Those rusty cogs turn, yawning inside that thick skull; a dying hamster on a creaky wheel. Quietly waiting for the cruel rotations to complete their sedate lap around the globe. Knowing there’s nothing of use to be churned out; still I wait, always, for you. Waiting for that spark to catch; only crumbs of life left. Wondering how much of you is still in there; amongst the rust and fumes. Once it was astounding, fresh with abundant wonder and curiosity; almost dormant now. Stuck mindless motionless. Baby, do you even know your name? Does such a thing even matter anymore? © Natasha Sinclair
That number rises steady at the corner of the screen; fans, followers, eager little pervs. Patiently waiting. Numbers swell like an erection. Street corner, screen corner, her corner. The anticipation of detached contact. Satisfying, hang-up free but never for free. Alone with the whirring of the machine, lube in hand, the other fingering the board.
Full red lips glossed; they look like they suck good – they do. She’ll do anything here, a feast for the eyes only. Credit Card at the ready, palms sweaty. There’s nothing more stupid than a man with an erection. Stream.
© Natasha Sinclair