raininjuarez: I plan to grow old. Very, very old. I plan, eventually, a long long way of
raininjuarez: I plan to grow old. Very, very old. I plan, eventually, a long long way off, to become the pit instead of the peach. The alternative is less attractive. But when I am in that rocker on the porch, a blanket over my wizened legs, I’ll wear a beatific smile. My nurse may think I’ve slipped into some gauzily pleasant though incoherent state, or that I am only now getting the joke Drew Carey told an hour ago on an ancient Price Is Right re-run. But this is what will bring that smile, pretty girl. The memory of the reveal. The way you emerge for me. Every day, we burn new neural pathways in which to store these memories. The way you move for me. The exquisite way you fall. I will carry the memory of the noises you make. The way your nipples feel, stiffening against my tongue. Your hot, wet grip. The way your lips press hard at my base and your breathing falters – I will carry these memories to my grave. So when the little kiddies swarm the old age home, noisily serenading their granny with some new song they learned in class, I’ll be sitting quietly in the corner, reliving my past. I’ll be fucking you hard, and looking for my reward. And that means we have more memories to make. [Please do not remove the text from this post. Thank you] -- source link