It turns out that after sex, I go home, add another tally mark to my ever growing portfolio of men and then make crude remarks about your sexual behavior and/or body to all my friends and probably some strangers. You're just a number, I mean really, what kind of asshole tries to make a relationship out of something so casual?
Writing is my artistic medium. On paper I sound infinitely better. On paper I am the hero of everything I write. In print, I am a god, a sex god. I write about sex and trouble and having trouble with the opposite sex.
Maybe, what I really want is to punt Ashlee Simpson in the vagina. Whenever I see her giant orbed head bobbing around while yodeling a song -- I just get this overbearing urge to sock her right in that obtuse Nosferatuesque nose of hers.
Life as I knew it was a giant game and I was slowly learning the rules as they applied in tiny tawdry doses. I'd been going to Catholic School, which as we know, is the mecca for all things sexual. And although my upbringing was conservative in design and structure, I'd learned all things taboo were at my immediate disposal if I really wanted to know.
The things I know about the Sixties are not experienced based, they've come from books, movies, and the general knowledge of others. What's important to me is not "free love", but rather excess, excess, excess. And excess costs a lot; you can put a price on that for sure. Pass the champagne please.
David jaunts back into the room. He's in his Sunday's best--nipple clamps connected by a thin, dangling chain and a hard-on. He also seems to have added more pomade to his hair. I don't think he could have looked any cheesier had he tried.
It comes as no surprise to you, how ineffective I am regarding matters of the heart. I blindly blunder into things, carefully weighing each aspect of a given situation. When I find my heart beaming and the vacant area in my chest filling up because of you I realize it's more to do with logic & intelligence, than the fumbling of buttons and coy winks from across the room.
For three days I went back and forth, bickering with myself on exactly which short story I considered "ultra sexual". At first, I figured I should go with something that would personify the arched back, glowing skin, lip biting fantasy that most people expect. Which would have been fun, expected, but it wouldn't have been me.
Sabrina Cognata sounds off on "the most invalid holiday in the history of holidays," Valentines Day.