Testosterone and Gravestones

If satisfaction becomes responsible for my downfall I’ll be happy to come while I take my last breath. With a smile on my face as they place me in my coffin, you’ll see me at the funeral, like Vader during the last five minutes on Return of the Jedi – glowing with chi – spiritual testosterone – blue balls and ghosting. Horny as a motherfucker you can bet your left nut I’ll be sitting with your Sister. Just your Sister. Headfirst in between her legs, I swear to the big guy upstairs who I’m convinced is a lie, that I’ll find a way to please her, I’ve got nothing but time – on my hands.

And that’s where I’ll start; dividing those sweet pair of lips with two fingers and a tongue, grant me this one last smell and I swear to God I’ll make her come. Fuck. Blasphemy. And when the hymns start to play and it’s all said and done, the orgasms drip and the tears begin to run, you’ll find me outside with a dry glass of rum. Pitching a tent on my own gravestone, scratching at the dirt because they fucked the engraving.

A motherfucker of a man, be honest with his story, motherfucker – it’s enraging. And if you should visit, and the dirt begins to rise, don’t be stoked; that’s just me flicking through your Sister’s latest Instagram posts. One hand swiping, one hand sliding – up and down. And if you don’t mind, could you bring cocoa butter? These pair of socks will only take me so far. Like a stale croissant dryness can be a motherfucker. No regret, no lube, no fucking cigars…


Original Copyright © 2017 by KalifornicationX.


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