Walk Around With My Feet Inside Your Shoes.
I wish this closet full of shoes had odometers firmly installed on their surface. Then I'd never have to wonder how many steps I've taken in each one.
The downtown streets slapping under the plastic bottoms of our well-worn shoes, Dan and I came upon a man who, drunken by the sauce or perhaps intoxicated with insanity, took to exploding upon us and accussing us of being Australian. After our denies were firmly in place, his focus shifted to the idea that Dan had graced the cover of GQ and myself the papered backings of Penthouse or Playboy or a slew of other porn based publishings that I would know the names of if I took pleasure in viewing images of nothing-clad women. As the minutes passed, his hands wandering over the interior crevices of his clothing to locate the bottle of liquor that he was sure he possessed somewhere, the inane ramblings wandered through mathematical problems to determine his age in years, the ideology that his birthday was every day of the year, and an eruption of vulgarities at the attempt of a parked car to pull away with it's company of passengers intact. It was when he took those hands, encrusted with age and bloodied at the crevices, to embrace our own, pressing lips lined with flaking white chunks and a swollen tongue covered in cottaged cheesed bacteria to the center of my half-heart veined hand that I'd had enough of it all. The flesh eating bacteria burning holes through our weary flesh, Dan and I begged apologies to continue with our day, and began to ease away from the situation. The man's final words, eyes intensely centered on the jiggle and shift of my hindquarters, were to "Keep it shaking!"
I am glad I have a boy who walks behind me, blocking the view, when gross dudes try to get off on images of my hot ass.
The downtown streets slapping under the plastic bottoms of our well-worn shoes, Dan and I came upon a man who, drunken by the sauce or perhaps intoxicated with insanity, took to exploding upon us and accussing us of being Australian. After our denies were firmly in place, his focus shifted to the idea that Dan had graced the cover of GQ and myself the papered backings of Penthouse or Playboy or a slew of other porn based publishings that I would know the names of if I took pleasure in viewing images of nothing-clad women. As the minutes passed, his hands wandering over the interior crevices of his clothing to locate the bottle of liquor that he was sure he possessed somewhere, the inane ramblings wandered through mathematical problems to determine his age in years, the ideology that his birthday was every day of the year, and an eruption of vulgarities at the attempt of a parked car to pull away with it's company of passengers intact. It was when he took those hands, encrusted with age and bloodied at the crevices, to embrace our own, pressing lips lined with flaking white chunks and a swollen tongue covered in cottaged cheesed bacteria to the center of my half-heart veined hand that I'd had enough of it all. The flesh eating bacteria burning holes through our weary flesh, Dan and I begged apologies to continue with our day, and began to ease away from the situation. The man's final words, eyes intensely centered on the jiggle and shift of my hindquarters, were to "Keep it shaking!"
I am glad I have a boy who walks behind me, blocking the view, when gross dudes try to get off on images of my hot ass.