A pesky little kid said that my face looks like that of someone who is about to vomit.
“The sticky wetness of sex has filled the air. Go buy a cooler.” Said the landlady to the numb-with-shock tenant.
“I do wonder what raw zebra tastes like.” Thought the toddler even as his mother stuffed his face with another spoonful of ceralac.
“Spit does not really taste of anything. Which is strange, must be the only bodily fluid which is tasteless.” Mused the makers of Moraji Cola one fiendishly hot afternoon.
“If gravity is so bloody omnipotent, then why the fuk does the fat rest on my bum and not go any further?” she asks herself, even as the treadmill shivered underneath her weight.
“Surely, another sniff ain’t gonna harm no one” she hummed to herself as she reached for the Magic Box and the background filled with Parton praying to jolene.
I have always wondered how I would write erotica. Finding that sugary balance between all-out descripto and manhood/sweet centre- like innuendo.
I do believe that words can be sensual at times. The ones which wrap around your ears and flow down your back and you feel their heat rush through you.
Where am I going with this?
Asked the Failure of His words.
And as they hung their heads in silence,
He realised what they had tried to say.