Jimmi Campkin takes us back in time.
Everytime I go to bed, I can see the stain of green hair dye on the low ceiling, where you cracked your head whilst vigorously riding me – yelping, eyes clamped shut and a gaping smile on your face, sucking up all the oxygen in the room and leaving me gasping for spare atoms. Of course, you were thinking of someone else the entire fuck, I knew that even at the time, but beggars can’t be choosers. I didn’t choose to worship you. I’m an atheist. I didn’t plan on worshiping anything.
But as something tangible, you seemed a better bet than a concept designed to keep a feeble species in line. You kept me in line. And as feeble as I may also be, at least I could run my fingers down your stretchmarks; I could drag my nail over the little serrated dimples on your thighs; I could…
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