Habibi’s aren’t supposed to drink at 1:35pm on a weekday. I do anyway because the indie music video that is my life is transitioning from Sepia to a grainy 70’s cassette tape feel. And I can’t stop it. I’m also really horny. Everything makes me horny these days. Yesterday, it wasn’t my newly made bed or the feeling of small explosions inside my chest and joints as I sweated, naked in my bedroom under the fan that moved as slowly as the low current demanded. It was the conversation padrone. With this box sized nigger or no more than twenty four or five I think. He told me he’s been waking up everyday for the past week and a half wanting to genuinely eat pussy.
Me too brother me too. Pussy, dick. I’ll take whatever comes first.
But I can’t have either. Self-imposed celibacy. After swallowing copious amounts of White and licking pink and salt, I have purposely restrained myself. Its too easy to drown myself inside other people.
These days I settle for restraint and anticipation. I ask padrone to tell me about his dirty sex. He shoots successive texts about fucking and coming in girls inside trains in London. He describes getting his ass ate and dishing out cream pies. Dirty boy.
I know I’m responding when that sensation runs from between my eyes in a straight line down to between my legs. A ticklish feeling I never want to stop. If I pushed my left finger between my lips I might be able to feel a little bulge. If I pressed that bulge I’d gasp, then I’d press harder and gasp louder.
But I just keep reading his texts. I’d rather someone else lick and push my bulge.
The only thing I can do is keep drinking and forget for the next thirty minutes that my life is an utter fucking present mess.
