I like the new boy who does coke. I'm glad to have found him. he's 18, and that's weird to me. because age 18 is only something I remember, something I once was.
when we rummaged through his junk drawer back behind the 10 empty the medical pot bottles, I saw condoms. I touched the packaging to see if they were unused. they were. I could feel the folds that form the infamous circle. and when I found this out my insides turned and I hid my face for a moment.
not so he couldn't see, so I couldn't see.
condoms under my fingers instantly makes me horny, always has.
'oh fuck, oh fuck.' I thought. the 20 year old with 5 men under her belt bends and cripples. suddenly, I am new, and condoms mean something. they mean dicks, wrapped in rubber, inside girls. (inside me?).
and I go down. hard.
then, it gets in me (the 'it' is what roots down in your guts and quickly turns into some perverse version of love). I had tried, not hard, respectfully, but tried not let anything in. and I am surprised, to see how I feel about this boy (not a man, boy).
and that, was fucking that.
it's in me. the curling version of love. that's not entirely real, (if hardly at all) but one that more often then not results in sex. and some sort of heartbreak involving drugs or/and alcohol.
I don't even know where to put him in my heart, but I know that's where he belongs.
well, at least its legal. fuck, like that has ever mattered to me. (I don't know how you do it Michael.)
fuck. I should have kissed him last night.
he plays the guitar. why do they all play the fucking guitar?
(do you see? this is healing.) this is me healing. drinking, smoking, fucking, other guys.
for making me want to write again.
speakeasy is: (thrilled to writing for love again!)
.:a/n: drunk impassionated ramblings :.