your hairy thighs, your endearingly bony knees that I’m afraid I’d choke on it. Anyway,
forget the preliminaries, I just want to jump your bones, throw a saddle over your rump
and ride, pony, ride. I want to blog on your biceps, write erotica on your elbows, I want
to tattoo my memoirs on your ass. I want to lead you out of the stable, trot you around,
give you your head, then rein you in. I want you to taste the bit in your mouth, and have
it taste sweet like Tic Tacs, like summer time, like ginger-ale. Just like you taste to me. I
want to corral you in my arms, cavort in the moonlight, dos si dos with the best of ‘em.
I could put you on the stage in Tijuana. That donkey’s dick’s got nothing on you, babe.
Nada. Niet. Rien. My very own John Holmes. I woke yesterday in a pool of you and me.
Your lips fastened on my pussy, your hot breath steaming up my thighs. You were
humming the theme from Dr. Zhivago and the dark buzz made my clitty hard like a
little dick. So kiss me already, and then let’s stick it in, this is L.A. for Chrissakes,
and the livin’ is on the beach, on the fly, on the installment plan. Do ya wanna
know how I see it, Holmes? Each of us teeters on the totter, a paycheck away from homeless,
from ruin, just one pitch away from a shut-out, one sweet fuck away from the end.