The testicles are housed in a ruddy shaking sac barely filtered through hazy colors, Rick Saloman’s, his driving impetus, his force, his motive power, behind a cylindrical-shaped piston engine for all the purveyors and preeners and panderers and patronizers of cheap thrills to see, to download it across networks, to hear her bored moans, the dynamic phallus that drives the basest, perhaps the easiest, of human emotions, vaguely limp, sore after repeated use but still well on the way to repeated ejaculation, if only we had the whole tape, just below an unsightly gorbelly (if it is so; it’s hard to see) that may frighten cocker spaniels, premonitory and intransigent efforts, again and again into the orifice of a tawny wild-child from the rear, just this side of adulthood, a tattoo somewhere above the repeated point of entry, richness here against the smooth pure color of white sheets, coverlets and counterpanes placed down by the maid, what might she be thinking the next morning, sent through a powerful machine known to clean linen, silk, rayon, 100% all-purpose cotton, of hues of lapis lazuli, of chartreuse, of Day-Glo colors forgotten, the colors and shades and dark spasms of hotel and motel rooms from one side of the nation to another — but in this case, white, pure as snow, angelic, the color of America’s angel, again flattened hard, against the bed, her hands possibly clutching the comforter to humor Rick (and me, for my own priapism occurs as I write this sentence); moments later, a machine that this recherche City of Love (in name only) may inherit someday, if she breaks this curse that she should be ashamed of, if only people didn’t want to see a rich kid transform overnight into a soft-porn starlet, if only there was more to write about — but, no, I won the Guggenheim. What would Billy Faulkner have to say? He might have needed something else to download, if you catch my drift.
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