

I didn't expect you back from work so early.

I was searching torrent sites for the newest Riley Mason videos when you showed up. My boxers were at my ankles and I must not have heard you because I was BLASTING the new Lily Allen remixes through my studio monitors. I quickly tabbed back over to the designer jeans thread on Hipinion but you could clearly see what was going on. I sort of shrug it off and start doing a nervous rendition of Kevin Spacey's lines about getting caught jerking offfrom American Beauty. You find this amusing enough but joke back that you're WAY more attractive than Annette Bening.

It's true. You're definitely a lot hotter than Ms. Bening.

You tell me to go clean up and meet you in the bedroom because there's obviously some business to be taken care of. I hop in the shower, still a bit shaken, but turned on at the same time. To top it all off, my mind is racing... thinking of various actressess. Since we were talking American Beauty, it got me thinking of Thora Birch. I wonder what ever happened to her? Then it hits me. Scarlett Johansson. Immediately all nervousness and embarrassment is gone. I've got a one track mind now.

I scramble out of the shower and make a stop for some music to put on. Ahhh, the Lost in Translation soundtrack... perfect! "I'm sorry, but you're just going to have to be Scarlett today," I think to myself.

My jaw drops when I open the bedroom door. The midday sun hits your bare figure through the miniblinds as if the stripes of light were meant to view you in sections. I must have taken quite some time in the shower because you're paging through my Daniel Clowes graphic novels.

I now believe in fate because as I come to meet you in bed you're just putting down Ghost World. I put the soundtrack on... I think to myself that Kevin Shields exclusively makes great sex music. I really can't help myself and my hand slips between your ivory legs and you're practically dripping. I look up at your lips and they seem to be throbbing with passion. At this point things get a bit blurry... a veritable hurricane of human flesh, fluids and an airborne set of Paul Frank sheets all seemed to fly around the room for a good half hour before we both collapse back to the bed, not really sure what just happened. The Jesus and Mary Chain come on the stereo.

Just Like Honey, indeed

sms: I run my fingers through your mullet as you lift up my corduroy overall mini-dress and go down on me at the midnight screening of Buffalo 66.

It's late afternoon and we're laying on your couch. My head is in your lap; I'm just coming out of a nap where I dreamed you were fucking me from behind while we were watching porn on your iBook. You're playing old school NES, and I'm still so aroused that I start touching myself faster, faster and finally grab your hand from the controller pad and stick two of your fingers inside of me while I cum. You'll never beat that level of Shinobi anyway.

We sit listening to your vinyl collection on the couch you picked up last month from craigslist. As your original Joni Mitchell "You Turn Me On I'm A Radio" ends, you get up to put on something else. I tell you to make sure it's a good one. You pick the new Broken Social Scene (how'd you find that on vinyl?). "Hand-jobs for the holidays"... what a great idea.

It's last call at the Hemlock so we finish our longneck PBRs and cab it back to your place, making out the whole way home. The cabbie steals glances in the rearview mirror and that gets us both hot. I love that you share my exhibitionist streak. The MSTRKRFT remix of Wolfmother's "Woman" comes on the stereo and I think to myself "Wow, this cabbie has unusually great taste in music" and make a mental note to add that Wolfmother show at the Music Hall to my sonicliving calendar. We stumble out of the cab and up to your flat and I change into your vintage Guns 'n Roses concert tee circa 1990 - the Appetite for Destruction tour - damn, what a great album. You pick up your aqua Fender Jag and start playing "Summer Babe", I kneel down in front of you and tell you not to stop. I slowly unzip your True Religion jeans and put you in my mouth - how did you know that Pavement makes me want to suck cock?

we leave the double deuce secret show and head to beauty bar where we do a shot of fernet. you look so hot in your new "feelings are boring, kissing is awesome" tee shirt and i'm really glad you decided to get rid of that ridiculous faux hawk - it was so 2003. the rapture comes on the jukebox and with a knowing look, you grab my hand and lead me to the men's bathroom -electroclash always gets you hard. we lock the bathroom door & i undo your NES controller belt buckle that i made for you last weekend at the craft mafia meet up and i slip my hand inside your dark wash rock and republic jeans. you undo my knock off alexander mcqueen skull scarf from it's perfectly tousled knot and proceed to blindfold me with it and turn me around. i brace myself against the wall while you lift up my vintage missoni shift dress and start fucking me from behind...

You are screen printing R.I.P. WOXY shirts when I get home. Your hands are covered in paint and the hardwood floors are covered in plastic. I take off my work clothes and put on one of your old shirts. It hangs on me--the material is sheer enough to show that I'm not wearing anything underneath. You decide to screen print on me and I can feel the cold paint seep through onto my skin. "Wet Work" by Q and Not U is playing in the background as you slowly take off my shirt and lay it down to dry. Completley naked, I reach for you and your paint covered hands rub lines of green and black across my neck and breasts. I dip my fingers in the black paint and trace them down your front--we rub and slide up against eachother. The Cribs, "You Were Always the one" comes on as I kneel down onto the plastic covered floor to unzip you. I can't get enough-- until Jenny Lewis comes on with " Big Guns" and you join me on the floor and put me on top of you. I ride you while my hands slide up and down the paint on your chest. You slap my tight ass with your paint covered hands. I hope it leaves a mark.

-R.I.P.WOXY

We sit in front of my laptop as This American Life comes to an end. Afterwards I take off your Adidas Tron sneakers and throw them under my bed. I slip off my ballet flats and join you on my concert tee shirt quilt I made at Sew and Tell last month. I start with your neck and work my way down to your chest. You start humming along to the new TV on the Radio album as we both slip off our jeans and slide underneath the quilt. I grab hold of all your concert wristbands while you go down on me...

I ride my vintage cruiser to your house, polaroid camera around my arm. We drink PBR and take pictures all night while making out to Cansei de Ser Sexy.

You straddle your fixie while I bend over to unlock my sparkly bass-boat blue cruiser. We ride to your place, slowly so that my flyaway mane doesn't fly away too much. I admire your diesel jean covered ass and the grungy u-lock sticking out of your back pocket. Finally we arrive at your house and make ourselves comfortable on your Ikea couch with Mates of State singing in the background. I kick off my cowboy boots and pull off your chucks. You run your hands up my leggings and under my miniskirt (which I specifically did not buy from the Gap). You tell me that I'm smarter than other girls you know and I unzip you pants. We fuck until the cd stops playing.

You take off your silk screen Banksy tee and leave it on the vintage arne jacobsen chair. You turn up brooklyn vegans sirius radio set-Cloud Cult is on. We sprawl out on the rug we bought at the Renegade Craft Fair a while back--it was my favorite part of our apartment until Urban Outfitters started making rugs exaclty like it 6 months later for their "urban" home furnishings section. The TV is on mute, but MythBusters is on the discovery channel-- flickering light into the apartment. It still smells like vegan BBQ in here from the food you made last night. I love your vegan non-dairy organic style cooking. You are like the Sufjan of the culinary world--but you never give yourself any credit. I walk over to the window to try and feel a breeze because the heat in the city is unbearable. You come up behind me and trace your finger up my leg--Disco Sheets by Wolf Parade comes on. You finger fuck me as people pass by on the street below. I turn around to kiss you. I take off your diesel jeans and you bend me over, my tits hitting the window screen--we fuck while Talking Heads "Heaven" starts to play on the radio. I close my eyes and wonder if anyone is watching us...

You're choosing the playlist on your iBook while I'm undoing your belt - you decide on Belle & Sebastian and suddenly turn me around, bend me over, pushing aside my FredFlare boy shorts, and take me from behind as I hold on to the bike you're taking to Burning Man for support.

sms: I grab the crotch of your rock and republic jeans and bring you to the back of beauty bar where i lick your pussy in the photo booth

She drags me on to the roof; her hair is perfect even after 4 hours of straight drinking at The Sputnik. We wonder how much these serial Chads pay for their 3 bedroom lofts—they are fast asleep in order to feel fresh tomorrow morning for the sales at Bed Bath and Beyond and their early morning personal training session at Bally Total Fitness. I have band practice in the morning--but I take off my vintage members only jacket anyway and start to smoke. The rooftop is abandoned. I grab her skinny wrists that are covered in bracelets and colorful wristbands and she kisses me. her lips taste like gin. She unzips my tight white pants and starts to smile. I start to touch her and rip open her black leggings as I lift her on to the ledge. She puts her legs around me and I bite her thrift store pearls...It's like ever since I saw her last fm playlist I knew this was going to happen.

the band walks off the stage and I see you still moving to the last strains of the music in your Threadless tee and Attak Denim jeans. We've never met but I've seen you on Consumating and knew that if I ever had the chance, I'd do what I'm about to. Without a word, I take your hand and lead you to the side of the stage where I slowly unbutton your jeans and take all of you in my mouth.

I put the phone down... my hands are tired from txting. You walk into the kitchen past where I am sitting. I watch as you bend into thefridge to grab a Naked Superfood Green. I grab you as you return,pull you down onto the couch and start to make out. Superfood tastes great on breasts.

sms: I lead u out of gloss and up to the roof where i let u fuck my face as people pass by on the street below us.

sms: I take you to the back room at lipgloss and press you up against the wall and fuck you from behind while lcd sound system blasts in the background

sms: I suck on your wet fingers while i take off ur diesel jeans and american ap. Briefs. I suck you off while the dirty on purpose ep plays onthe stereo.

sms: I lay out a blanket you knitted and you slip off your chuck taylors. I reach up your thrift store skirt and fuck you with my fingers

sms: We leave whole foods on my vintage vespa scooter. I bend you over it while revving the engine and fucking you from behind

sms: I take off one of my ipod ear buds and give it to you. We listen to sonic youth b-sides while youre fucking me

sms: I take off your threadless.com t-shirt and american ap. tight briefs and suck you off as you throw your black framed glasses on the floor.

sms: I slowly take off your sweatshop free american apparel boy shorts and put one, two, and then three fingers in your pussy


Inspired by: http://www.corporate-casual.com/2006/06/29/hipster-erotica/

I am wearing short-shorts made of Channel wallets duct-taped around my
waist. I smile as you brush against me, whispering "I'm like a new
Joanna Newson song, I take my time and make it last.' You look at my
Nikes and get a rather disgusted look on your face - but it turns to a
smile as you realize they are 2nd hand throwback-dunks. You know I
didn't support poor labor standards, and that I most likely have made my
own Spank Rock mash-up. It makes you hot, we go back to my place and I
set all 6 of my Tech 1200s up on day-timers so we don't have to stop.
The TV is on, News Hour with Jim Lehrer - lets you know I'm educated.
Prolly after sex I will talk about how we didn't really win in
Afghanistan. In the morning we'll get veggie cream-cheese bagels, if you
can walk.