03.Mar.2001

naughty!

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warning: may contain scenes of explicit silence and martin gore

I haven't thought about sex in a very long time.
I rather forgot that warm gurgling in my stomach that happens when I've thought of something naughty.
It has a lot to do with the person of whom I naughtily thought.
It was devestatingly erotic. This vision, this revelation, perhaps even Satori moment, caused me to stop writing to the person and proclaim 'whoa! that was a dirty thought! you would have liked to have been apart of it, too!'
So much pleasure that it must be sin.
But chocolate-sin.
Scotch-on-a-hot-August-night-sin.
The-rush-of-teenager-sinning-on-a-school-night-sin.
Loin-candy.
Pure and utter and true, sobre, loin-candy!
Thick in its delicious phat beats, its anti-French techno bleepiness.
No denying the fact. No no no noooahhh.
No excuses to give.
I'm the one you're with.
something something
{enter Recoily synth violin sound here, only it's not Recoil}
Mark Bell is a genius!
Must repeat song!
Must repeat illegal song!
But this thought was delicious.
All I remember seeing, in this licentious vision, the top of his head against a pillow, the twist of amative expression written explicitly across his mug. It was, however, a profile shot.
I smell the smell of stale cigarettes.
I hear the resonating breath of virile desire.
I see a flash of off-white sheets, the glow of the bed-side clock, something else that I can't place, a dark wall or a dark head-board. I don't know what it is.
But it was naughtay!
It made me go silent for a few moments, and then I pulled myself out of it.
My stomach grumbles.
I don't know if I want to eat or fuck.
Either way, this is ... in. tense.
leave me here for a few moments, please.

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time & machine