I guess I’m living in La La Land, where you shake your ass for cold hard cash. I’m in my own personal dream land, traveling deep like Candy Land.
We live in an environment where you have to pay to play for everything. One tryst can give you a cyst. We piss off our partners with reckless behavior. But letting the odds be in our favor will turn your relationship into the Hunger Games.
It’s amazing how we let the ones we love the most take us for granted. We go from fantastic to frantic, masquerading as romantic.
Someone accused me of moving around homes like musical chairs, to get fucked in dark holes. Well, that was nasty—rude and reductive. That sounds like advice from a pudgy queen playing Game of Thrones.
If I’m spreading my legs to the music of my heart, then let me spread eagle to Mariah Carey. Let them lie on top of me to her greatest hits. Light candles and grab the wine. Make it a night I’ll forget—get stuffed like a fat bitch at a buffet.
Or I’ll have another broken bad boy with two thrusts and two outfits. Could my dreams be tucked between my thighs?
Let these eyes connect with a president-elect where whatever I do is elevated to matters of national security. Because clearly what I’m doing is your business. Let me take in your insecurity like the state of the union. It could be our reunion. Watch him fuck me like I got ass shots until I pass out.
And PS, I’ll let you pay to read it.