813
The big band burned it up. Made it warm. Shook the rafters 'til they shifted white-chunk plaster down upon the patron heads.
At Uptown Traverse there was only one attraction, one thing worth staying through the last legs of late-night amateur lindy.
One night. One set. One Queen:
Roxas.
"Skip yer bit, baby, I'm crankin'." Came bark from the smoke-corner. The embers glowed blue on his zoot. "Gonna blow. Gonna die."
Roxas puckered. Struck his gloss and pulled magenta.
"Bay-be."
"Get bent."
Axel stepped; groped his breasts. Touched along those ten-cent water-balloons that felt a lot like mutilated sacs of goldfish innards.
It wasn't hard to tell they were fake.
"Ain't you sweet." Tar-stained nails slit a line.
Roxas jumped.
"What you thinkin', nosebleed?"
Hip flexed. Pelvic thrust. A smile wide and warped around a fag.
"DDT." Little straps and snaps came all un-clicked. Lace strings peeled from out between his legs.
"What? And look like you?"
Naked at the vanity, Roxas stood. His breasts lay leaking on the counter. "Ya ain't gonna get none now."
"C'mon, dolly." Drag. "Let's get fly and kick this nowhere."
"Cut out."
Axel slid up on him. Fingered all his ribs. "Wass'a'matter, baybe? All I wants that royal shaft."
done
i hate it but i couldn't rightly deny it. may be taken down, revised, eaten, later. title makes it obvious: 'tis for 8/13.
DDT // Drop Dead Twice. What Axel says in response is the "proper" reply.