- Erotic Poetry
- Cooking the Books
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I turn to images; black bodies and white depositors. The thought of being less than human. I watch until the heat rises, usually when the man is breathing heaviest and saying something derogatory about race or chocolate. The receptacle moaning the obligatory cheers for her partner's big finish. I've already cum twice watching them tussle. The heat of it all. The lack of heat at home. Freudian slips. Baying at the moon again. This ain't no rustle and coo, baby. Good ole fashioned southern cooking the books. I'm hell bent on destruction. Shoulda been born more of a red head. Plain just can't deal anymore. Terrible for a card reader. Who the fuck is gonna get me out of this one?
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