Wednesday, 2 November 2011


It’s more like selling kisses, when you see that a person can take one.

I just lean in, as they make their groceries, it’s like an offer I’ve been doing, with people barely recalling my face and each one just getting one, no matter whom they’d be.

Old, young, tall, strong, male,


And her tongue rubs gently into mine and I shiver, as I open my eyes to see hers closed and the black hair like a shower, washing away her eyes, keeping her mouth glued to my own, as I just stare, as I’ve seen Sylvie burn magazines, even Doctor Who ones and then sell them as candles, as she’d sit on the pavement in front of Tesco and do it.

Sometimes I’d look at her and Sylvie would smile, her eyes blue.

Mine she’d call as a needle, the liquid, as if she’d seen green drugs, maybe, I’ve never seen drugs.

Then it is Sylvie’s turn, as she grabs me, I stop feeling chubby for a second, before her tongue clicks with mine and she moans.

I wonder if Sylvie is a lesbian, as I kiss back, thinking who is the girl after all.

I just look as her hands cup my breasts, which would be what, two sizes bigger? And then her tongue rushes, as people drop and pick up Tesco sandwiches.

I am not a whore, I just get paid with God’s clouds for each kiss.

After the kiss Sylvie just pulls back, my hands apart and hers, but both locked, so I just stare at the black shower and her skinny clothes and I know that I can count each blood cell, as her skin is peach and I feel that I could dig into it, as she’d lay on the covers, pulling my head closer, screaming my name, to lick lick lick harder and faster.

She screams, her clit a mix of my saliva and her cum, it feels good and I keep doing it, as she arches her back and her nipples are the stars for the scene and I shift my own to hers and Sylvie just pulls us closer, kisses my face, adores it and thrusts.

I moan.

Sylvie breaks the kiss and grins at me.

Maybe I am a kissing whore.

Every person is like lime, you need to like lime.

Then Sylvie just walks back onto the pavement and burns a few newspapers, as I watch her, silent, really, nervous.

As I watch the smoke go up and it reminds me of death.

“D’you want to burn one?” I don’t and not just because it has Tennant, but because fire always looked like the devil for me and I just shake my head to which Sylvie, her lips pressed against the letters and lights them, as I sit on the pavement.

“Are you a whore?” Sylvie asks me and I just shrug, saying that I just feel like doing it sometimes.

She doesn’t recall the kiss, but she sees me in my flannel dresses as I wobble from aisle to aisle and I wonder if she actually notices me selling kisses for free, as I glance at her and she just whistles and I look at her nipples, seeing that she has no bra on really.

I wonder where should my conversation with her end, because at least a movie has credits, but then I just get one kiss, so I just stare at Sylvie, kissing one man in the process as she sells one candle-like thing and I just keep on staring, wondering if I could ever kiss her once more.

It’s not the fact that I can’t kiss again, it’s more like a metaphor if people would take my face in their hands and lick my chest without me interfering with my clothes, I’d take it off and I’d wait, as Sylvie would lick down.

I wonder if she ever would, so I just looked at her blowing at her own smoke, as she blows the candles, eyes locked with the air, as I keep watching people walk past, people I’ve kissed, people I still have to kiss.

I remember Sylvie under a smoothie, me, her and a few other girls who talked about girls on girls, how would it feel if you’d have the guts to put your hands up and scream that you’ve touched yourself in another body.

And then Sylvie ranted that lesbians were an attraction, that they were seduction, a thing to touch yourself to, but never something to drown your heterosexuality with and I had thought about it in front of a window at four a.m. I could be classified as kissing girls and boys and old men, women and some would just grope me in all places and I’d just end the kiss and they would forget.

The attraction is always there behind the closed eye lids, then there is a click from the bodies and they dissolve, like me and Sylvie, who makes more and more smoke, as if we both burned as I see her thrusting against me




On top

Oh God


On top

Her breasts

So small and I bite, pulling my fingers on her butt and I pull

Sylvie screams

And I come

On the pavement, screaming

I’ve touched myself and I just look up at the smoke and the few people who glanced and close my eyes, watching Sylvie blow. Her hair and she stands up for food and I just follow her into the aisles, wondering when would snow flow out of the cemetery gates.

I’ve went there at night once and sat on a grave, wondering if I could kiss the dead. In the end I took my own nails and dug deep deep deep deep deep.

So after Tesco, when the star lights are dim and the sky is gray and people prank everyone, I invite Sylvie to go along with me, I just do.

I strip myself.

People call me a prostitute.

The thing is people pay money for sex.

I offer it.

I am not a whore.

I do not want anything.

Neither am I a sex addict.

I am a virgin.

With a knife, a shock to the stars and a crooked reflection in the mirror, I’d give the world all my love if Sylvie would rub clits, as we’d lock hands and shout, but she won’t.

So I grab the women.

A lot of them, all so identical to Sylvie, so I just look as she sits between near tombstones, a knife at her throat and stares as I underdress the rotten women, their mouths open.

The girl breaths, as I thrust against the body, as another rotten hand goes up my ankle and I make out with a corpse, it’s all a dream to Sylvie as she touches herself to the corpse parade, to my big breasts and her wet clit as she rubs harder, never never never a lesbian.

So I choose the one who is Sylvie and we all kiss



She’s in


Never a lesbian

But I take the corpse of the dead Sylvie out, once she rots and I light the smoke for her. She has to hint that she’s dead.