Reading: "Dead Cities of the Stars" from Rituals of the Antithetical (A.Glass 2023)
A year ago.
“I meet this guy in a bar and we’re chatting. And I ain't about picking this guy up. Don’t swing that way. How do I influence this conversation?...” An older man says wearing a slouch hat, sitting next to Arvie Dalens, who pours into a small metallic cap some whiskey.
“Rye whiskey my friend,” he says, handing it to the man.
“...Thank you.” The man has sip. “...Very nice. Forty Five proof at Ninety Five percent mash...”
“Good guess,” Dalens replies.
“...I like Manhattan’s.” Referring to the rye based cocktail
Dalens also sips from the hip flask, he looks at the area where they’re sitting within Central Park.
“We assume a topic.”
“Yeah, but we don’t lead it per se. You think it. Say, you ask for a Russian vodka, now we got import bans on Russian products because of their invasion of Ukraine. So the bartender says, ‘This is my last bottle’ or ‘I have a Polish Vodka.’ Whatever the reply from him…” The elderly man points to an imagery bartender in front of them both, with his left index finger he then points to Dalens. “...It’s the guy next to you that should then initiate the conversation about the Russian invasion or the President of Russia etc.”
“Not specific?” Dalens asks.
“Never is, general to a focused point.”
“Ye ole Master.”
The elderly man beside him nods, sipping from the small metallic cap, he turns and faces Dalens. “Careful now. Old and young are neither benchmarks. So, don’t expect riches and fame.”
“I never did. It’s over ambition…” Dalens points towards the skyline as the sunset begins over he city. “...that created their hell. One big fucking boulevard of broken dreams. A suffering cesspool. I am just here to survive.” He holds out his hip flask and the elderly man chinks it with his cup.
“The question is. Are we real?”
“As in a simulation?” Dalens replies smiling.
Denise Bianchi lifting the hem of her skirt, quickly removing her underwear, lies back onto her bed. As Dalens, who is already completely naked eyes his toe nails, satisfied that he clipped and filed them earlier today. His penis already fully erect, looks at Bianchi’s face which has maintained its radiant and lustful clean, as she lifts her legs up and in a rushed manner takes off her skirt throwing it aside, parting her legs to which Dalens eyes her vagina, noting how wet and full it has become. Propping herself up with her elbow, Dalens moves between her legs, clutching his hardened cock with his right hand, rolling the foreskin back, glistening with his own juices, he guides it over her moist lips, inserting the head of his penis into her vagina, as Bianchi falls back onto the pillow, turning her head slightly to the left, eyes shut and her mouth open, she lets out a loud whimper. “Oh yes...AH! OH!” The elongated pressure and desire to have Dalens penis inside her, has now been relieved.
“I meet this guy in a bar and we’re chatting. And I ain't about picking this guy up. Don’t swing that way. How do I influence this conversation?...” An older man says wearing a slouch hat, sitting next to Arvie Dalens, who pours into a small metallic cap some whiskey.
“Rye whiskey my friend,” he says, handing it to the man.
“...Thank you.” The man has sip. “...Very nice. Forty Five proof at Ninety Five percent mash...”
“Good guess,” Dalens replies.
“...I like Manhattan’s.” Referring to the rye based cocktail
Dalens also sips from the hip flask, he looks at the area where they’re sitting within Central Park.
“We assume a topic.”
“Yeah, but we don’t lead it per se. You think it. Say, you ask for a Russian vodka, now we got import bans on Russian products because of their invasion of Ukraine. So the bartender says, ‘This is my last bottle’ or ‘I have a Polish Vodka.’ Whatever the reply from him…” The elderly man points to an imagery bartender in front of them both, with his left index finger he then points to Dalens. “...It’s the guy next to you that should then initiate the conversation about the Russian invasion or the President of Russia etc.”
“Not specific?” Dalens asks.
“Never is, general to a focused point.”
“Ye ole Master.”
The elderly man beside him nods, sipping from the small metallic cap, he turns and faces Dalens. “Careful now. Old and young are neither benchmarks. So, don’t expect riches and fame.”
“I never did. It’s over ambition…” Dalens points towards the skyline as the sunset begins over he city. “...that created their hell. One big fucking boulevard of broken dreams. A suffering cesspool. I am just here to survive.” He holds out his hip flask and the elderly man chinks it with his cup.
“The question is. Are we real?”
“As in a simulation?” Dalens replies smiling.
*
Denise Bianchi lifting the hem of her skirt, quickly removing her underwear, lies back onto her bed. As Dalens, who is already completely naked eyes his toe nails, satisfied that he clipped and filed them earlier today. His penis already fully erect, looks at Bianchi’s face which has maintained its radiant and lustful clean, as she lifts her legs up and in a rushed manner takes off her skirt throwing it aside, parting her legs to which Dalens eyes her vagina, noting how wet and full it has become. Propping herself up with her elbow, Dalens moves between her legs, clutching his hardened cock with his right hand, rolling the foreskin back, glistening with his own juices, he guides it over her moist lips, inserting the head of his penis into her vagina, as Bianchi falls back onto the pillow, turning her head slightly to the left, eyes shut and her mouth open, she lets out a loud whimper. “Oh yes...AH! OH!” The elongated pressure and desire to have Dalens penis inside her, has now been relieved.
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