''Big bottled Fraulein, put your weight on me,'' said the pig-me to the whore, desperate for more in his assault upon the mountain. Little man, his youth a fountain. Overdrafted and still counting. Vernacular, verbose; an attempt at getting close to where he came from. In the doorway of the stars, between Blandford Street and Mars; Proposition, deal. Flying button feel. Testicle testing. Wallet ever-bulging. Dressed to the left, divulging the wrinkles of his years. Wedding-bell induced fears. Shedding bell-end tears in the pocket of her resistance. International assistance flowing generous and full to his never-ready tool. Pulls his eyes over her wool. And he shudders as he comes. And my rudder slowly turns me into the Marylebone Road.
