(I warn whoever is reading this: It won't make sense unless you're familiar with Whitman (and If I know my friends well), let me apologize in advance.)
Ok, it's about 2 in the a.m. here. Here I lie in bed, listening to song 3. Tonight I lied on my back and let myself float down the river to sensuality. I, the 29th bather, grabbed his hand and listened to his rhetoric. He recited his sweet sweet lines and let me feel again, touching that calous shell to my chest, neck, and cock.
Shh, he sings his song to himself, while I listen with entirely too many commas. My song whistles in tall grass, can you hear it? My barbaric yelp is no match for his.
I feel so clean.
-T
