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You, mister, rode up on your fixie so smooth and tantalizing. Key's dangling from your black jeans, held on only by that huge metal clip you got in the accessory department at American Apparel. I start to flow. "Ching Ching", the sound of your movement as the mystery in you hops off that $3000 overpriced one gear ten speed. Something in your spokes. A ticket to something you heard on 88 nine?
Sweating from the climb up Bradford Beach Hill, it drips down your manly chest and I can see it shimmer through the transparency of the worn cotton Iron Maiden reprint black shirt. There would be more glistening "you" if it wasn't for that messenger cap affixed to your thigh rubbing melon. I can almost feel you enter, um, the door already.
You stroll in, Chrome bag firmly attached to your body. Shiny, efficient, old timey car belt buckle strapping you in. My mind thinks of things it wants to strap into you, but that bag is so huge that I'm not sure if your Brady Street futon could hold all three of us. I shy into a corner booth, you shake hands with another fully tatted bro, a hug, a wink, is there something unspoken between you two? God, the tingle intensifies. I picture your twin mirror version bar friend replacing your biker bag in bed in a wicked threesome of bike polo proportions. Use my womanhood as your goal, as your net. No worries, I won't deduct a penalty stroke for your inadequacies.
Your voice beckons me. I over hear it. A whisper of music, local of course. A band with a Moog? A DJ maybe who is spinning soul music, stolen from father's record collection, in a dark venue where maidens dance and vnecks droop? Fuck me now. I watch, waiting. A Pabst, yummy. I subconsciously hear you ask me to share, but you don't. Jameson now pours between you and your Olsen twin like friend. Possibly trying to ooze your discomfort level before you awkwardly say hi to me? My outer mini penis swells with veracity. Then, my god, you leave in a whirlwind! What happened? Did I not move fast enough? Is the Swinging Door beckoning the masses to it's mecca? Is there a new place. a new space, that hasn't been tagged that you need to cover with your art? It is art, I know, I sympathize with your need to be seen in letters and squiggly marks. MIAD taught us well. Don't leave biker boy! I need to have your baby, we need to pro-create! We need to multiply! Call me on your iPhone, I set the unknown ringer to the sound of sheep in lust, "bah bah bah".
- Location: eastside
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests