Just to see the Blue

Glitter, sparkle, men on their knees for me. Drooling, crying, whine for me, leave their wives for me. Clamps, rings, sterilized metal on the most intimate parts of me. A little lust with pissy beer is the optimal variety.

My physique guarantees a jubilant juncture. Full-figured and predisposed to be the principle in a one woman show. 9, 11, 6 AM! Heavy eyelids destined to descend like the rosary I carry that cringes in my sinner palms. Slut, cunt, pussy, whore are the lyrics I have to look forward to as our skin hums a cadence only I can hear.

Exactly one teaspoon of vanilla perfume on my pulse points pulls them in like a pothead smelling smoke. Pause, he’s actually speaking to me, but it’s vulgar. THAT, you want me to do that between my breasts? Sure, sugar. I sigh. That’s 20 bucks extra.

I’m always in the dark (clandestine promiscuity) and I think it’s because I’m trapped in your pupils but I want so badly just to see the blue. Why are my boobs more compelling than my brain and my ass easier to grab than a coffee?

I have a master’s degree in psychology but I can’t figure out what I did to be just a good screw. I’ve tried to make decadent meals and have a disposition worthy of a wife but all you see is plastique Barbie.

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