liquid blue. . .
Tool and such at three A.M., under the influence of some strange substance, is it working, maybe, I just feel drunk. . . until creational visions take over and make me something of their Tool. . .
A blue plastic card, edged in a layer of white lay down here he says and I do, bend backwards at the knee, kneeling sacrifice before a computer screen, smooth music, a cold tile floor. . He rolls my shirt back to reveal a pale stomach, warm, war. He puts his free hand, the other balancing a blue bankcard, flat on my stomach and smiles a childish grin. . . . heart beating fast. I cannot help but rock my hips to the sounds coming from the mechanical alter in front on e, permeated brain wants action . . . he watches a moment and then with great precision, places the blue bankcard to my stomach, above his hand. . .a feel a small cold chill, a powder? A substance, out of the corner of his eye he is watching my hips rolling now. . . Be still, for now he smiles again, cannot keep smiling. . . carefully arranges the line. . .I know it is cold, but so it the tiles on my back, it is getting a little warmer, it has to be, my body is on fire. . .
He stands, looks at me, marvels at his handiwork. . .that is how they were meant to be done, is there a small audience? Maybe I cannot see. . .He goes and retrieves someone, who? Oh Him, good, I did not want He to do this one,
The intended person kneels before me. . .does he kiss, I am sure a few on the stomach, a sheepish smile. . .
He sits at a coffee table. . .a large mirror. . .filled with lines, rails, cold on cold, you can watch yourself do these lines, he arranges one. . .I am watching him. . .I have to, it is the only way my neck can turn at this hour. . .I feel kisses on my stomach, warm breath. . .
Watching. . .his line is set and he looks around, eyes lock. . .dancing like this for a year now. . .
My hips are sill rolling, and the man next to me knows they are for him, rolling at the idea of his desire given life, fire like the feeling of my skin on marble. .
The reaction of warm breath on a mirror cold, inhale and leave a small misty trail. . .I see his head roll back, cold down the back of his throat. .
The man next to me, is looking at me, leans in and I kiss him more than willingly. . warm, keep me warm, get me off this cold surface. . .Life runs in these veins. . .blood circulating keeping up with the ideas running in my head. . .
Tool and such at three A.M., under the influence of some strange substance, is it working, maybe, I just feel drunk. . . until creational visions take over and make me something of their Tool. . .
A blue plastic card, edged in a layer of white lay down here he says and I do, bend backwards at the knee, kneeling sacrifice before a computer screen, smooth music, a cold tile floor. . He rolls my shirt back to reveal a pale stomach, warm, war. He puts his free hand, the other balancing a blue bankcard, flat on my stomach and smiles a childish grin. . . . heart beating fast. I cannot help but rock my hips to the sounds coming from the mechanical alter in front on e, permeated brain wants action . . . he watches a moment and then with great precision, places the blue bankcard to my stomach, above his hand. . .a feel a small cold chill, a powder? A substance, out of the corner of his eye he is watching my hips rolling now. . . Be still, for now he smiles again, cannot keep smiling. . . carefully arranges the line. . .I know it is cold, but so it the tiles on my back, it is getting a little warmer, it has to be, my body is on fire. . .
He stands, looks at me, marvels at his handiwork. . .that is how they were meant to be done, is there a small audience? Maybe I cannot see. . .He goes and retrieves someone, who? Oh Him, good, I did not want He to do this one,
The intended person kneels before me. . .does he kiss, I am sure a few on the stomach, a sheepish smile. . .
He sits at a coffee table. . .a large mirror. . .filled with lines, rails, cold on cold, you can watch yourself do these lines, he arranges one. . .I am watching him. . .I have to, it is the only way my neck can turn at this hour. . .I feel kisses on my stomach, warm breath. . .
Watching. . .his line is set and he looks around, eyes lock. . .dancing like this for a year now. . .
My hips are sill rolling, and the man next to me knows they are for him, rolling at the idea of his desire given life, fire like the feeling of my skin on marble. .
The reaction of warm breath on a mirror cold, inhale and leave a small misty trail. . .I see his head roll back, cold down the back of his throat. .
The man next to me, is looking at me, leans in and I kiss him more than willingly. . warm, keep me warm, get me off this cold surface. . .Life runs in these veins. . .blood circulating keeping up with the ideas running in my head. . .
And some hauntingly great writing
I've heard of doing body shots but not coke shots