1973, what I wanted
Not the torn magazine page, not the smell of ink, not the sweat of palm nor the froth of irish spring, but the real, the absolving, the enfolded whatever the fuck it actually was descending upon the front of me, embracing the tip of me, gorging the whole of me, eclipsing the epitome.
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What I wanted
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I love the words you used to set this up.
Very cool and sexy prose, maybe a prose poem, terrific sly ending
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Thank you Marda. Thank you Susan. For reading, for taking a moment to comment. Much appreciated
Love this! Not the..all the way to epitome! That is one fluid river of a piece! Beautiful, Paul!
Not a weak spot in this tiny giant, Paul.
Thanks Meg and Sheldon. Delighted you both enjoyed and very much appreciate your dropping a comment.
Clever writing.