Mise en scene
It begins with her sayin' crazy things I only catch a sense of. My brain's in some far away space where a black thong's slidin' real, real smooth down butter thighs.
Hers, if I have to actually tell you.
Daphy's a dyke, she says - that much filters through. I look at her weird - and the other one's bi.
Oh yeah? Again she blows me away. An' while she's swearin' it's true, I'm watchin' her left hand adjustin' her truth.
Oscar collapses on the cement - figurin', I guess, why not now? And he starts latherin' his giant black balls with a thick, pinkish tongue that keeps washin' everywhere, leavin' wet, glistening skin. An' I'm thinkin', Jesus pal, jus' dive right in. All the while her two are droolin' rivers, but then so am I.
You know what we are? All of us, we're invention cruising the avenues. The truth is that socialization's a leash. Some heel; some don't.
As for me, I'm gnawin' on it. And look at her will ya, flashin' attitude everywhere. Both of us pressin' against the grain, sayin' Resist! Resist! Resist! An' let's not forget about ol' Sangfroid ridin' the backs of us two adrenaline horses. I swear that jitters is the dance when your blood is hot. Maybe the pitchin' changes, but the game don't.
A dyke, huh? So, okay, I think. So what if she's stupid? One glance at Oscar tells me he knows the good life. Right? Jus' caressing and slurping his privates, like it's peanut butter he's lickin' and suckin' off.
So here's the deal. If we get to home; if the choker comes loose, somehow, someway, sometime; if we get hot, but stay cool - and that's a big thing - then the game advances. But maybe we're goin' nowhere. What if things don't fit an' the machinery crumbles?
Skip ahead a couple hours to the audition. On my balcony, three new pals are hangin', drowsy an' content. Very happy dogs hopin' to drag home some authenticity. But suppose inside, where the work's intense, it's another story. It ain't so easy suckin' off my pretensions an' rubbin' away her illusions. But we're game, 'cause this is the Olympics. The Orgasmic Competition. Speed and style count here. So on an' on we're crankin' out heat. An' sometimes I'm really believin' Sangfroid's unleashing us hogs. Some crazy fuckin' idea that is, huh? Maybe, in the end, the glow fades out like Sunday's light 'cause it's nuthin' but friction wearin' down our parts. Know what I mean?
I'm nude on the bed watching her recover her body, takin' it back to suggestion with no previous signs of attitude. She pops the thong in place and shoots me a look I can't read. I'm flush with bad feelings, an' waitin' for a clue. Nearly anything will do tellin' me I'm together. It'll all be ok. She waits too. For something. Maybe the same thing. But nuthin' happens.
Oh Christ, Sangfroid, it's the choker again. She gathers the hounds, wonderin' why I'm lyin' there silent. Why don't I do something? Say something? For hours we're all over each other. But somehow desire's walked out on us, moved uptown maybe. An' Sangfroid gets so weary, just wantin' to feel safe is all. Big sigh 'cause there's so much more fuckin' work to do.
It's all a craziness that never ends.
I call us invention still cruising the avenues.