The Novel-less Novelist

Hi. My Name is Stereo Mike.

(A love letter to Ed.)

The music is slick on my skin, sealed in by a thin coat of sweat. It's hot in here, the sultry kind of hot; the sticky kind of hot; the best kind of heat I know.

Cigarettes will kill you. I think this when you take a drag. I wish I was a cigarette, that your lips were on me, drinking me in. I wish I was the cloud around you, that I was the scent you carried.

You always have a drink in one hand, and one for me in the other. So I'm sipping on a juice and gin and it awakens my kaleidoscopic mind. Red is the vision. Red is the feeling pulsing all around us.

You have a pretty mouth, you say. A dirty little mouth. The hairs stand up on my body, I lean in close. You haven't touched me yet.

There are people all around us, long legs and big tits, and you never take your eyes off mine. I'm the prettiest mess you've ever seen.

You tell me you don't dance, but we do. Close. And I want a TV embrace. I want you to push me against the wall and kiss my neck. Your hand touches my arm and I ignite. Friction is turning to fire.

Tell me where you'd hide, you whisper in my ear. Your hot tongue darts out and licks my lobe, searing my skin, marking me as yours. I am.

I tell you how I wish I was in your apartment tonight. I bite my bottom lip. I see you watching; you grab me and pull be close. My breath a tickle on your neck, I whisper I want to see your clothes beside, your clothes beside your bed.

I guess I'm just a fool who never looks before she jumps.

You take me by the hand and lead me through the crowd. I know people will talk. I know just what they'll say. I wish I could say that everyone was wrong. I wish everyone was wrong. I know they're not and I don't care. I will only regret the things I don't do. I don't have many regrets. Who'll risk their own self respect in the name of desire? Lovers will.

We sit close in the cab; the city speeds by under stars I can't see. You tell me you're too old for me. I tell you I'm older than my years. Your hand is on my thigh. I am so alive I could die. You are the fire brought to my babylon, you tell my shoulder, so intimate the words lick me and leave me wet.

Every time I play an ace my partner always trumps.

At your place, we walk into this room and fumble in our haste. Clothes are quickly discarded. We lay it down. You devour me with taste. You stretch me with your hands. You love to watch me beg. You offer a la carte. It must feel good to stand above me while I worship at your alter and watch the ripples fade away.

I wake up in your twisted sheets the next morning, your hand still holding my breast. I find bruises on my thigh; souvenirs I will take home with me. So this is goodbye. This isn't for madder love. This is goodbye.

I guess I'll go through life just catching colds and missing trains.
Everything happens to me.

Time passes, I see men come and go. And how I wish I was in your bed tonight. To taste the salt upon, the salt upon your neck. To feel your body press, pressing down on me.

You are an indellible imprint on my mind; a sensation I can't forget. I know that life is for the taking. I still want that TV embrace.

posted by Jay @ 4:48 AM