usually she’s a blonde white lady i love then hate with value i could never attain life i tiny bit wanted luxury of having children owning a house able to work a job it’s more about resources than sex enraged you made sure she got in the front door but didn’t do that for me
“Sorry about your balls,” I said. “I’ll make it up to them later.”
dear Friend, one day years from now, when you’re old and gray, in the pornstar retirement home–wow, what a place that would be! you would be sleeping, and Mother God would send you a dream. it would be a dream about me. I’d be there in front of you, smiling and happy, riding my bike,
it hurts where I notice you can’t do the thing I thought we were doing. I was spinning straw into gold. you were talking about it. but as I sat at the wheel in the straw-stuffed room, for hot hours whispering my spell, exhausted with mythical effort and magic work, you were fucking a convenient
The first year, I would hold your hands, smile at you, spoon you as the big spoon, my breasts and tummy against your back, the fronts of my thighs against the backs of your thighs. If you fell asleep, that would be fine. I’d caress your arms. I’d kiss your hands, a blessing to your
I saw you as a smooth, creative person who needed very little. A bikesexual filmmaker artist northwest cliche. I thought you had a thousand friends. They were all over the world, and you could stay with them, when you toured with your film festival. Were you having sex with all of them? Not sure. Who