What do you weigh – five-hundred? Love. It. Six-five? You’re really very big, and the pleasure of your, imagined company, your slow, flirty humor — it works. Quite nicely. Sounds like you’re really paying attention when you say my name three times the way you say it when you come fix things in my apartment. But I know you’re full of shit.
In “reality” your weight’s a non-issue. You’ve compensated for the “short-coming,” as people do. Hilarity is how I’ve compensated for mine.
So, as I’m sketching it, you sit on the sofa while I smear your ass from different angles. From your position, you can gaze at the mark on my back that I got from my surgery, and I call you names when I twist to see your face — a beast — a fat fucker – maybe I’m the ‘fat fucker’ whatever — names Lil’ Kim calls Biggie on that track when she accuses him of eating different foods, and they break the bed down. Then I might flip around and face you, bite, smell you…
You’re inappropriate, but somehow you’ve gotten your cue from me. I am the lonely middle-aged broad in the ‘penthouse’? Why should I be embarrassed that I enjoyed your company when you tried to fix my DVD player? Maybe you are a clever abuser of vulnerability, but remember this Big Daddy — if I do you, I’ll know exactly what I’m doing, because I’ve got you by twenty years, and I didn’t get this old for nothing.