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Reply to "Straight To Hell (Sex Stories)"

Damn boys, with their unwashed hair and shabby, tattered faded
Levi's, sauntering around the concrete jungle reminiscent of a
slimy serpent slithering in between the cracks of right of wrong,
black from white. Blood stained lips sucking the last haul from the
butt end of a borrowed cigarette, flipping the nicotine stick with a
snap of the wrist into the chaotic heart of a hectic intersection,
legs spread eagle on a gravel sprinkled sidewalk, drumming a filthy
boot on the ground to the sound of a passing car and spittin blood
onto the cold stone sidewalk.

Fuckin bad boys I love them so.

I'd sit and watch as a youngster in the 1970's at my
brother's buddies fuckin around on the weekends, talking their
around his killer black SS Nova, long hair clad in denim splendor,
Deep Purple ripping out of the thunderous speakers of the car
stereo, and right then and there I knew what I wanted for Christmas.

My childhood was filled with the sickening sexual splendor of
fantasies of rock and roll boys. I'd snatch my brothers Black
Sabbath records, slap the headphones over my own mane, blast the
volume to 10 and lay back with my eyes shut; visions of dirty rock
club bathrooms became my subsequent home away from reality, humid
and grimy with the sickly sweet stink of discolored urinals and the
residue scum of cocaine particles leeched onto the back of a cracked
toilet. I'd visualize snorting the first shot of snow up my
ripping out my cock and pounding off over the stall wall, the two
week long unwashed stench of dick hammering in my head and filling
the stale air.

I think I was about 10 years old.

It only got worse. Nothing was filthy enough or dirty enough to get
me off. There was no boy on this globe that could defile me to my
liking. I always rose up, licked the jizz off a shit-stained finger
and left unsatisfied, out onto the boulevard with a lit butt hanging
out of my lips and a pack of smokes tucked tightly up the sleeve of
a white t-shirt.

Useless fucks. But yet, I couldn't stay away. They were like

I flicked my smoke up against a graffiti splattered wall and was
lured into the cellar by the invigorating stench of man and spilled
whiskey, skull pounding. The type of annoyance that starts at you
forehead, just above the center of your eyes and creeps its way into
the rear of your neck and festers there. Smeared the snot from my
nose with a blooded sleeve and heedlessly saunter down the stairs
into the dim basement; a solitary light on in the distant darkened
corner gleaming orange just above his head as he sat unconscious in
the bulky, tattered chair.

A vision of splendid perfection in my eyes. A grimy, decomposing
junkie in the eyes of others.

Hadn't bathed in over a week, long blond hair hanging sweat
sopped and filthy over a pale face sporting a dark goatee, a
blackened eye and a nostril caked with crusted blood. He sat
shirtless, moist, slimy and cold; soiled ripped jeans unbuttoned,
slightly exposing a dark tuff of urine scented pubic hair.

The room was hot, clammy, and smelled sour and musky, not unlike
rotted damp clothes stuffed in a dusty attic room. Shattered beer
bottles and needles riddled the cement floor and dried vomit hung
crusted on the walls and in a puddle at his bare feet.
A true vision of self destructive majesty spread out like meat, lain
in front of me, the sinner with nine lives half naked and pleading
to be mounted, fucked and put out of his misery.

His head slightly turns downward as I kneel down in front of him; a
crooked smile stretches across his face as he becomes aware of my
presence between his legs on the soiled floor.

A large shiny cockroach scurries across his chest, stops to taste
his nipple ring and takes cover inside the cushions of the chair.

Maybe....just maybe I actually WOULD be able to sleep tonight after