The Things He Loves

I love girls petite girls with slim bodies and nice breasts and cute pussies whose lips I put to mine and taste their flavor as they blossom, and feel their nipples and their mouths meet mine and know that I am giving them something that any man or any woman can give them yet only I am able to give them now. Of how their naked bodies are all mine all of its supple beauty as it curves along as various nerve endings that only I get to touch and explore. Of how their breath responds to mine and how they bring me in deeper and deeper wishing it not to end and I not wanting it to end and keeping it alive as well as I can until I come, lying atop them wondering if I did my job but feeling satisfied and yes I did my job even if I didn’t. Of how they think I’m so beautiful in how I talk and the eyes I have seeing in me what they want to see or hope perhaps and maybe being disappointed but maybe not, thinking that maybe I could be more or maybe I’m just another man sharing the covers.

I love men for how old and dirty they are and how they’ve untied my tongue or maybe liberated my tongue or maybe given it back, for what we share and how they know me and I know them in the way a woman can’t ever know me or know them, because we’re men. For the gay men that want me but won’t ever have me because I won’t have them but I still wonder and pander because it feels nice to be womanly sometimes and not a man.

I love my family for fornicating and birthing me and birthing my sibling for always being there and allowing me to live a life in this world of agony and joy and absolute confusion. Of being given the chance to wander and see and maybe discover, never actually owning or understanding but still taking and playing playing as if this place isn’t so alien and not all that wrong.

I love war for what it is and for how I don’t know it and how it doesn’t know me. For how I watch in horror as it rips the face off another and watch his blood spill out on the dusty streets all too foreign but all so close, and how I listen to the brother’s brother cry in agonized pain as he watches his brother’s blood stream down into the potholes of his home and how I suddenly love war again for its simple destruction, its abject beauty that I still don’t know nor understand but want to feel and embrace, to be a man like what men are in war, toting guns and playing games, being brave and deadly but dead. Of how one day I will know war and war will know me and I will lose myself in its embrace and maybe be wild and powerful and finally dead, my face ripped off and my blood flowing into the cracks of a world that I don’t know.

I love myself for all my arrogance and beauty and will to live, and for the anxiety that brings me down and makes me grovel and howl, curled in a ball on my bed because of my arrogance and blindness until I pick myself up and think and think and think and another day comes and I’m back in the world. For what my genius is but isn’t and how I imagine that soon others will see my genius my genius that isn’t because genius isn’t never was and never will be. For how I’m not sorry, sorry I’m not sorry, not knowing what sorry means nor does anyone know what sorry means. Sorry I, is, sorry, sorry is a lie. A kids game nothing else.

But I don’t love you and I won’t ever love you because I don’t care to love you.

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For the Intermittent Writer


Short books about albums. Published by Bloomsbury.

The Wink

This Week in Kink

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