24
by SixFourThree_Archive
I roll like my man Frenchy did on Diane Lane, in that SoHo coffee shop from the movie "Unfaithful" a few years back.
I smooth in all coy-like in my raincoat and allow the wafting cigarette smoke from the dreamers on their lunch-hour breaks to envelope my stunning features. Then I let the early-afternoon sunlight backlight me and cast an ethereal spell over my “next-in-line” in wait.
I gaze with purpose at her while she plies her jaded spoon through her soup again and again, until it’s time to heavy-foot it back to work.
Until. Until she sees me.
I need no pick-up line. My 18-inch pipes, barbed wire tat., tight cotton black t and unkempt hair is all I need to get her up and tripping to find me in the unisex in back.
Clothes off, the sink is my workbench. I wait for her gasp of acceptance before continuing with deliberation. Then comes the pain-per-pleasure, each time she remembers her husband cranking out the cash for her and the son kickin’ it private-school-style as we speak - er - fuck. But guilt won’t halt the festivities. This kind of pain is worth every inch.
Just another afternoon for me with no pickup line necessary.
Why?
Because…
THAT’S.
HOW.
I.
ROLL.