Ogre at 42nd – Poem by T.H. Cayne

Adult movie theatre. Room #2. I entered in oblivion from the rainy streets, not knowing what to enter. But I had to know.

(Did she really say that the last time I spoke to her ? Did she mean it ?)

At the front row, the slutty girl sits on the lap of a faceless man. He is old and wrinkled. Ugly. Her legs wide spread, she rides his yellow parchment cock into her shithole. (Bare breasted – little blue skirt  but no underwear – heels – blonde – old fashioned glasses with a golden shiny frame. Glamour.)

(Her curly red hairs in the dust of dawn. The little diamond smile. Malicious blue eyes of Lapis lazuli.)

She moans, and looks at me. Invites.

(I cannot resist – confused. I seemed to have lost all feeling in my legs. I am as erected as ever.)

Undresses me, tastes.

(I am sucked off in a sixth rank adult movie theatre room by a strange unknown girl who is having anal sex with a man without eyes, it occurs to me.)

And puts me in.

(And when the music stopped, the laughter. And the sex was great.)

I take her from the front. Light flashes of the seventies shoot through the cabin.

On the screen, two women are having a go at a large man. They also moan. They call him names. And moan-moan-moannnnn.

The room is ruby red and corny. Used toilet paper on the ground. An Oak Eggar flies clumsily above our sweating bodies in search of a way out. Two white voyeuristic eyes rest on its wings.

(Sweet smell of cum.)

(Haha – ha – ha.)

But does she bow ?

(She nearly pissed her pants. Haha – ha.)

She almost comes by touching nipples.

Her peeping holes devour our flesh. With an empty mouth–

For now.

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