Can we take a minute to admire the manliness, the sheer masculinity, nay, VIRILITY of whoever is below my window revving his motor bike? I can hear the simultaneous ovulation of every biological woman in a 3 block radius. And my building? Screams of ecstacy on each floor, women and men grinding and moaning against the closest object, the elevator door is opening and closing and reopening and closing on piles of writhing naked bodies. It’s getting harder and harder for me to control my own urges as I hear the rider, whom I imagine is made of mostly penis, gunning and gunning his bike over and over, summoning me from the dark recesses of my 5th floor apartment. I walk to the window, my legs shaking from the repeated spams of uncontrollable orgasms that come in wave after wave after wave, in sync with the animal hum of the shuddering engine between his legs. I’m afraid to look at my suitor below. I tremble as I pull back the blinds, afraid that if we make eye contact I’ll swoon, and right now my fainting couch is on the other side of the room.
I cover my mouth with my hand, lest I release a scream into the noon air, look down and, oh…
Of fucking course it’s some old fat guy with a $50,000 bike waiting for a train looking like he just needed to make a Buffalo Wild Wings run for the rest of the tellers at Bank of America.
What I sat down to write about wasn’t going to be that, but here we are, dusting off our bodices. Shameful.
Enjoy this little peek into the last haul of film. In the mix was a roll that I’d hidden from myself for 3 years, at least! How crazy is that? I love little surprises like that.