…like a nightclub, my bedroom smells like…

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Oh fuck what happens if I run out of gin and tonic. It’s most likely to be tonic. Fever Tree tonic. There’s a Wholefoods ten minutes walk away. That’s cool, I can deal with the situation. Morosely look into the glass. Morrison’s Lament intruding upon thoughts. Death and my cock. As long as I can see nipples and thighs – black stockings; sheer, fishnet, woollen, or otherwise – I can get it up. Onanism. A million milky ejaculations. This is it. This is what he lives for. How long does it take and how much he would dearly like to sustain it. What chemical meltdown happens in his brain that makes him so happy and why does he turnover to go to sleep. Cum like a pornstar. Should I eat more bananas? Icarus descending. Mr Newton. Dickarus descending into the post sexual. She kneels and takes him in her mouth. His head rolls back. More gin. Slow descent.

Listen at the wall
Listen through the wall
Wailing
Moaning, groaning
So delicious
So unsettling

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