Mick was there, as was I, when Times Square was really alive, men
beyond count had spilled their seed in the peep shows and quarter reels.
Rivulets of semen ran in the gutters, thick with wrigglers and when
you walked the street you could feel them climbing your leg in search of
a hole.
I had a companion then, she loved the tang of the place, the essences
of men that hung in the air, bright and burning as salt wind and
sunshine. Of course she loved the cock. She measured her cocks by spirit
not size, a tiny bantam rooster, head held high, who pinned a snake
in his talons, and ate it, still alive, for his dinner was worthy of
respect; a gigantic waddling tom turkey, addicted to corn, simply
waiting to die was not.
She loved my cock but tested it with tooth and nail to be sure it met
her mettle. Had I ever flagged, gone limp with some small injury, she
would have bit it off and spit it out in contempt.
One night, with a glint of mad scientist in her eye and armed with a
large safety pin, she became determined to perform some fiendish
experiment. She probed along the shaft, curious, perhaps to see if the
entire thing was filled like a waterbag and drops of white would appear
at the small punctures. She ran it around the head, the groove
beneath, the many tiny cracks. Miss Frankenstein cackled maniacally,
"It's Alive...Alive" as life spewed forth and in a crescendo of
violence drove the pin through my frenum and closed it.
I am a sentimental fool, but never an old softie(too dangerous) and so have kept the piercing open to this day.
No comments:
Post a Comment