Importance : normalhighlow
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Fuck this shit, Sterling:
I miss you
I keep listening to “Letter to Memphis” by the Pixies:
“I’m sending a letter, I’ll send it right to you. I’ll send it to Memphis. I know that someday everything I needed, and I wanted—used to be that my head was haunted.
And all these sorrows, they make me mad. And all this violence, it brings me down.
I feel strong; I feel lucky.
(Trying to get to you, said I’m gonna get to you…)”
I stand on a bridge in this little city and imagine you somewhere way out there beyond the clouds on my horizon. Sterling, oh, where are you when I can’t lift my aching head, when the room is spinning and the color of the air is deepening. Demons fill the space all around me. I feel like I’ve lost my true north, I don’t know if I’m making the right choices anymore. I don’t know if I should be where I am, getting ready to go to London with a person like Jules. I’ve never met a more focused individual. Maybe this won’t make sense, but she manages to be completely single-minded about a wide variety of things. That is to say that her energy is like a light saber—she’s got concentrated laser powers, slashing through anything in her way.
It’s possible that she’s on crystal. I never see her eat anything except an occasional protein bar, and she only sleeps (at most) for two hours at a time. And then it’s not like she ever “goes to bed.” Rather, she passes out for a little while in the middle of doing something.
When awakens, she sits straight up and immediately announces to whoever’s around that she wasn’t sleeping.
We’ve never seen each other completely naked. That’s OK by me, it leaves something to the imagination, and you know how important the right fantasy is during sex. She tends to fuck me doggy-style. I’m on all fours with my underwear wrapped around my ankles. She keeps my t-shirt draped over my ass. I think that what’s even more pertinent than seeing as little of my “girl parts” as possible is that she’s also prevented from seeing the thick ass cock sprung from her hips.
She calls me dirty names.
Our act of fucking seems to be in contradiction to everything she’s trying so hard to be, but I guess that’s what adds the sweetness to it, the slight tinge of desperation that comes out. She starts moaning pretty soon into it, like she’s been waiting for it, dreaming about it. You know how it goes—it’s always the ones who make a big display about being in charge that need it the most.
I was thinking about it the other night when I was smoking and the funny thing is, when her dick is rammed up inside of me, it’s as good as disappeared. That’s probably the most opportune moment for her to picture herself without one.
(yeah, I know, not the first one I’ve castrated, hahahaha)
it kind of thrills me to see how much effort she puts into tucking her dick away, out of sight to the world, and yet she won’t get it cut off. Here in the city of sliced off dick, too.
She’ll let me touch it with her hand, but not suck it, which is fine by me.
(we get her friend’s car and find places to park, by the factories and buildings)
and since I know you’d want to know, I’ll mention that I like undoing the tuck and watching her erection spring out against her dress. I get hot I don’t know. You’re going to say it makes me gay, but fuck you. I like how big her hands are, how the tips of her fingers feel. I like when she grabs my wrists
(restaurants and bars, for later in the evening)
she’s like Shakespeare, she so fucking smart. A big crowd forms around her when ever we go out. She peers over their heads to keep an eye on me, standing all wallflower-ish in the corner. Everyone loves how she’s so together but at the same time falling apart.
The Black, Dutch, tranny Raymi.
Brand trueboy acronym? (check the site)http://www.wordsmith.org/anagram/index.html That's where I got the subject for this email. we could use it to send secret messages, or set up sites that are acroym's of BRANDTRUEBOY but having nothing to do with us.
galaxies of sites.
Should we do a post called btb presents tbt. BRANDTRUEBOY presents TRUEBOYS TITS. Jules took these pics that I think might work. I could cover my face. What do you think? I guess you have to see them first.
I feel like it’s all going to end badly, whether I do or do not go to London. The same as how it’s all going to end badly whether or not I come back to New York. Everything’s fuck, shit, death, ghetto of the mind. We’re all going to be dirt in the ground, no matter what decisions we come up with.
The thing is, it does matter. It matters how far away from you I roam. Fuck, I’m mostly sober and I still can’t say it. How at the same time I love and hate the idea of going home and seeing you again.
(I can feel it in my bones.)
I don’t need you to validate me.
I don’t want to be your slave.
I don’t want the going up and going down. The Elevator baby, maybe baby maybe shit
I don’t want you to give your dirt to me, all the broken things you think you are.
It’s not about America or Europe.
Countryside or cityscape.
It’s about having a place to call home.
I’ll have to settle down sooner or later. I can’t drive on this road forever, so to speak.
The truth is, Sterling, that I feel so evil when I’m near you. No, not evil. I don’t know. Lascivious. Like I’m posing for an ancient king on his throne. You lord it over me. You watch me with eagle eyes. You make me self-conscious. Everything rushes to the surface. I turn red, like blood to a wound.
I don’t know if I can take it right now; I’m so tired you have no idea
In the doorway I hear you sing.
(you can fix me up, girl, we’ll go a long way)
I play for you. I’ve written books for you. I’m your Dog on Wheels, like Belle and Sebastian.
(it took time that I found you)
You and I are like rock stars without the music.
I need to get over my phone phobia.
TRUE
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Importance : normalhighlow
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