He wants me to know his sisyphean efforts, the weight
of his penis, how it shimmers when wet, how it whimpers when denied. He is lugging
a cross of his own making. And the effort, at times herculean. He is like a
woman who's inflated her breasts past skin capacity. She feels the pull of skin,
the burden of largess. He wants the release, to be unleashed during siesta,
the bacon fat of lust. I should judge him. His pants smeared with blood. Perhaps
a record. Iwo Jimo, raise the flag. Place it on the scales. Yes, we have a record
against a questionable background. This fish, you'd like to throw back, ice
the monster of the deep.
Christy Sheffield Sanford
My Matchcom favorites: sushi subtext
