Friday, 24 February 2012

Touching Yourself

Tear face off my black and white self whose face is all in what looks to be whipped cream but is -

I should say snow instead.

His beard is in snow and the razor is in my hands, as I trace his chin and his eyes are frozen and locked on the razor, the eyes just watching how it swishes the already shaved three times skin but he like a client wants even the skin off, so that the new red beard would be a new beard.

His hands are too white and he holds a new razor in his hand, he trails his hands up my blue suit and we just stare.

It’s a moment of passion and a kiss on cheek, kiss on cheek, kiss on lips. Then he just looks more like a fragnance with no colour just the smell and the sunken eyes looking so plastic and mouth a bit open as if something would slip from inside it, so I hold his shoulders. And there is a passionate kiss on the lips and the man is no longer myself and there is foam back on my face and he just takes my hand so that we’d walk the bathroom corridors with all the women doing their faces. And then they wax the faces off, leaving acne and pores.

All of them look lovely, as long as they can, but I keep my head down, as all of us three just walk past the bathroom into something which would be the living room after all the bathrooms and the women.

The walls and the ceiling is a rug with painting sewn on it with the paint drops rolling into the rug colour and making holes which reach the brick walls. I insert a finger inside to just make the hole bigger and i even press my mouth against it, feeling nervous as I feel myself, the one who is Santa today and apparently the only box of gifts would be his erection.

I see Jamie sit on the carpet, maybe the one on the ceilings and maybe it is cliche to touch yourself in front of an other in the living room, where all things take place and where the screen is the stage and life seems natural, as I unzip my pants.

Did you ever touch yourself for someone?

I lick a bit of Santa’s foam and I kiss him, as Jamie just sits in the couch, clean shaven and I think of all the women in their rows and I think if they could they would open all the doors and their acne would be their eyes to spy on homosexuality between males.

I watch Jamie touch himself and it feels that what if the women in acne would be all the women we know but we tear off the faces off our minds. What if this is just us being in separate rooms touching ourselves until we feel and in the night I just knock on his door and he lets me walk in.

Jamie stands still and he feels much shorter than I am, like a stuffed toy any daughter of mine would hug to bed with. I trace his body with my fingers as he closes his eyes and his forehead is against mine, sweat forming and blood going down along with my hands and head.

I stand on my knees and stroke his cock.

He kicks me on the floor, on the same coloured rug where I am touching myself and we link hands and laugh.

Maybe we’re high or maybe we’re rolling off a hill.

We don’t kiss.

We don’t touch yet.

We just grope each other’s bodies, he plays the notes which pull strings for my erection to grow and mouth to gently rub against an area of skin.

So when the room is a rug and Jamie smokes one of my cigars I touch myself by sticking fingers inside and the foam mixes with my own sweat as somewhere a memory of Jamie’s thrusting hard against myself and my hips aching before he gets us skin to skin level.

A man smaller than me is inside me.

And he can be me, maybe if he gets the right facial hair I once had or guesses the right rifs I did or fucks all the women I once fucked, but then, all of them stripped to their bones are the same.

And when I’m inside him, I light that same cigar and I stick it in his mouth and everytime I thrust the cigar thrusts with all the inhales, inhales, nails sparkling in sweat against the skin, toungues on lips, cock in hand, tugging so hard, penetrating all the chosen space.

It is about spreading the legs and contaminating the generation, which won’t be given despite the pleasure.

If we’re lucky enough we’ll get death.


I'm sorry for taking so long, as I've been caught up in everything, so yeah.

It ended up being short but to my point. I was thinking if it were a prequel to Lucky Screams or not, but I have a sequel to this one in mind, so perhaps:)

Tomorrow is Jack White/Alison in a dress/Kitchen

Thank you

<3 data-blogger-escaped-a="" data-blogger-escaped-href="">Open Box

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