Three
Friday, Saturday, Sunday...these days were extrememly interesting. Friday I went to Willow House with some new friends I made on Thursday and spent the night frivolously. At David's apartment, the one with his fatty of a cat, we gave eachother massages. I recieved mine first and it was delicious. I've recently been sore, my jaw, back, knees--maybe it's all the driving I do now. Nonetheless, the massage felt divine, giving the massage however, was another pleasure of that night. I never realized how S/M I am. I think I became a little aroused when I slapped and whipped my victims with belts. After I thoroughly exhausted myself from beating We all headed out and went to eat breakfast at Genny's. The posse was entirely drunk with the late-night-never-went-to-sleep giggles and everything amused us. I almost crashed driving home (drunk with fatigue remember).
Treason makes us all men. I can only express the happenings of this night in a figuritive manner. Deftly he struck the match against the octagonal stone; as the sulfur burned a terrible choking scent and a black whisp of ash removed itself from the flame, it was only after he flicked the match into the pit that the fire became full. Roaring and blazing and melting away the blanch air the conflagration yearned to burn brighter yearned to burn mightier, to make noise like the bellowing mountains which surrounded it. Brush and fuel were consumed by the fire, he sought out the world around him and his orange arms grabed it all-absorbed all the energy from the earth and reduced it but to gray dust.
The fire made his way through space; out of breath from running so fast he slowed. The clouds gathered and his polar lover broke the stars' gleam with dewy, fat drops of rain. The flame and liquid danced, creating pure steam: hot, powerful steam which yaked sweat from moaning trees that cracked under the pressure of the dance.
As the golden dawn broke, stabbing through the fluffly rainclouds the heart beat still. Thump thump--its pitter patter dimminishing and fading away like the careless night.
Until the next deluge.
And now I rest in the QC, exchanging hope and self-discovery for isolation.
Sunday they say is a day of rest; maybe they're wrong.
Treason makes us all men. I can only express the happenings of this night in a figuritive manner. Deftly he struck the match against the octagonal stone; as the sulfur burned a terrible choking scent and a black whisp of ash removed itself from the flame, it was only after he flicked the match into the pit that the fire became full. Roaring and blazing and melting away the blanch air the conflagration yearned to burn brighter yearned to burn mightier, to make noise like the bellowing mountains which surrounded it. Brush and fuel were consumed by the fire, he sought out the world around him and his orange arms grabed it all-absorbed all the energy from the earth and reduced it but to gray dust.
The fire made his way through space; out of breath from running so fast he slowed. The clouds gathered and his polar lover broke the stars' gleam with dewy, fat drops of rain. The flame and liquid danced, creating pure steam: hot, powerful steam which yaked sweat from moaning trees that cracked under the pressure of the dance.
As the golden dawn broke, stabbing through the fluffly rainclouds the heart beat still. Thump thump--its pitter patter dimminishing and fading away like the careless night.
Until the next deluge.
And now I rest in the QC, exchanging hope and self-discovery for isolation.
Sunday they say is a day of rest; maybe they're wrong.