www.tkandmd.com

www.tkandmd.com

run 4

Scarlet Woman

Worse than a whitey, the lowest high of my life.

    The dimpled sweat dewed thigh on the wall cuts short an inch too early. Before all this that alone might have done me but after this interminable time even the salty thought of Jenna Haze’s stank loins provides no respite.

    There’s an opening ahead, a corridor of course (no more), penetrating forwards I imagine I fill the hallway, an uncut monster pushing against the sides and leaving the exit agape and I find myself again stood in a room, uncanny in its familiarity.

   More flustered than before I turn back to check and prove to myself that I’ve somehow still made no progress, circling the sphincter, the oroborous serpent sucking his own tail. It has gone though, the corridor too – a palpable absence that stretches back in its massive blackness.

   The dimpled sweat dewed thigh on the wall cuts short an inch too early. Before all this I might have been done at that but now I crave something more than these infinite permutations of familiarity can give me.

Sucked forward I gag for something new and unexpected but there it is again: Tera Patrick’s thigh melting into an uncredited left buttock and here I am again, interminably edging, always perched on the precipice – the ever-smoking volcano building in magma and quaking to my core.

   That same smoke, the smoke that water-fell through my nose and down into my mouth; a thick cream, sticky green – one hit too many (after years of trying) and I end up here.

 Worse than a whitey, the lowest high of my life.

   I press forward, dully aching for an end to my frustration, only to be confronted by yet another dewy thigh, another anonymous limb, another month, year, an unbearable eon? Can I even suffer it? What is pleasure without the final blast? The build up is sufferable with the knowledge that it will eventually end in pleasure but as I trapse round the god-nows-how-mainyenth corner to be faced with yet another corridor, yet another room spread open ahead of me in teasing agony I know that there’s only one way out. But where’s the option? Where’s the manual? I press every key my mind can remember but no inventory pops up – no pill in my pocket or knife on my waist and no foreseeable end in sight.

   The dimpled sweat dewed thigh on the wall cuts short an inch too early. I sigh and push forward – the end may not be in sight but there’s no option but to push deeper, further into the porn maze. Scott, Hillary, Cook: my brothers, I prithee look favourably upon my voyage, this must not be in vain, I know there are discoveries to be made.

VORT PUSSY