Donald Pachinger is a 22 year old poet longing for the eremitic path. Improvement is a matter of opinion.
the mating tool
“you’re good at going down on me”
I took the compliment
the seventh seal
the discarded shells of pistachios fill the bowl between us
rum and cigarettes aid us in the cold, though I shiver
your film progresses our excuses
tense does not exist in the planes we wander
ribs like bicycle spokes; that they are
she climbed on top
optional isn’t in our vocabulary
“I forgot how big you were.”
She let out a sweet sigh of relief when I put it in her.
We were consoling each other. That’s all. After both of our recent break-ups we needed this. Oh, fuck yes, we needed this. I relished every second of it.
I’d gently close my teeth around her ear lobe then move down to her breasts, those beautiful B’s, and let my tongue tease her nipples. Then it was back up to her lips, oh my fucking God, those lips and her tongue! I’ll never experience as much as passion as I did when I kissed those lips.
Missionary, cowgirl, doggy.
The satisfaction was beyond words. The satisfaction on her face made me beam and she hit me jokingly saying, “What do look you so smug for?” I laughed and tickled her then got up to get rid of the condom.
While I pulled on a pair of gray boxers she said, “You have a cute cock..”
“I’m surprised; guys don’t usually like being told that.”
“Yeah, I guess because it’s not masculine.”
“Well what do guys want their cocks to be called? ‘The Destroyer of Worlds’?”
That got her laughing; a welcomed and pleasant sound. We were still high off the bud we smoked an hour before and ended up watching crap on YouTube until we fell asleep. She wrapped herself around me while I ran my fingers through her light red hair.
In the morning we consoled each other again.