Author S. K. Nicholas

The neighbourhood squirms with babysitters in black stockings; all of which are blonde, lonely, tight and weightless. Most of the time I specialise in being an outsider, the rest is spent sexualising women who get too close. A brunette with a cute smile becomes a pair of ripe breasts, while a redhead with kind eyes becomes a mouth and tongue that does nothing other than deliver me to the realm of dreams. Across the rooftops of a city with no name, bodies evaporate like the bliss felt in the moments shortly after coitus sweet coitus. Setting fire to tramps and old love letters, I steal a pair of her panties and sniff them in the downstairs toilet. They smell just like how I remember, only the older she gets, the better she tastes. It’s a filthy habit of mine, but the more I write, the easier it is to get away with not caring. They say youth is wasted on the young, and they’re not wrong. The young are bland, insecure, and more than anything, they make the mistake of thinking it’s never happened to anyone other than themselves. Sex is power, but it’s the same everywhere you look. The same goes for the adventures of places, faces, booze, and thought. It’s all been done before, so quit thinking you’re onto something special. Your life is nothing short of a mirror-image of what’s been done a thousand times already. Still, you don’t get anywhere without making a mess of things. Just make sure you open your eyes and see what you’re doing when it happens. Otherwise, you’ll just fade away like all those you claim to despise. Climbing a tree near where I grew up, the monsters are still real; only they don’t scare me how they used to. All it takes is the touch of someone who’s seen the same things and who knows what’s out there down all those blurred roads. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, a kiss with feeling is a nice thing indeed. Just a shame it never seems to last.