The Ol' Boy

That's what I call him. At his essence, he's the dog tethered to his own hand, named, "Id." He's devious and entirely clever. He is puppeteer to craving and desire. But I do not even want to evict him. He has a life estate within his lair, which is painted shiny, glossy, oil-based black. So black it borders on blue, but it's not. Let's see what else. He's a cross dresser. His wardrobe is intoxicatingly stunningly beautiful. The vixen's modest little black backless, two stap, high thigh pleated black dress drives me fucking nuts. The staple garb of the seductive siren. He has outfits, tops, sandals and unshaven underarms contrasted with dark slick legs. He is a lemon drop. A cold sweating bottle of Pepsi and dark Dove squares. He smells like sex. His breath cold from spoonfuls of Tillamook Vanilla. His gravitationally seductive ass belongs to Elizabeth Shue. So do his arms, legs . . . the works. He's made of milk chocolate and soft Montauks. His eyes belong to the girl at the bank. I think her name is Sarah. His feet belong to a collection consisting of Kelly S., Pam T., Stacey T., London H., Jasmine T., Bridgit M., Kathy W., Danielle S., Ashley, Katie M., and Mila Kunis. Extraordinarily profane, he intersperses gasoline into bleached poetic verse, and whispers vulgarities into the ears of willing listeners. He tells tiny babies that he wants to fuck her mother. He hates. He's violent. He does not love. He's self-absorbed with self-craving and clinging, like the vine and hanging chimp's hands and feet. He smells like high school finger pussy. He bends, revealling that which no man can resist, but wait! That's not necessarily so, because underneath his veneer, he's as ugly as Madonna in the shower.