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i pass a crumpled capri sun bag on the street and humid memories of boyhood hit. summer, poolside, peeling the cellophane off of strawberry fruit roll-ups. humid = growing up in the deep south and sweating uncontrollably all the time. sweating = making out with a girl at junior prom, feeling a little bit strange about the whole ordeal, not calling, not returning to pick up the bowtie that i'd left, on her front lawn of mid-class-grass fried up brown by alabama sun, in hasty retreat. "what are you thinking about?," she asked. how i hate that question.
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| sweating = stuttering are you gonna fuck me, pushed up against a door with my legs nudged by knees apart. c'mon man, it's too big for me. "no it's not." i .. <insert stuttering here> ... "there's only one way to find out, now isn't there, boy." |
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i. (e, second space from top, bass clef) can't control! the soul flowing in me! does anyone else think that erykah badu sounded like lady miss kier when she sang that in apple tree? "don't worry, i know what i'm doing." sweating = which painter was it that did the same scene over and over again. "it's only gonna hurt for a second. you'll love having this big dick inside you." till he got it right? got right it till he it got till he right right he it till got
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| (the weird thing about me is that for some reason i think about being a boy and about sex in almost the same breath. i didn't become sexually active until i was 19, but a lot of my early experiences even then, and still now, have a big element of me being taken as young, green, new. i can't count how many guys ask me if it's my first time.) |
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my chapped lips saywhat. what? what. devotion, self-neglect, all the important cause and effect links, embracing unembraceable you, mean whiskers.
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