He’s in Atlanta right now at his suck ass cubicle job typing sex at the latest fascination, going to his car for a five minute break, pulling out his dick, moaning into her ear on his cell phone with the unlimited text messages plan.

He’s in San Francisco. Hungover. Her tits on his mind. A smile on his lips. Wheee. She makes things FUN. He hasn’t had fun in a while. She will fly into town under the pretense of “poetry reading.” Or not. There will be more important lines to read and carve into stone. Oh that delicious furtive hide that sinking into that sanctuary marked US (The Rest Of Youse Assholes Can Go Fuck Yourselves). There will be cake with a veritable shitload of frosting.

She’s in San Antonio translating Spanish into English, listening to Japanese robots and planning a move that will require a deposit and cojones. She has those. She knows blood she knows hurricane she knows cowards and the superfluous horror they bring to the carnival which is already damned. Fog. Vague. Maybe. Dalliance. Dabble. Luxuries are such bugs. She crushes them beneath her native Texan boots and walks the extra fucking mile. There will be daily bread, always, but maybe no butter. This chick licks the crumbs from her fingers. Lovesick unto death but kinky enough to turn it into quite the repertoire.

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