Author S. K. Nicholas

It stands where man passes. It exists within and without. You have your charms, and there are times when the thought of your body sets my teeth on edge, yet your sex is mine to deny. It drains and fades. It grows old and weary like those youthful hopes you abandoned through the fear of being outed as different. Black stockings in London Town. Subway death as you eye up some brunette imagining what it would be like to take her from behind. Her vagina so smooth. Vanilla scented and tasting of nights spent listening to Cuban jazz in shady bars overlooking endless rivers. She speaks to me, but her words are of no interest. It’s all about passive verbs, and the silence found between her toes at the foot of the bed. Wastelands and vulva. Cheating hearts and girly squeals. Drunk on tequila while smoking a cigar on the balcony of some deserted hotel, it’s raining, and all the sidewalks are rusting to shit. It chokes me like I choke her. Push-up bra. Virgin white and curved like a storm in the rear-view mirror. Kissing her mouth, she eases my passage to beyond. A mean handjob and a wink to say there’s plenty more to come. It’s written in italics, yet most of them don’t even notice. Don’t be obscene, just sell yourself and keep on dreaming of a day when the world drifts to the point of no return. Pick your poison and do your worst in the backseat of your daddy’s car. If you could speak to me now, I’d rather hear you howl at my touch, for there’s nothing I’d rather have than to see you writhe under my aching hips. Shifting sands as you wipe away your tears. Let me see you. Let me watch you lactate. Take off that ring, and let me have you before we run out of time.