Mirrors (and fucking in front of them), sparkly ceilings, corsets and garters (and being fucked while wearing them), the movie Quills (the Marquis de Sade is my new hero. And certainly on my reading list), reading his girls I’ve fucked list and notes (I’m number 40), the way he maneuvers his hips and cock, fleeting thoughts: we’d probably make a fantastic porno, half asleep fondling…

And uh, I think I’ve gotten better at choking on cock.

(ps: I invited the Poet to an evening with a few friends, after a few hours of not talking much except for breaking into occasional bursts of reciting poetry and us trying to make sure he was comfortable/having an okay time, he left without saying goodbye. Completely inexplicable and mind boggling. My friends thought it might have been social anxiety—perhaps they’re right. Perhaps it was something I said. In any case, it’s unlikely that I’ll hear from him or receive any sort of explanation. But perhaps for the better, he might have been too fragile for any of my desired adventures.)