Pretty Alicia with curly red hair had to work especially hard to make me relax enough to let go and climax into her hungry little mouth. This one was expensive, Alicia. It was supposed to hurt a bit, I didn’t care if it felt uncomfortable. I hear your hurt whimper, like the sound you make when you hit a vein with a bad rig, or in bad light, or with bad down.
Right now, Alicia’s singing to me, a slow blues song with a slut beat, humming her hurts and insinuations. That song always works on me, my darling, on our Boulevard of Broken Dreams. My picture of pink prettiness, mouthing my slow deep tsunami, moaning with her mouth open to let me know how hard she’s working, how much she simultaneously loves it and loathes it. Work hard, my junkie crack ho darling, because you know, am I right babe, that you owe me? HMMM… (wet breath sniffling fast through her nose) HMMM…mmMMUH. Your crazy way of saying yes in seven languages at once. When I look there, your eyes say yes twice again.
Do you remember the time at my house, when I shared the short snort of my down with you, as we were leaving? I do. You doubted my down was any good. Your body was mine, from that moment on Forest Ave as I drove you home, when you felt it hit. I saw something happen to you, as if your skin disappeared–you were that exposed and vulnerable, your opiate hunger left you that way, powerless and without skin, and your addiction was negotiating, with me, for you. Maybe you were mine then. Every time I tried to buy drugs with you after that, you ripped me off. Like the cunt junkie crack whore you are, not to put too fine a point on it. I’m just trying to remember the good times.
When Alicia shoots (or snorts, I assume) down, she reliably breaks into a broadly physical long-armed interpretive dance, swinging to and fro, from side to side. I’ve witnessed this behavior in an automobile, outside on the sidewalk more than once, and in a darkened corner of my bedroom. Up, up, up she reached, and down, down, down. Sweeping long slow arm motions turning over the top, curving down, across, and up the other side, outlining the numeral ‘8’, the symbol for infinity. Jazz hands’ fingertips tracing Mandelbrot freedom in the air with arms making wing-like flapping; holding, stroking, taking my dick. One upside of down is to make it feel right to take dick. Alicia, you’re magical in my memories, and priceless. Please get better. Or don’t. Just do that… yes, yes, that…
Bitchez 