Let’s say it’s 1989 and my name is Dan Johnson, on my way to work on Wall Street from my condo in Midtown. Or no, my name is Nancy Spalding, on my way to work at State Farm Insurance in Wichita, Kansas from my tornado-proof bungalow. Or no, my name is Klaus Smith, on my way to work at Dartmouth College from my Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired farmhouse. Or no, my name is Juan Rodriguez-Lopez, on my way to work in a porn film at some unspecified location in The Valley from my tiny house in Venice Beach. Or no, my name is Michelle Osten, on my way to work at Microsoft from my craftsman house in Seattle. Or no, my name is Agent Dale Cooper, on my way to Twin Peaks, Washington, from the FBI’s offices in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
Case in point: fuck with this Luxury Elite. They call her a veteran of vapor, and she has the output to rep that. On Moods the night dims down, and we make love with Kenny G on and candles surrounding our naked asses, just like they do in the soft porn films. The shadows shove my genitals in the dark, and my left arm positions itself so that your genitals hide on the other side of it. The cameraman ain’t sweating, cuz he knows that he won’t need to edit this shot out of the film, i.e., he’s not wasting any time and we ain’t either, baby. So get on this. Later this evening we’ll grab some espresso and act dreamy in the midnight cafe: like how the actors do in the movies.
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