I’m Chillin’ and It Feels Swell Because I Needed to Fuck Out That Funk

The cool breeze emptied my blouse as I held onto my glass filled Margarita. Nighttime in L.A. never disappoints. None of that summer heat that penetrates the places you need to save for later.

It’s a collage of cool breezes and star-filled skies beckoning the possibilities that have already found you.

I looked good.

In these times of racial strife — I prefer to look the part and play it — with gusto.

I demand the authenticity of Gabourey Sidibe.

I want to fuck like Nola Darling.

If you’re lost — Google. That’s the language you abide by anyway.

So, do it.

I’ve been pent up for too long by the assholes of America. But, America secretly has a crush on me and won’t show it because that’s what we do when we hide behind our fancy.

He was American.

I thought I looked butch with this haircut. He thought it radiated from within and worked the corners of my profile in a rather curious way.

Words. Words. Words.

Nola! Always there when I need you. We have the same haircut. I know you understand the juggle of men.

I had sex the day before and it annoyed me because I came and he didn’t.

Now, I’m writhing with hungry and joy.

Fuck the world! Fuck America! Fuck me!

And the funk of the days dimmed by the light of the darkness of being washes away with each grind and halt. Grind and halt.

Grind.

The grime is doused away and now it’s time to play again.

Come.

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