Bar Pick Up

I picked a warm steel mustang one night, he’s got silver hair, and eyes with no color; he babbles about the ring of power; he gently rubs his hand up and down my lower back; he sleeps on my couch, and yes, we just met. That one night at the bar our two souls flew to each other so fast, no breakdowns, just bodies bursting till dawn, up all night, yeah, drunken stupor, no control, hot sex, hotter than this little pathetic candle I’ve put on the table—my attempt at ambience. And sure, we might not know each other yet, but I could stare at him as he sleeps, he could listen to the scratch of my pen. I wonder if he wonders about me deeper than the physical, deeper than sex, than his hands on my ass, or his arms wrapped around my waist, or deeper than the way he penetrates me. But, you see, I still want more. More deep than he can penetrate—that’s just my body. I want divine leverage over this world, the whole world in his eyes as he looks at mine, the whole world to cave and groan and implode as he explodes on my heavenly belly, my heavenly body. Sure, it’s nice to be a star, but really how far can you get on pure lust pure power just pure pick-up...