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Description
You drown me in your sick, sweet aqueous lust—rolling off your brow at a heavy show’s end, rolling off your cheek after a moment of intensity, rolling off your tongue to bridge to mine, a serous trail of thick saliva suspended between us, a mere translucent wisp—the whole of our connection.

I hate that. I hate that thin, pink tongue that peeks out ever so slightly to toy with your piercing, I hate that pair of tweezers responsible in part for the feminization of those illustrious eyebrows, I hate the slant in your eyes, that beautiful, malicious slant that suggests vice and induces corruption.

I hate those perfect, slender bloody fingers that strum, slap, pop, and pick that crimson-stained instrument with ease, because I could only dream that they handled me in the same manner. I hate the mouth that closes over them to suck away the pain and the substance. I hateithateithateithate it.

And I hate those hips that stay locked away in those fucking leather pants, swaying for me, rocking back and forth, turning in their circles and twisting about to accentuate that lovely ass that I can’t seem to get to. I hate that you twirl and sashay and saunter, creating a vortex of carnality that you know gets to me.

I spin, I spin, I spin, I make myself nauseated if only to keep in time with the way you swirl and slither about my weak fucking mentality.

You think it’s hilarious. You smile in my face, index finger hanging off your bottom lip, and everything that I can’t stand is there, happening in one single moment—the smile, the eyebrows, the constant movement of your hips like you’re already fucking—and you say, breath reeking of vodka, “Chad, I’m bored. Let’s go play.” I know what you mean by that—a game of self-satisfaction, of teasing and simply refusing to give me what I want. Snorting at you, I spit and challenge those devious, slanted eyes, unmoving.

“Only if you’ll dance for me,” are my only words.

I eye those ever-swaying hips. They’re just moving slightly side to side now, almost impatiently, waiting for my answer, begging me to grab hold of them. Your back and neck arch with them, so natural and obscure, yet so overbearingly sexual. They don’t stop, just like the rhythms you play out, just like the same beating of the heart. It drives me insane and I ignore a spasm in my arm, initiated by the sudden impulse to throw you down into the asphalt, rip your pants down and fuck you, face down, right into the fucking pavement.

You smile, pucker your lips and sway back to the entrance of the hotel. Automatically mesmerized, I follow you in, and I can already feel the smile taking up most of your face.

“So. Your room or my room?”

It doesn’t matter. They look the same anyways. And the result will be the same. After the door closes behind us, you stay there, your hand on the doorknob, finger still in place and hips still moving. I pull a chair away from a desk nearby, turn it around and straddle it, leaning my arms on the back and resting my head on it.

Without warning it begins, and you twirl about and roll your hips in intricate circles, doing nothing short of what Ryan Martinie would do if moments were intense enough. Back bends, cartwheels, fingers weaving through your hair, whatever—it doesn’t matter because the gracefulness involved with manipulating every muscle you have provokes a savage animalism in me that becomes harder to control as seconds pass. You begin to exaggerate after awhile, running out of sexual movements to use, and you suddenly remind me of a transvestite I saw once at a strip bar. I laugh, catch you by an empty belt loop, pull you around to face me and rip open your fly, one cold hand burrowing itself into your pants to find warmth.

You shiver violently before smiling, “Your hands are fuckin’ cold, dude.” I remove my hand. You’re gyrating already, as if by impulse, seeking out matching heat and a hard surface to grind into. I slide down into the chair and you gasp slightly as you find it, pulling yourself up by draping an arm around my neck. Your hips move faster, still rolling, still graceful, but I see some of it disintegrating as your breaths get shallower and those beads begin to form and roll off your forehead. Soon your eyes roll back and close, your brow furrows, and you are deep in concentration—your grace begins to falter as the circular motions become jerky and spastic, your legs begin to quiver, and your other arm comes around me. You move faster, faster and more vulgar than I’ve ever seen those hips move, and I slide down more and buck my hips, reveling in the perversion of your grace.

Our tongues connect, nothing more, and that same wisp of saliva is there.

A single, final thrust and you melt, leaning forward to whisper in my ear, “Chad…”

The chair tips over backwards; my head knocks back against the carpet, I hear you say “shit” and we roll two separate ways.

You won’t stop laughing, but at least those hips have stopped swaying.

Description
You drown me in your sick, sweet aqueous lust—rolling off your brow at a heavy show’s end, rolling off your cheek after a moment of intensity, rolling off your tongue to bridge to mine, a serous trail of thick saliva suspended between us, a mere translucent wisp—the whole of our connection.

I hate that. I hate that thin, pink tongue that peeks out ever so slightly to toy with your piercing, I hate that pair of tweezers responsible in part for the feminization of those illustrious eyebrows, I hate the slant in your eyes, that beautiful, malicious slant that suggests vice and induces corruption.

I hate those perfect, slender bloody fingers that strum, slap, pop, and pick that crimson-stained instrument with ease, because I could only dream that they handled me in the same manner. I hate the mouth that closes over them to suck away the pain and the substance. I hateithateithateithate it.

And I hate those hips that stay locked away in those fucking leather pants, swaying for me, rocking back and forth, turning in their circles and twisting about to accentuate that lovely ass that I can’t seem to get to. I hate that you twirl and sashay and saunter, creating a vortex of carnality that you know gets to me.

I spin, I spin, I spin, I make myself nauseated if only to keep in time with the way you swirl and slither about my weak fucking mentality.

You think it’s hilarious. You smile in my face, index finger hanging off your bottom lip, and everything that I can’t stand is there, happening in one single moment—the smile, the eyebrows, the constant movement of your hips like you’re already fucking—and you say, breath reeking of vodka, “Chad, I’m bored. Let’s go play.” I know what you mean by that—a game of self-satisfaction, of teasing and simply refusing to give me what I want. Snorting at you, I spit and challenge those devious, slanted eyes, unmoving.

“Only if you’ll dance for me,” are my only words.

I eye those ever-swaying hips. They’re just moving slightly side to side now, almost impatiently, waiting for my answer, begging me to grab hold of them. Your back and neck arch with them, so natural and obscure, yet so overbearingly sexual. They don’t stop, just like the rhythms you play out, just like the same beating of the heart. It drives me insane and I ignore a spasm in my arm, initiated by the sudden impulse to throw you down into the asphalt, rip your pants down and fuck you, face down, right into the fucking pavement.

You smile, pucker your lips and sway back to the entrance of the hotel. Automatically mesmerized, I follow you in, and I can already feel the smile taking up most of your face.

“So. Your room or my room?”

It doesn’t matter. They look the same anyways. And the result will be the same. After the door closes behind us, you stay there, your hand on the doorknob, finger still in place and hips still moving. I pull a chair away from a desk nearby, turn it around and straddle it, leaning my arms on the back and resting my head on it.

Without warning it begins, and you twirl about and roll your hips in intricate circles, doing nothing short of what Ryan Martinie would do if moments were intense enough. Back bends, cartwheels, fingers weaving through your hair, whatever—it doesn’t matter because the gracefulness involved with manipulating every muscle you have provokes a savage animalism in me that becomes harder to control as seconds pass. You begin to exaggerate after awhile, running out of sexual movements to use, and you suddenly remind me of a transvestite I saw once at a strip bar. I laugh, catch you by an empty belt loop, pull you around to face me and rip open your fly, one cold hand burrowing itself into your pants to find warmth.

You shiver violently before smiling, “Your hands are fuckin’ cold, dude.” I remove my hand. You’re gyrating already, as if by impulse, seeking out matching heat and a hard surface to grind into. I slide down into the chair and you gasp slightly as you find it, pulling yourself up by draping an arm around my neck. Your hips move faster, still rolling, still graceful, but I see some of it disintegrating as your breaths get shallower and those beads begin to form and roll off your forehead. Soon your eyes roll back and close, your brow furrows, and you are deep in concentration—your grace begins to falter as the circular motions become jerky and spastic, your legs begin to quiver, and your other arm comes around me. You move faster, faster and more vulgar than I’ve ever seen those hips move, and I slide down more and buck my hips, reveling in the perversion of your grace.

Our tongues connect, nothing more, and that same wisp of saliva is there.

A single, final thrust and you melt, leaning forward to whisper in my ear, “Chad…”

The chair tips over backwards; my head knocks back against the carpet, I hear you say “shit” and we roll two separate ways.

You won’t stop laughing, but at least those hips have stopped swaying.