All at once it was late afternoon.
And we were like something pulled from the shelf, Elijah and me, recalled for our dangerous parts. Parts that might break off and be swallowed by a dog or small child. Maybe our paint mix was Toxic. Radioactive. It doesn’t matter. All I’m trying to say is we looked sucky and off the shelf, and we were out of our minds,
I woke and read a text from a guy I’m seeing casually. “Fuck, I’m so horny right now! I want your fat cock deep inside me so bad shooting your fucking load deep inside me.” Above the words, an over-the-shoulder picture of his ass, back arched, making an intentionally cute/awkward face. While I appreciated the nature of his message, it also made me apprehensive, because, though we have fun and exchange a great deal of affection,
Let me tell you something about this life I built. You see, I’m a patient motherfucker. I’m a wait in the tall grass motherfucker. You probably see me in the big house, with the carefully manicured lawn, and the 401(k) statements and the kids’ birthday parties and all kind of cakes and cookies and must think you stumbled upon a sedentary man. A man doesn’t know how to be active kind of man.
It’s always like this. I come sleep here between shifts sometimes—because she needs visitors once in a while, yes, but also because every time I sleep in the newsroom on the filthy couch in the editing bay there’s always some weird producer in the middle of the night “checking on me,” which really means popping his head in to watch me sleep,