I wanted to write something clever. Creating a metaphor that tied together chocolate and rhino horns... Funerals and Orgasms... Africa and this big man raining sweat from above me. My memory couldn't quite capture the dual sensation of Don Cherry's trumpet in my ear and nine inches in my ass. All I could do was sing along with the mourning women.
I wanted to correlate our fucking and Bitter Funeral's composition. The way we climbed walls. Smoldered. Wilted. The way we left behind a strangely sweet scent. What an amazing score? Accompanied by exotic tones, I felt inspired to snake my spine and touch him gently. In this moment, his body was an instrument and I just wanted to play him skillfully. Appreciating the slip of his sweaty skin... The taste of salt from his nipples... I just wanted to play him with precision.
The slightest touch brought about noise. The tip of my tongue summoned eruptions. Subtle squeezing stole his breath away. I wanted to write something clever. Something about, both, jazz music and my heels greeting my ears simultaneously... Creating a metaphor of melting horns and whitening chocolate. All I could do was listen to the harmony between his panting grunts and their twisted wailing.
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