He wakes up and flips the pillow. She’s still asleep. It’s almost always like this. She will sleep until he wakes her. The room is hot with beer sweat and the covers are stale, uncomfortable against his morning skin. He kicks them down to his waist. Their clothes are scattered across the floor, tangled together in twists and folds. He looks down at his body. A little soft for his age, a result of all kinds of over-consumption, but she still wants him from time to time. He props himself against his elbow and looks into her sleeping face. Her cheeks are round and full around her mouth. Her lips are open and her eyelids flutter in response to some unknown dreaming thing.
Listen up kids, the Gunslingrrr is back. I realize it’s been over a month since I threw up some words to live by and I know y’all have been missing me something fierce (y’all? really?). But I’m here now, sitting at the keyboard, ready to get down to business. Gawd. I loathe the process but I love the groupies. Writing has always been a means to an end for me. In school it brought me grades. Now, hopefully, it’ll bring me pussy. I know, I know.. since when do writers get laid, especially lazy-ass blog-writers. Hank Moody excluded of course, that guy is a sexual dynamo. But what you don’t realize is that I’ve got a secret weapon. I “write” for THEmotherfuckingFUTURISTS.
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