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19 March 2011 @ 10:23 pm
Where is my 'My Muse is Plotaphobic' icon? D:  
Between roleplaying Huxley and reading far too much of Joey Comeau, I've been writing a lot lately. It's been relatively nice 'though I'm losing my rp muse with the other snippets I've been writing haphazardly. :l Oh well. Here's one I did last week. It's odd, in second person of view, unfinished as I had a reply to get to, and NSFW. x:

You think everyone has a song they can come instantly too. Or, you feel they should. One song, one beat, one melody that just releases you in all the right ways. Curling your toes, head arched back touching the headboard as your hand is tight around your cock, you're in utter bliss, you're in heaven and oh god, yes. Scream. As Rebellion fades out and a new track starts, you're exhausted and happily spent.

Everyone should have a song they can come instantly too. Your problem is you have too many.

You honestly love music. Every note, every vocal, any type of sound makes you crazy. When you were younger, it was cute. Bouncing in the pits with the broken boys, you knew later you'd be on your knees in front of one of them, their fingers pulling at your hair as you choke and swallow, utterly hypnotized by the band thumping through the cheap walls. They thought it was cute, smiling those lewd smiles down at you, sometimes humming into your ear to watch you squirm. You were just constantly horny but easily satified. You loved your life, then.

You're not seventeen, you're not even in your twenties anymore. Music still turns you into a maniac, a nympho but the voice in your mind reminds you, you're thirty four now. You have to be a member of society, not a loon. But being a part of society isn't as bad as you thought at fifteen though. It has its charm. If you're honest, it's the clubs you don't want anymore, the dives or the bars. At home when the doors shut, the records spin and your clothes are off in an instant. You're as happy as in your bed with your records as you are on the floor amoungst the sweat, hot skin and pulsing beats, sometimes even happier. The only disappointment is it gets lonely. Having another close and feeling loved in ways music can't, it's a treat. But the boyfriends don't get it.

 It's cheating, it's odd, it's mental. You've heard it all, and each one leaves you sooner or later, frustrated they can't make you as hard as Vogue does. It's jealously or hurt pride. Either way, part of your collection breaks into pieces with each final kiss from them. You don't think it's so hard to understand, but you guess must be. Sitting around the shatter pieces of Ta-Dah, knuckles sort-of bloody and eyes red, you're envious of girls. Faking orgasms must make it so much easier keeping people around. Oh, yes. You're doing such a great job. Shaking your head as you kiss your wounds, it's not like they don't, do a good job that is. You still have fun, you still like it, a lot. It's just not as intense, maddening.

Sometimes that's nice.

At work, the two guys in adjacent cubicles are debating music again. They do it every day, it's our passion, they say bonding. You roll your eyes, placing headphones over your ears. They think you're a music snob, for never particpating in their talks, never wanting to listen to their suggestions. Oh, if only they knew. Nothing is playing over your ears, you just need to cancel out the sounds for the other computers in order to function. Ever talk to a client with a hard-on because your co-worker likes playing Rihanna on repeat? It's distracting. On three seconds, one of them will tap you on the shoulder, ask you what you're listening to. You're just going to ignore them, like always. Your mind is distracted because he wasn't on the subway again this morning, and that's worrisome.

Almost every work day for the last year, he's been sitting in front of you on the subway in the morning, all timid teenage angst blocking out the world with those beautiful headphones you're painfully envious of. You shouldn't be attracted to anything labeled 'teenage' but his presence sends out as painfully out of whack as music does. And it terrifies you as much as it intrigues.
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