Being busier than (insert whichever twee, insulting term suits here) I find that I’m losing the free time to post – so am writing stuff in about twenty minutes flat. Here’s one I wrote this morning before and after having a bath. Let me know what you think and I hope it keeps a few of you sated until the next Living and dying in Pete’s comes up.
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I crank up the heating and let the razing hot water well into the bath. The water is so ripe and scorching that the tough plastic of the bath lets off fumes. The small tiled room, too clinical without all the standard-fancy accoutrements, is stuffed with steam. When I walk in it parts like a little, evaporated Red Sea for me, wafting in circles around my steady motion.
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My wife gets annoyed at me, making all the towels damp and using all this heating. But, I’ve heard classical music before and when that stuff gets to its deepest, roaring tones I’m just a few meagre inches from believing I’m God. Powerful and dangerous medicine those tones can be. Did Raskolnikov lop of an old lady’s head with Tchaikovsky in his ears? T’would make so much more sense that way. Anyway, which story am I writing here? Mine? Yours? Pyotr’s in the next part?
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Let’s plough on anyway.
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So, with the soul-reconstituting from the music, how much worry could I give to a damp towel? The fact that such a thing can exist amuses me. There are still people who worry about damp towels more than earthquakes. Actually, depending on the time of day, I’m one of them.
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My body, all thirty-eight deserved years of it, is in the tub now. Mini-bubbles cling to my legs – still got good legs at least, and the cock looks alright. Nice that the cock doesn’t really age after about twenty-five. But, the legs, they’re great – scaffolding for good healthy hard-on (when I have one) and my bulky brain – half-calculator-half-ego.
I think about this life’s cock’s chosen socket© – my wife’s pussy. From the first time I saw it, in front of cheap curtains and a Russian radiator, her smile just the perfect distance above it, I loved her. It’s not that I’m shallow; it’s that I’m pertinent like that. Although, I am a man who lies down in his own shallowness in order to appear deep. Who fucking cares? I know the way my lip curls imperceptibly when I see her naked – you bloody don’t.
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This body, then, with its unfortunate degree of flab, which people politely deny, and the receding hairline, which at least has gone on the sides, leaving me a potentially charming ‘U’ of hair at the front. It’s all okay – I’m not fat and bald per se.
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The music usually bolsters back though – has a laugh at me laid in this water, in this little room, in this two-floor bland building, in a foreigner’s ghetto in Seoul, in Seoul…
And the music keeps rolling back, filmic, until the dot in the distance is Earth and leaves me with the decision – am I a dot on that dot – or am I making the dot?
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As ever, I’m just a few dinky inches away.
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