When you climbed up on that pedestal, why did you kick the ladder away? Did you think you were going to sit up there forever? Did you not think you would grow old and frail and gasp at the thin air. Did you not think you would wither in the sun?
Crowds of men would gather and watch as you battled the years. Your sword was drenched in miracle balms and ointments, as you hacked and sliced at days, weeks and months. The war was never ending, yet you seemed tireless. Drenched with sweat, from the saddle of your stationary bicycle steed, you buried your lance in cholesterol caked hearts of carb filled years.
Applause and cheers would rise up on testosterone clouds of lust from awed and glistening gym rats who would beg for your panties and stare at you between glances at their guns. You might toss them a bone, a few drops of perspiration or an exercise scented g-string for them to worship, but the rest you saved for yourself. The alphas would snatch up the garments and rub them on hair plugged peppered hairlines, hoping their bangs might, once again, fall across their Oakleys. They would woo you from below, with romance and passion. “Show us your tits!” they would cry.
I peeked at you from my second floor walkup. My fire escape was barely a stone’s throw from your kingdom. I would pretend you were smiling at me when you admired your reflection in my window. Though, I knew better than to look in your eyes, as legend warned of men turned to piles of whey protein and ankle weights at the passing of your gaze. I loved you from afar. I was the sports bottle that splashed the back of your tongue. I willed the song of my heart into your earbuds. It was me; Spotify and Pandora was pumping into your ears. It was me, who yelled for you not to contest the dragon!
The Brazilian waxing had clouded your eyes with tears; you didn’t see the dragon until it was too late. You had fended off years with the feint of a saline breast plate and a hairless crotch, but the Decade cannot be fooled so easily as a seed laden weight lifter. The Decade cannot be defeated with Slimfast or a French manicure; it wields the blade of experience. Its gray soul cannot be beaten by bottled highlights, a high angled selfie or duck lips. The Decade does not cower before Redbull and Monsters, it saps your bones. It creases your eyes and empties the sparkle of designer irises and colored contacts. The Decade’s gravity whetted sword reduces the proud armor of silicon and saline, to skin covered wine bottles slapping together at the knee. The Decade is fat and angry with snarky comments from pretties and hardbodies. It squats out insurmountable mountains of leathered skin shit, reeking of karma. I cried out, but it was too late, your stair climber became mired in the waste of the blasé and mundane. Small talk, empty flattery and the twisting of a lock of hair could not purchase the labor of even the skinniest of grave diggers to look for your spot and mine for gold.
I peek at you from my second floor walkup. I watch your wrinkled hands thumb through aged and yellowed fan email, on a forgotten 404 of AOL, as you look for Mr. Right, hoping he wasn’t just Mr. Rightnow at the time the text was typed. Beneath you, around a rotted ladder, fat gym rats with three chins are fellated by plump enthusiastic women. Their moans float up to you on clouds slobber and determination, while you search for C cells for your rabbit.
Under your breath, I hear you curse yourself. In your early years, while you allowed anabolic kids to slap your ass and spray your heart shaped landing strip with ineffective semen, the plump girls had mastered the blow job.
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Reviewed by David Mink
6/4/2016
Damn, what a description of getting old and the value of a good blow job.
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When you climbed up on that pedestal, why did you kick the ladder away? Did you think you were going to sit up there forever? Did you not think you would grow old and frail and gasp at the thin air. Did you not think you would wither in the sun?
