Lit Riffs Read Free Page A

which was about as thick as the cover off a copy of Uncle Scrooge ca. 1948 to seriously consider attempting to make his way down the stairs, a feat he had not accomplished in a decade and a half, so as to thereafter hit the street and see if he himself could purchase the last hit of whoopie he’d ever know except even allowing for the stairs he was still thinking WWII prices which’d mean he couldn’t afford much beyond a quick whackoff into an old handkerchief while peering through a peephole at some grainy loop or two of (sign on door claimed) Mexican lezzies havin’ at each other orally which mighta been still a heap better’n nothing (I tried it once on 42nd St. and it was great, but felt filthy afterward so never went back) except Pops here ain’t even really had it up since the Rosenbergs were burned so what the fuck….
    When they were done dogfucking they sprawled back awhile to rest and pant and contemplate just exactly what they mighta forgot to try. Licking assholes? They talked about it but agreed it was finally neither’s style. Mild B&D/S&M? Well, both were tired. So they tried something really daring, truly avant , beyond the pales of known thrash: they snuggled up for warmth, and hugged and kissed, with full passion but also gently and tenderly, sometimes just barely grazing each other’s liptips (which really reactivated the lust-pustules in both bodies), for about twenty minutes. They kissed. Like kids, which was what he in fact was, and made her feel like all over again, which was the best feeling she’d had in years if not ever. When fully reprimed, they fucked once more, a long, slow, languorous workout in nothing but the Missionary Position, and when at last they came it seemed as if some timeless primal river was unleashed headwaters between the two as they writhed in one slow sliding tangle of YES from the core to YOU and no other … it was almost like some sort of, well, religious experience, mystical somehow, certainly elemental, the mindless melding of two principles always drawn together yet always warring everywhere, no confluently conjoined once-in-lifetime-memorable rapture among all manner of fucks high and low and every pit stop in between but this was one of the few ever that anybody’s lucky enough to get which really actually on some intangible certainly beyond verbalization level matters … what you keep on looking for every time you lie down, and suspicion or nerves or reminiscence of some past lover who warn’t so hot or drug-numbness or outright hatred or simple bone-weariness or god knows whatall else seems to come between you and it every time damn near … and True Love has nothing to do with it, on one level it’s nothing more than pure chemistry, though on a level a high degree or in-front mutual trust helps plenty, and finally maybe it’s just dumb luck: THIS TIME.
    When it was over, they lay in silence for upward of an hour, lost in commingled dreams, drained beyond movement, finally he sat up and said: “What’s your name?”
    She looked at him in silence for a full minute before answering. “Thanks a lot, SHITHEAD. That’ll do for you as far as I’m concerned. As far as mine goes, just for that you’ll never know. Now get dressed and get the fuck out of here.”
    So he did, a little sheepishly to be sure. He wanted to apologize, but felt so, well, dazed and confused right then, that he had no idea how to even begin to try. He knew he had done something stupid, ugly, and thoughtless, but he hadn’t really meant anything by it, it was simply a product of his inexperience, which of course mortified him even more , till he felt he’d better get dressed and go or he was gonna wind up sitting there paralyzed. He’d never in his life felt more like a little boy, just as she had never felt more used, fucked, and then slapped down, put in what any cur of a male would be sure to think of as her rightful place, if for no other reason than that she was poor and