Dear,
...
Your name and image and
invocation cropped up in the course of an exceptional and rare day today. It
was a day where mighty forces converged on the weak threads of our existence
and broke some spurious links away.
So, (I dunno if you're reading
this by the way, now that you're not speaking to me over that film money thing)
but anyhow, as you know, I have a polyamorous bent, fueled in part, ironically,
by the strange and neo-erotic case of impotence which I endure like
the good martyr of Szechuan that I am.
The perverse, or maybe
atypical thing about a certain strain of impotence, is the way in which it
forces the equal and opposite of its effect by compelling me at times, to ogle
the sexual compatibility of strange women, i.e. women who are strangers to me,
not green haired British surrealists firing pistols in the street. This symptom
of arse gazing on the escalator, nipple splitting and flesh assessing continues
unabated. This excruciating form of torture is hideous in many ways and I take
no pleasure in suffering it. This nipple, that breast, those pants, that belly;
that wobble, that jiggle, that hint, that slip. That curve, that line, that
'V', that peek. It's fucking murder. And as I mention it, I remember I have to
include you in my voyeurus expiation due to the fact that the smell of that
perfume you used to wear has just engulfed me in the metro at kitay gorod where
we used to meet and go to China Pilot. That first flush of our attraction
yielded a little black book of naughtiness which I keep for lonely
moments.
Maybe this lingering (or
should I say lingerie-ing) attachment to some of the pink and ecstatic images
in that little black book which cling to me like starlight and bend my wanton
gait, make it obvious to my better half that you still occupy some space in my
sexed-down fantasy life. Ergo, my dear, ... you were held up and wafted at me
as an example of a person on the receiving end of the aforementioned
polyamorous bent. I know this would have amused you and mention it in passing;
(not that you are reading this at all, but thank you for the cash.)
As an addendum to a previous
comment I made about my unrequited tryst with a rabbit and a red haired girl, I
return to the burning lust I feel towards red heads which infects me on my
travels and can be traced back directly to those dark passages of unfulfilled
desire in the gloomy interior of her dad's potting shed.
Is it like that with all of
them? Does the vehicle of my subconscious behavior veer from lane to lane on
this mad dash up the wrong side of a dual carriageway because it is being
driven by the mad, alcoholic ignoramus that I was? And am I now in the thrall
of this dead man's throttle? Yo ho ho and a bottle of phencodyl. That's the way
to screw it!
Sent from my iPhone
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