I could dive into shit from the trip that would be great -- but I don't really know great. We saw a sunset and it was big and red and to be honest, I just don't get it. I leave that shit to my friend, The Burn. Me, I dig other things. Like, for instance...
Last night, when we were both drunk and running low on convo, I told her that I wanted to tape the two of us fucking -- because she was leaving the next day and I wanted something to remember her by -- my fancy line. But of course, this wasn't the reason I wanted to film her. Don't get me wrong, she's brilliant, really is. Last summer, girl did the London half triathlon. Girl's taut. Girl loves to fuck. Girl fucks solid -- so solid. But I was more interested in me.
When I presented the idea, she laughed. I held out my hand, told her to say no more - that was all I needed to hear -- obviously, she was totally cool with it. The previous week, I had made an investment on three mini HD camcorders. And these things are fucking tiny -- James fucking Bond. And I hid them all over the house. One in the laundry room because I fill the washing machine with golf balls and start it and fuck her as she sits on top of it. She likes that. Another one went in the living room because I purchased a fuck sling -- which is mostly like a hammock but for fucking but I don't really like it all that much. It was okay the first time, but too hard to come. The last one went in the bedroom. It's boring, but I knew this to be a safe fallback in case scenarios A and/or B failed.
So we get home...so drunk, I had already driven the car into an embankment and we had to walk it the last mile. So by the time we get home, we're already sweaty and the whole way, I'm telling her of all the awful things I'm going to do to her. I told her over and over, how many times I was going to make her sing. I talked about the washing machine, and the amazing bed -- trying so hard to steer thoughts clear of the fuck sling. I couldn't deal. Thank this godless world I didn't have to.
So she's already wildly wet without any real prep. I'm telling you, fucking soldier, and...
You know that scene from the Departed where Jack Nicholson throws coke all over these two bitches and tells them -- I don't fucking remember what he told them. Okay, so now I tell her to take me in her mouth and pull away. When she does, I dust it with coke and tell her to do it again and off we fucking go. We start in the laundry room - this high angle shot from the corner ceiling. It could have been so good but the lighting was off - and I kept on trying to get her to lean back - for the shot, but I couldn't tell her. And those fucking golf balls -- they just bang so fucking loud. So fucking loud. I didn't even think to think of it. Terrible sound. And she was pitching gems. Oxford educated, but the mouth on this girl, my fucking goodness. When she talks dirty -- I didn't even know what some of the words meant, I just knew I wanted them for my arsenal and that I was so high, I was literally trying to grab them out of the air and eat them and consume them and absorb them so they would become a part of me and so I could at a later time utter them with utmost intelligence. On several occasions, she asked me what the fuck I was doing. I didn't have an answer, just told her to keep talking vicious because vicious was keeping me hard. I fucking live for vicious.
Thank godlessness I had the bedroom camera. The house I'm staying in has this digital clock on the wall -- huge, obnoxious. Because of it, I can tell you something about our duration -- the memory card ran out long before we stopped fucking. We started at 3 on the kitchen floor - it moved into the laundry room until 4 - until we found that bed until 8. Seriously. I don't know how either. Okay, maybe I do -- cocaine and lube. And she loved me -- and this was supposed to be our goodbye. Poor girl, someone besides me should've told her I'm soulless -- which I did, in fact...over and over. I was constantly apologizing for my actions because I'm starting to feel like it's the right thing to do. At least decent. I don't know.
She left today and when she did, I sat down to watch the footage. And I gotta be honest, I don't know if I like what I saw. There's this curl that folds in on the bottom of my left ass when I'm fucking -- I don't like that. And when she's on top and riding me, I don't like my face -- looks like I gotta piss real bad with nowhere to piss. And I want my cock to be bigger. I want to be the best there ever was. I want her to go back and tell all her friends about some guy who fucked her like no one has ever fucked her. I want to be the one she talks about until the day she dies -- the one she rubs to when she's got nothing else - the thought that works, without fail until the end of her time. I want to be legend. Durban.
And I'm watching her and the way she moves and the way she rocks and the way she comes -- oh fuck, the way she comes. And I'm thinking I should buy a ticket to London. I'm thinking maybe I should follow her there. No, I decide I'm going to follow her there, to her home, her country, to surprise her when all I can hear over my shoulder is what the fuck John -- and with much exclamation. And she's standing there, watching me watching me fuck her and her eyes are gaping now that they're free of blow and Malbec and all I can tell you...she isn't happy.
She came back for her passport -- always the fucking passport -- and I try to explain my interpretations of her claiming it to be fine, doing what I did. And she isn't buying it and asks for the tape, which I have no choice but to turn over. I ask her to stay and she says she doesn't think so and she grabs what she forgot, her fucking passport, and she walks out the door and I wait until she's gone then watch the video from the laundry room and I must say, with the lighting -- and sounds -- the crooked angle...it does have a sleight French New Wave look to it. And I have to admit, in that one I look pretty fucking good.
Like a star.
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