(no subject)
Secret Swan/Lordly Lion.
Current mood: contemplative
(pulchritudinous.)
There's dancing in the streets...
And they're shaking their feet...
And that beat is
Take
ing
us
some
where
we
were
not meant
to
go.
And somewhere...
Upstairs...
Off of Avenue A...
A girl is moaning and writhing as loud as she can.
She's smearing her Ox blood lipstick all over my face...
and she's tearing at her stockings to get them off...
and I am still in amazment that outta all those men staring her down...
I was the one that got her out of that jazz club...
and out into the sweet smell of the city at night.
She asked if we could go back to my place near 14th street...
and in between the clack of the horses hoofs on cobblestone...
and between her silencing me with her tongue...
I managed to get out a...
"Yes, of course dear."
220 Avenue A.
Just off 14th street.
The perfect place to take your cares out on someone else's hipbones.
We almost didn't make it to the bedroom.
Because, as I was jingling and jangling for my keys...
She decided to start right there in the hallway.
With one hand in my trousers and one hand up under her petticoat...
It was quite hard for me to focus on what I was trying to do.
And the fact that another tenant from down the hall was staring right at her in amazement at
1) the fact that she was pleasing herself in public and taking the time to do the same to me...
and 2) that she was one of the most beautiful girls south of 42nd street.
And that was tough with all the broads on Broadway.
So I finally get the door open and throw her down in the foyer of my apartment.
And I entered her.
But something didn't feel quite right.
Maybe it was the fact that everytime she touched me...
I could see black ink spreading across my...
Chest.
Hair.
Face.
Legs.
Across the back of my neck.
All of a sudden I get this terrible gagging feeling in the back of my throat and the ink spreads past my lips and down my throat and coats it in the writings of things that I have never understood.
And all she can do is look down at me and say...
"Sorry about that, Toots."
So she finishes herself off (how dare she!)
and stands up and starts to put on her...
Cami-knickers.
Knickers and a petticoat.
Girdle.
Stockings.
Corset.
And as she started to lace up her Symington Side Lacer...
I thought to myself, "If you don't say something, the situation will grow uneasy."
So I asked her about...
Triumph.
Maidenform.
Gossard.
Warner Brothers.
Spirella.
Twilfit.
Symington.
Anything to take her mind off of me watching her put her bra back on.
And she asked me with a look of discontent in her eyes...
"What do you take me for?"
"Some kind of fast courtesan?"
"I am no floozy or trollop."
"I am a woman."
And before I could say...
"I'll be your Samson...as long as you aren't Delilah."
She had her blouse back on and her heels tightened and was out the door.
They found me the next morning.
Naked.
And covered in ink.
That was the last time I ever saw her.
It was a shame really...
She was a great fuck.
Current mood: contemplative
(pulchritudinous.)
There's dancing in the streets...
And they're shaking their feet...
And that beat is
Take
ing
us
some
where
we
were
not meant
to
go.
And somewhere...
Upstairs...
Off of Avenue A...
A girl is moaning and writhing as loud as she can.
She's smearing her Ox blood lipstick all over my face...
and she's tearing at her stockings to get them off...
and I am still in amazment that outta all those men staring her down...
I was the one that got her out of that jazz club...
and out into the sweet smell of the city at night.
She asked if we could go back to my place near 14th street...
and in between the clack of the horses hoofs on cobblestone...
and between her silencing me with her tongue...
I managed to get out a...
"Yes, of course dear."
220 Avenue A.
Just off 14th street.
The perfect place to take your cares out on someone else's hipbones.
We almost didn't make it to the bedroom.
Because, as I was jingling and jangling for my keys...
She decided to start right there in the hallway.
With one hand in my trousers and one hand up under her petticoat...
It was quite hard for me to focus on what I was trying to do.
And the fact that another tenant from down the hall was staring right at her in amazement at
1) the fact that she was pleasing herself in public and taking the time to do the same to me...
and 2) that she was one of the most beautiful girls south of 42nd street.
And that was tough with all the broads on Broadway.
So I finally get the door open and throw her down in the foyer of my apartment.
And I entered her.
But something didn't feel quite right.
Maybe it was the fact that everytime she touched me...
I could see black ink spreading across my...
Chest.
Hair.
Face.
Legs.
Across the back of my neck.
All of a sudden I get this terrible gagging feeling in the back of my throat and the ink spreads past my lips and down my throat and coats it in the writings of things that I have never understood.
And all she can do is look down at me and say...
"Sorry about that, Toots."
So she finishes herself off (how dare she!)
and stands up and starts to put on her...
Cami-knickers.
Knickers and a petticoat.
Girdle.
Stockings.
Corset.
And as she started to lace up her Symington Side Lacer...
I thought to myself, "If you don't say something, the situation will grow uneasy."
So I asked her about...
Triumph.
Maidenform.
Gossard.
Warner Brothers.
Spirella.
Twilfit.
Symington.
Anything to take her mind off of me watching her put her bra back on.
And she asked me with a look of discontent in her eyes...
"What do you take me for?"
"Some kind of fast courtesan?"
"I am no floozy or trollop."
"I am a woman."
And before I could say...
"I'll be your Samson...as long as you aren't Delilah."
She had her blouse back on and her heels tightened and was out the door.
They found me the next morning.
Naked.
And covered in ink.
That was the last time I ever saw her.
It was a shame really...
She was a great fuck.