iDLg v.6

last night, i sort'a had a date; too bad it was really only a sex hook-up; lean and sexy with a 'real' gift from his mom & dad, if u know what i mean; anyhow, he waz' not one for quiet, gentle slow intimacy; no, more like get it up, absolute

 Manhattan-street pick-up and the two find themselves in a gym lockerroom. Ricky professes to be a ""lil' devil,"" and Midnight wants to find out for himself. Midnight's typical NYC banjee-boy trade, backward b-ball cap and all - and that was fine with me. They strip to their skivvies (fans of baggy boxers will dig Midnight's pair) and Ricky starts worshipping Midnight's heavily-skinned cock. (Sorry, but I hafta mention another sloppy-sound moment: What I at first thought were kind of cool voiceovers from Ricky turned out to be off-camera direction from the videographer.) Midnight's dark cock starts to swell, poking out from the side of his baggies, and I was getting worked ov-ah.

 The soundtrack flipped from light house to kinda lame hip-hop, but I paid it no mind. I was too into the guys' actions 'n antics. Unfortunately, the antics quickly ended: the image cuts to several freeze-frames of Ricky jacking and spitting his load out. It was hot, but not what I expected; where was the fuck? Maybe he simply tired of bottoming so many times.

A series of descriptive long sentences.

Organized chaos?

The day was overcast with solemn gray clouds;  from the open window the tree seemed to hang in the air like an artist’s paint brush before a blank canvas—the branches swayed in the morning breeze just as pensive;

I had stumbled from a restless sleep to answer the door—blurry eyed I looked at Elvis in his calf length blue shorts and oversized white t-shirt; with the sunny disposition of a storybook school boy he offered to ‘blaze’ me out with his new sack after asking if he had awaked me.  I mumbled, something, which ended with ‘later.’  “I’ll stop by after school” he shouted as he leaped down the red steps to my stoop.

I stood in the center of the cracked tile flooring; placed my hand on the back of the chair and observed the room as I sat down.

There is a white plate with a blue ring just outside the base—littered with the remnants of cooked food; the tiny bits of egg and bread crumbs seemed to suggest a meal.  A blue twist from a loaf of  bread, a couple of dirty coffee cups—facing each other as if commanding generals on a battle field; a third of a loaf of Milton’s bread balances on the very edge of the table;  an ash tray with two cigarette butts seems to tether it there; while,  another ash tray overflowing with cigarette butts sits quietly on the opposite end of the universe;  a bottle of hot sauce, a paint brush, a magic amulet made of string, wire and beads—fleshy pale brown, with white wire holding the fleshy beads in a five point pattern and a green bead like jade with black string placed atop— the designer was a white man who lives in the parks of San Francisco who spoke often of the bad energy of the police;  a wedding invitation of a ceremony held in the park lies on this table surrounded by three chairs.

I am sitting in the chair facing the window that opens from top and bottom with a

red flannel cloth covering the bottom half; the edge  along the rod is faded burnt orange.

At corner of this kitchen, within the cabinet is a shelf holding a black baker cookie jar—jolly and fat unlike my disposition before my usual cup of coffee, old issues of ‘wax poetics’, and a row of cook books, a microphone, a cable box remote control, mini headphones, vitamins in a small red tin, a wicker basket from my God daughter last Easter once filled with candies and a colored egg now with lens cleaning cloths, a small plastic bottle of paint  brush cleaning solution, a heart shaped tin—red with tiny red and white hearts—a stack of old wallets, a pharmaceutical mortar bowl and various broken boy children’s little toys—a dog with no head, a motorcycle with no handle bars, soccer balls;  Three shelves up—dishes on the first shelf, a row of upside down margarita glasses on the next shelf and a row of empty ‘magic’ shaving powder cans—gold, red and silver—line the top shelf; French style glass doors are open against the wall.  I smell eggs and bacon cooking from some where outside, my kitchen is still.

The dish rack has a small stack of dishes along with a few pots and pans—the counter holds a couple of empty beer quart bottles, a chopping block leans against the wall, a salt shaker, a butter tray, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol cut away to a wide mouth with a wire pipe cleaning stem balanced across the top, a few dry sponges and a sink full of dishes—a fry pan, a plate, a bowl, a couple of plastic food trays, a drip coffee cone, along the sink shelf a margarita glass with a plant clipping, and a glass vase with a handle of green liquid soap.

The walls are lined with paintings, nudes of men and boys, neighbors, a rose, a small orange metal placard of a blue number six, a wall calendar and a small metal placard that says ‘negro noir café exquis’, a paper daisy on a wooden post stands in the corner behind a trash can just as tall, a mop lies against the refrigerator and a broom lies against the wall behind the stove.