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"May the bridges I burn light the way."

           A slap from fate, cheeks forever red: a shout from the neighboring room that demands attention. I will always wish I had just continued reading Breaking Open the Head

and ignored that moan of beckoning adventure: I was absorbed in pinchbeck's going ons about the cursed DPT, how it left him with a sharp peripheral towards the occult-adorned symbolism that is glaring down at us from every damned street corner. I agreed. Then this! The cat-like yelp of a mid-twenty borracha that will forever stain the skin of my ear drums.

     She was tossed about her bed in an obviously drunk fashion, naked waist down, panties flung skillfully onto the doorknob, wine bottle tipped and well on its way to staining her hard-wood-wannabe floors. For a moment I think she's just crying drunken nonsense again and I hesitate backwards towards my own room. Then she props up her head and throws a lasso from each of her eyes--- snaps "Attendez!"

   I resist at first and then cautiously step back into the room. She flips over now, revealing her drunken backside, shirt wrinkling upward in a struggle with her sheets. Her Bottom is a world wonder; her ass could double for hells dreaded bells: starting in from her spine at a slope and then peaking just right where the brim of each bell would be. The immensities she calls her breast won't be contained in that claustrophobic space between her chest and bed-sheet, so they bulge outward and demand my attention.

   "What is it?" I ask, pretending to be slightly annoyed (probably to disguise my attraction) and open the door a little wider.

  "Come lay with me… its so fucking cold in here."

   I think about her significant other and how my last intention is to disrespect him (even though he's a spine-less bastard who couldn't tell a sapphire from a healthy chunk of cow dung). "Its probably not a good…" She interrupts and raises her arm in what I can only assume is an attempt to make a summoning gesture and says "Forget Deon! Come here, je baise froid!" Admittedly, I'd like to forget Deon right about now, but I go on anyway "Why don't you try a blanket, Cherry". How eunuch; How coward! Just go on in and give her what she deserves after staying this long with a hog as soulless as Deon.

  As wet as a bottle of piss! Punk chump! What have I become now? Next I'll be refusing to do improper fractions as well!

   So I choke the heat swelling in my chest and sway back to my room, leaving Cherry all cold and soulless, anticipating Deon's two minute work-out and my awkward passing-bys in the hall for our time remaining under the same roof.

Just as I flop back onto my little sofa and begin to resume contemplating pinchbecks journey into contemporary shamanism, she pushes through my door and rips the book from my hands, jumps (with an uncomfortable force) onto my lap.

  I tried again, I really did "What the fu…" When she broke my train of thought with a kiss.

          Every last use of the word "tense" loses its foundation and I melt like wax,

                                                                    keeping her warm.

Sorry Deon,

-Cid

By Matthew Kurtis Taylor.

Description
"May the bridges I burn light the way."

           A slap from fate, cheeks forever red: a shout from the neighboring room that demands attention. I will always wish I had just continued reading Breaking Open the Head

and ignored that moan of beckoning adventure: I was absorbed in pinchbeck's going ons about the cursed DPT, how it left him with a sharp peripheral towards the occult-adorned symbolism that is glaring down at us from every damned street corner. I agreed. Then this! The cat-like yelp of a mid-twenty borracha that will forever stain the skin of my ear drums.

     She was tossed about her bed in an obviously drunk fashion, naked waist down, panties flung skillfully onto the doorknob, wine bottle tipped and well on its way to staining her hard-wood-wannabe floors. For a moment I think she's just crying drunken nonsense again and I hesitate backwards towards my own room. Then she props up her head and throws a lasso from each of her eyes--- snaps "Attendez!"

   I resist at first and then cautiously step back into the room. She flips over now, revealing her drunken backside, shirt wrinkling upward in a struggle with her sheets. Her Bottom is a world wonder; her ass could double for hells dreaded bells: starting in from her spine at a slope and then peaking just right where the brim of each bell would be. The immensities she calls her breast won't be contained in that claustrophobic space between her chest and bed-sheet, so they bulge outward and demand my attention.

   "What is it?" I ask, pretending to be slightly annoyed (probably to disguise my attraction) and open the door a little wider.

  "Come lay with me… its so fucking cold in here."

   I think about her significant other and how my last intention is to disrespect him (even though he's a spine-less bastard who couldn't tell a sapphire from a healthy chunk of cow dung). "Its probably not a good…" She interrupts and raises her arm in what I can only assume is an attempt to make a summoning gesture and says "Forget Deon! Come here, je baise froid!" Admittedly, I'd like to forget Deon right about now, but I go on anyway "Why don't you try a blanket, Cherry". How eunuch; How coward! Just go on in and give her what she deserves after staying this long with a hog as soulless as Deon.

  As wet as a bottle of piss! Punk chump! What have I become now? Next I'll be refusing to do improper fractions as well!

   So I choke the heat swelling in my chest and sway back to my room, leaving Cherry all cold and soulless, anticipating Deon's two minute work-out and my awkward passing-bys in the hall for our time remaining under the same roof.

Just as I flop back onto my little sofa and begin to resume contemplating pinchbecks journey into contemporary shamanism, she pushes through my door and rips the book from my hands, jumps (with an uncomfortable force) onto my lap.

  I tried again, I really did "What the fu…" When she broke my train of thought with a kiss.

          Every last use of the word "tense" loses its foundation and I melt like wax,

                                                                    keeping her warm.

Sorry Deon,

-Cid

By Matthew Kurtis Taylor.