I haven’t been writing much recently (at least not dirty things) so I apologize if things have been a little slow around here.
New York is still cold, and I keep struggling to see signs of spring. Even the infrequent warm days don’t do much to help, as they vanish quicker than I remember. I haven’t seen a crocus or a bare knee since last year, and it’s pushing me more into myself.
I suspect one of these days I’ll wake up and remember that I like to fuck. I’ll wake up with a hard-on, and I’ll open the window before climbing back into bed with two hot cups of coffee. If I’m good, I’ll wake her with kisses against her stomach even as the smell of cinnamon and dark sugar do the same. In the warm breeze I’ll move lower until all I can taste is her, even as she bring the mug to her lips and sighs with the new warmth filling her.
“It’s spring,” she’ll moan as she clenches the sheets.
When I finally move up and kiss her stained lips, she’ll reach down and insist that I fuck her, loudly and without pause. Together we’ll sweat and laugh until we come so hard that winter is only a faint memory.
One of these days can’t come soon enough.
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New Yorke isn’t just my home.
For four-hundred-yeers people have been coming over, under, and across, all to find a place to fit in. They’ve built up and down, moved in together and apart, and they’ve mayde it into something nobody ever dreamed up before. I like the people and the noyse and the warm air that blows up from the subway grates even if it’s not all the subway grates and sometimes it takes a long time to find the right one.
But when it’s coldest out people forget it’s myne too. They don’t stop and stare so much as they used to, which is maybe worse, but they don’t slow down either. In the coldest of weather people move faster rather than slower and that doesn’t make a lick of sense to me. When the snow starts to fall, I freeze up until mostly all I can do is look up from someplace warm and remember what it was like when you could still see the stars.
But the snow falling is as close as it gets nowadays. Especially with the bright lights and the noyse and the cabs honking, it’s as close as it gets nowadays. I look up, and if I squint real tight I can pretend for just a few moments, that after all these years of up up up, I can see again. After all these years of more smoke and light, the sky has opened up; each white flake glitters and twinkles in my eyes just like stars.
I like when it snows. I like when there’s a warm grate and a dark night. I like looking up, even if no one ever looks down.