Sex For Breakfast

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sex for breakfast

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"I was greedy, hungry for men. The more the better. Father had a lot of she-goats but only one ram, Inácio. But I had plenty of billygoats and I let 'em mount me anywhere---on the stony ground, on the hillsides, down by the river, on the beach. That was the only pleasure a man could give me, just that and nothing else: to lie down on the ground and be laid. At the old man's table we always ate the same things: beans, manioc flour and jerky. The man who gave me a taste for fancy dishes, the kind you can never get enough of, was Lucas, and the classroom was Dr. Flugencio's bed."

He asked me when I was staring at it, “Isn't it the prettiest thing you've ever seen?”

Maybe I have a problem. It hits me when I'm about to go home with a guy. I cross my fingers. God I hope it's big. It's fucked up that we can't ask, as if men can't see the outline of our breasts in a tight shirt. I like them that way. Maybe it's genetic, I've got Italian canals that go for miles. One guy was so big I wanted to call the police. Shivering in fright outside of the CVS pharmacy at 7:00 am about to buy Magnum XL's as if I could take all that in. I was in such pain afterwards I held myself in the fetal position for an entire day. Tommy. I was so scared when he called I put my girlfriend on the phone. “Sorry dude, she isn't here. Can I take a message?” No, I have the perfect one imagined in my brain. Cuz I've seen it. It's a rarity. One so beautiful I can just stare at it, like it's its own entity. I want to compliment it. Cook it dinner. Buy it flowers. Yes, I dehumanize the man and humanize his staff. Like the men do for the ladies' ass, and breasts, and their poetical place. Mine sings like a bird when it is filled up. It aches, like howling, an owl on its own. Like when I was on acid and I swear I saw the leaves on a plant fucking. It's natural law, the natural order of things. Girls with glorious pussies deserve boys with glorious cocks. That's why they never show hard dicks on cable; for some women it won't ever be big enough, and there goes our celebrity fantasy. I think I saw Kevin Bacon's in Wild Things, it was pretty nice, but, I've seen the perfect one already. I just have to wait 10 years until his brain reaches the maturity of his dick. Yeah, I'll wait for it.

His Timex read 12:55:08. That’s four minutes and fifty-two seconds before lunch. He sat fidgeting in his cubicle – knees bouncing, fingers dancing a jig. He had no idea what to do with himself: the sensation was overwhelming. And smelling his mustache only made it worse; all he could smell was her. It was excruciating, bordering on torture – but he liked it. And he was aching for another round.

Nine Hours Ago:

“Fuck me. Harder…harder!”

His cock was pole firm. Drilling deep. Flirting with her spot. Her pussy was supreme: sweet, forever wet – and tight enough. He looked into her eyes, the picture of focus. If he came at that very moment he was certain this would be the first and last time he’d ever have a fuck with her. So he turned her over, just before the impulse arrived – he knew his body, needed it to last.

“What are you doing?” she moaned.

He didn’t respond: he just grabbed her hair, pushed deeper. Pacing, giving himself the edge. Her ass went pink from the force, slamming his thighs, willing him to go the distance. Then, he felt that tremble inside her. It was expanding, gradually flowing throughout her entire being. She was beginning to come –

Back to Present:

12:59:25. He surveyed the office: colleagues were closing browsers, grabbing their coats, wrapping it up. He put his computer to sleep. Stood up. Stretched out the stress. Subway, Baja Fresh – it didn’t matter. He’d sit alone, thinking about her. He strode for the door, spilled out into the hallway. And there she was – his boss. Fixing her hair, crossing her arms before the elevator. He moved beside her, watching the numbers climb. The elevator DINGED. Slid open. And before stepping in, she muttered:

“Jesus, I can’t get your smell off me.”

After sex I like to listen to Tracy Chapman. Talkin’ Bout A Revolution, that’s my favorite song. What I like best is listening to Tracy after something like anal sex. The better the sex, the heavier the feeling, the better Tracy sounds to me afterward. So that’s my thing. That thing – like listening to Chopin. I listen to Chopin when I take a shower. Tracy Chapman, Norah Jones, and Chopin – that’s what I’m into.

Before getting into bed I try to think about how nice the walls would look if they had women on them. A bunch of women stacked together by the shoulders, lined up against the walls of my room. Three and four of them to a wall – all with their backs to me and with their hands bent back by their arms and attached to their hips; their elbows reaching out like handles in the subway. I want to grab ahold of one and tug away, hang on by the corner like I did when I was younger. It would be a nice thing to see a wall lined with girls – all the same size and shape, all of the curves rounded in their particular place and perfectly matching the rest. Round is the word I’ve often thought to describe them – that’s how I’ve seen them as I’m lying down. I’m lying.

I want you. Johnny said: my dick wants you – Johnny from the party. He laughed when he saw I wrote that down. Some people don’t like when you write about them. Other’s love to read about themselves, they like to be a muse.

Rita is a damn cunt. She pulls her cunt from me and I have a look at it, wonderful as it is, before it goes diving back underneath the covers. So that’s her thing. Mine is listening to good music. Hers is wrapping up her cunt when she’s finished. I have fun with Rita, pulling back the covers and smelling the sheets where it’s gooey and wet. That’s the wet spot, she says. Who knows what language it is but I swear it’s Italian and I smile thinking about how I sometimes confuse myself. Rita your cunt is a masterpiece, I say. I have a look at it. Oh, how it’s diamond shaped. Rita, we like to do this don’t we? Rita smiles and talks more of her sweet Italian. She says: yes. That’s si.

Erotica was thrown before us like trash on the sidewalk.

We picked her up and asked where she wanted to go.

She said to the Palomar.

She knew someone at the desk that could get us a suite.

She said she liked the soap and shampoo they supply. Kiehl's.

She said she liked us even though she said she had never ridden in such a shitty Volvo.

She told me to park it in the garage and lit a cigarette as soon as we got out.

She walked behind us. Texting.

She wore the pants of a harem with laced heels.

We ordered cheeseburgers when we got to the room.

They came. We ate them.

The Battle

When you told me you had a girlfriend
I wanted you three-fold

I will break down your walls.

A battle to be won
The war scars would be magnificent
Another jewel for my collection
It's seduction
the smell of my scent
left on your pillow

You turn deaf to her moanings
So you can hear my sighs

Should I
Should I
put my pen to paper
No, for I know this game
Excited
because
my love controls you
leaving roots at the four corners
of your bed

You would risk death
to come
to my call

And I
I will never come first

Respect,
you have none for me truly
But, as well, I have none for you
Broken mirrors

I saw her,
not my insecurity that makes me doubt
because your lady
my love
Medusa's face
would cause the sun to hide behind the clouds
turn the whole world to stone

I know
It could be lovely
If
I never want to be your first

I can float on the high waves of your ocean
expecting nothing more than Demeter's tears

Make me a strong drink
Make your sex eyes from behind the bar
Lead me downstairs
Everyone knows
But of sex?
We deny it.
Carry me across the grease stained sidewalks
the blackened lakes of Tartarus
sinking into a pit of lust
We can't get out.
There is no way out.
Forever.

Push my face against the scaffold
the concrete
Let me guide your weapon
Inside
We don't give a fuck who sees
We don't mind if others stare.

My favorite kisser
passionate, bleeding hot
I leave my window open for you
Climb onto my rooftop, my thief
My murderer
Come and violate me
My door is open.

Ode to the Drug Dealer

I called you
Now I’m waiting by my phone
How long
until I get my
Fix

My insides hurt
A little
Goodly
Red sheets

The Velvet Underground
Told me you would never be
On time.

Oh the phone
Yes come over
Come on
Over
No really sir, at this point
I shouldn’t have to pay

Smoky
Ashes
Clouded
Dusty
Powdery
Remains
Smacking
Spanking
Puffing
Kissing

This drug
Your black eyes
They seem to be in a trance
Reflecting only what I want to see
What I want

More drugs
More fucking
We never go out
You like to be inside too much.
And I like it when you come inside.
Three more times we did it
In the span of a few hours
But it was a lifetime

Dealing it out to me
Like a deck of cards
Hit me
Tell me when I’m going over
Put your dick upon the table
How much is it worth
And are you even selling?

Where did my time go with you?
Where did my life go with you?
Many years, we played this game
I couldn’t see
Wavy hair
The smell of your shampoo.
You reminded me of Slater
Funny words
Fingering me while we listen
To jazz on the couch.
I fell in love with you then.
Watching you smoke
Cigarette
Ashes.
The haze
The foggy sky
It cloaked you.
I couldn’t see the monster
Now married to your grand deception
So hard for me to drive
Your dick was really all I remember.

I can get slain in public for talking about how much I like it from behind.
His cock deep, with a tight pull to my hair and I'm golden. Golden - as in - I'm squirting so much pussy juice that guys be like, Don't run out! How do I get more? Is the price going to go up? Seriously, I can sell jars of the stuff.

Sometimes when I cum I think about that scene in Slacker where that dike is trying to sell a sample of Madonna's pap smear. I don't recall the dike having a set price or anything, just her trying to off it as if there should be a Christie's auctioneer over-her-shoulder, rambling and accepting calls for thousands of dollars.

I know my pussy is clean and I know the Ukrainian girl who does my line is somewhat of an architect. It really is satisfying not offering up any bullshit in the bedroom. Though, if some dick tries to enter me with a rubber, that shit won't fly.

Most girls flip their bangs or use KY. The VIP list is long, the STD list is strong.

Me? I don't have time for disease. My pussy is prolific.

This bitch was finer than fine, feel me? Fine. I've seen fine, I ain't never - not a day in my thirty-four years - set eyes on what this shorty was bringing. I'm talking electric. Superhuman - fuck, supernatural, man. Shit that makes you wonder - shit that makes you stop and think. It was mystifying - indescribable. Face, lips, legs - of course she had the package, have you been listening? I'm talking above and beyond, off the charts-type shit. She had taste, too - you know those curry-brown Superstars you can only cop online? With the white shell-toe? She had a pair. I'm telling you, there was nothing wrong with this broad.

And then there was that ass...

It was...painful. Straight up - like it hurt lookin' at it, but the last thing you're gonna do is stop. It was one of the most beautiful things I ever seen - and she was wearing this dress with it - where you could see just a little something underneath. I mean it was
wild, man. You had to see it.

So I hollered. Nothing fancy - real talk, y'know? I couldn't even tell you what I said. I just spoke. She was out of my league anyway - I had no business even trying with this broad. Then, she try and put me in place, sayin' -

"You gonna keep flirting, or you gonna get me a size 7 in the new 95's?"

Right? Like bitch, I don't even know you, but I'm still kinda buggin' cause of that ass so I'm just thinking 'okay.' 'It's aight' - 'that's cool.' 'She ain't interested' - 'what can I do?'

So I run back to stock, grab her size 7's, bring 'em to the front. She's sitting down on one of the benches now, lookin' everywhere but me. So I take a knee, open the box, take out the 95's. All the sudden I look up - yo, I can't even make this up - her legs is wide open, like she wants me to see it. This girl still ain't looking at me - she was starin' at the lights - who the fuck knows what she was starin' at? Who cares?

So I'm pretending like I don't see it, but I mean she's all out - like every detail of that damn thing was visible. So I just play it cool and fit her into the 95's. For real, like it don't matter - oh it was straight. I mean, her joint was maintained. You could tell she managed that shit regularly. Yeah, it was legit.

So meanwhile, I'm trying to keep it down, y'know? But the longer I'm on the knee, the harder it's gonna be - and I'm in the uniform, so you know I'ma be showing if I stand. So, check this - she stands up. Starts walkin' in the 95's, seeing if they fit. And me? I'm still on the knee so now I got a view of everything - front and fuckin' back! This ass was no joke. Seriously, she had a nigga wanting to cry it was so - it was divine. And I just kept lookin' and it didn't matter that she wasn't lookin' back - she knew what she was doing - she knew I was peepin'.

After that? She sits down. Said she wasn't really feelin' the 95's. I ain't fight - I didn't care. What was I gonna say that was gonna changer her mind? She didn't like the shoes.

So she got back in her Superstars, left without a word. Nothing. Not even a 'thank you.'

And that was it...

      We sit in my office naked, buzzed on champagne, while she shows me pics from a Calvin Klein show, audition tapes a friend shot, a modeling portfolio, paparazzi photos of her at B-list events---the opening of a shoe store on Canon, a charity benefit at someone's home in Brentwood, standing with a group of girls at the Playboy Mansion at the Midsummer Night's Dream Party---and then always it seems we're back in the bedroom.
      "What do you want for Christmas?" she asks.
      "This. You." I smile. "What do you want?"
      "I want a part in your movie," she says. "You know that."
      "Yeah?" I ask, my hand tracing her thigh. "My movie? Which part?"
      "I want the part of Martina." She kisses me, her hand moving down to my cock, gripping it, releasing it, gripping it again.
      "And I'm going to try and get it for you."
      The pause is involuntary but she recovers in a second. "Try?"

UnLove at First Sight

You are such a big shot business man.
You have a black leather briefcase.
You buy me everything I want, this princess lives in a castle
And I wear dresses in white Victorian lace.

You're not the nicest man under the stars.
You intimidate everyone with a stare.
You should leave that behavior at the office.
And I should have been more cautious descending into Moloch's lair.

You like to control your conquests.
Little women's bodies littered on your marble floor.
You like to dominate us in your bedroom.
But after a few nights with you, I just can't stand it anymore.

When you're about to go I watch, I wait, to see it come.
It's a liquid creamy fountain, ascending into outer space.
But I cannot understand, I cannot comprehend, why you think you have the right,
To shoot your load upon my face.

A pristine statue of beauty, this visage.
A face that would make Helen sigh.
You know that I wear I contacts.
Yet you persist and ejaculate near my eye.

Don't get me wrong, I like a little pain with my pleasure.
The masochistic girl in me will always remain.
And I know you like to humiliate your victims.
But please kind sir, I don't need your little soldiers marching around my cornea into my brain.

If I feel pain, it should be in one spot,
Not my spine, not my throat, and for me, not my derriere.
Going into work with an irritated bloodshot eye,
Well my darling, that just ain't fair.

You can do that in a lady's mouth or inside that beret you kind ones wear.
You can do that on a lady's breast or on her thighs.
In between her legs, if she doesn't hate you, there is a tiny charming space.
But never, ever, my darling, on your life, shoot your load upon this face.

I sank into the sofa like it was made of marshmallow. My eyes slipped shut and I felt that good feeling of sleep flooding my brain. My mouth started to open and I was nearly asleep when I heard the sound of ice in a glass getting slowly louder, footsteps coming near me. I looked over and there she was; naked but for my silk robe tied loosely around her full hips. In her right hand was a glass of some amber liquid. She stood over me and undid the robe with her left hand, letting it fall around her feet. She turned away from me slowly, bending at the waist ever so slightly. That ass. Like fresh country bread, supple and firm, it stood close enough that I could see the small blond hairs in the late-afternoon sun coming through the blinds. Then I smelled the bourbon and felt the cool touch of the glass as I took the drink from off her ass.

He, Jonathan Cunningham, was suddenly tired of writing about himself. Specifically, he was tired of the letter: I. As he sat something turned in his stomach and reminded him of a bad experience. The page was covered - and so he threw it in the fire and watched it burn. He had pulled it; it making that spinning sound, out of the typewriter before crumpling and flinging it into the fireplace. He stood up from his old leather chair next to the oak desk; he had all those things that writers have when they read books.

Jonathan went upstairs because upstairs was Sonja and Shannon, and Sonja needed to be tended to. Normally he would have left her be and crawled into bed before sun-up, or fallen asleep on the sofa downstairs. But tonight he had thrown his work in the fire, retiring early for the evening. Shannon could be a bother at times - he thought so - sometimes she would come down and lay against him on the sofa. Sonja didn't do this; Sonja was all of the things he liked - and Shannon was all of the rest. There had been many questions before: what about the rest, what about the other things? Shannon was the answer to those questions.

On this night - because this was not a night like the others - he found the two girls, upstairs, together in bed. This on its own was not unusual. What surprised Jonathan this night was a painting, a Cy Twombly, which now hung on the far wall - above the bed. He had seen the painting once before, he couldn't be sure when, but it had not been in his room.

-Where did you get that?
-We stole it, said Sonja.
-From where?
-From a home - during a party. We stole it together. We were together when we took it.

It was a nice painting - lots of scribbling and plenty of words and streaks of color. He stared at it for a while and the girls let him take it in. They did not talk nor wiggle a limb. It would have been nice of them, but this was fairly routine behavior; the girls were used to giving him the time he needed to play with the things around him. When he was done flirting with the different stories in his head: he imagined the girls stealing such a painting, how they must have looked doing so, the fact neither presumably knew the name of the artist made him smile, and how that might make the collector who no longer had it on his wall smile - he asked the girls to roll over. Sonja was first. She liked to be first - like an athlete who cares about winning. Once on her stomach she arched up her hips, and Shannon crawled on top of her, lying her stomach on Sonja's back.

Jonathan stood as he was. He melted within the frame of the door, both Sonja's and Shannon's asses raised perfectly in the air - and then there was the freshly added Twombly on the wall raised slightly in the background behind the two asses. He switched the focus in his eyes; he switched from the two girls to the Twombly and back again to the girls. He did so three more times - each time thinking of how similar they looked.

Stockings, Garters, and Other Things...

Darkness
Upstairs
Light
Mirrors
Impenetrable heaven of femininity
These women
are
So pretty
Put your street clothes in the locker

Foundation
Powder
Eyeliner
Lipliner
Lipstick
Black. Fence Net. Stockings.
Curl your hair
Can I use your perfume?
I only use body spray.
Ask mom.

Still early
Look for a man to buy you a drink at the bar
Not good enough
Buy it yourself

A tad intoxicated
Oh he's hot
Can I buy you a drink?
Yes.
Will you dance for me?
Yes.

Breast
Thights
Sweat
Put his face into my cleavage
This is sort of my song

Wait, I have to go
Sean Paul is telling me to get busy
Help her get down
Give her a kiss
Dont fall in your heels

Take off your bra
Let him see my calves
Stick your commerce in my garter
Even the lesbians too
Time is up

Find him Find him
Where is he
Time is also up
Can I buy you a drink?
Oh you're a doctor?
Dance for me.
Oh?
Keep your clothes on.
Even better.
Dance Dance Dance.
Dance some more.
Bend over.
Let him almost see your karma.
Manicured hot pink polished hands on the floor.

Thank you. Thank you.
What's your name?
Doll.
Tell me your real name.
No.
Can I have your number?
No.
You are Venus.
Thank you.
Could you dance again?
Yes.

Make him beg. Make him broke.
Exquisitely fun.
Harmony is calling.
It's a party want to come?
No, I'll stay here.

Take all of his money
Take it til it's all gone
Two verses, a chorus, there's a break
Look at my calves.
In these heels.

Tip them Tip them
Fees for business
No I don't need a ride.
Buy some candy
Make snow angels to
thank God, I won't get evicted tomorrow.

Just got back from the coffee shop. I believe I counted five girls waiting in line - three in black leggings, one in gym shorts, the other in blue jeans. Collectively in the 7-9 range. All appealingly thin and fit, save for the girl in the blue jeans: a full-bodied redhead. Her arms could have used some toning, but everything else was tip-top - especially her ass. Her ass? Legendary. A staggering work of spherical perfection not even the Greeks could envision. Now with all that candy in the room I'm thinking to myself, which one? Which one do I want to taste the most? Naturally, knowing where my priorities stand, you'd probably assume the redhead. And your assumption would be incorrect. My friends, the answer is simple, logical, authentic: all five. And you know why?

Ass is ass.

NLF