Viewing the local antiquities

She gives an adorable little sniff 
each time my head hits the back of her throat/her lips brush my bush.


Our aquatic heritage 
shows in a waterflow pattern: black down on Lan's golden skin:

Her bobbed hair so short the back of her neck makes me hard, standing behind her as we brush our teeth in the morning, naked: I reach over her shoulder to rub the steam off the mirror.

She dropped me off a block from the office, so we weren't seen together before we came in.

Now, blushing to see me, she is.

Good morning!


Friday pussy blogging 

Parting her is such sweet sorrow...


Getting a room in the palace of memory 

We fuck in one moment. Each fuck is all fucks, because all flesh is one flesh. She has but one tongue; I have but two balls. When I feel Angel's tongue at my bag, my flesh knows {Annie, Jasmine, Ming, … n}'s tongue in the same present moment; each frisson, each moan not one note, but a chord.

Words come in a sequence, not all in one moment, so it's hard to use words to write about fucking. The chord—{Angel, Jennifer … n}'s yelp—breaks apart into notes, each falling one after the other.

Indexes, though still words in sequence, collect like fucks together—pin them, spread them, next to each other beneath the same glass. There! There! There! The notes struck from {Annie, Laura, Oie's … n}'s ass by my belly, fucking {her} doggy style.

The index, like any index, is a palace of memory.

Though I still need more sound words for squelch.


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All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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