And there's still nothing left to talk about. pale skin and wet weather. a shuddering stocking over his neck and wondering how in the fuck he was going to live his life just knowing they were out there. cooing. clawing. fishnets and tattoos from some other boy. another time. a place so much more opulent than his lap.
And wondering, of course, wondering later if in his right mind he might have felt a different way about the situation. recoiling into his beer with the corner hug of so many sideway glances.
But he didn't. not long at least. one nipple slips against his cheek and he's forgetting every past utterance about the righteous indignation of a faggy kid's lament on the objectification of women.
The absurd tinkering of the machines as fat tanners threw two dollar bills and sucked their grey goose gobbling the asses of each passer by with their red sauce lips and banker thighs.
Because he knew then on he would be different. they all would. lusty lads too young for the sheep and too old to pretend like they wouldn't go home and wish just maybe one day they'd take the velvet risk and see just what fifteen minutes will get you with an alias and a cash machine.
Fucking red light american dream.
Red Blooded American Girls.mp3