London Wings Escort Agency
London Escort calls me at 10:38 in the morning, at work. "I need your rear end," she says. That is all she says, all she needs to say. It's not an inquiry, and there's nothing for me to say with the exception of yes, so I do. Hang up the telephone. Rationalize. Good for nothing words overlooked when they're talked. It's conceivable that somebody will get some information about my supposed crisis tomorrow, yet I couldn't care less. This is the thing that Cheap Escort in London does to me. Sitting on the streetcar, head against the window, the moderate west-to-east trundle makes me frantic. I feel it as of now—the criticalness, the need. The hurt that begins in my cunt and emanates outward until my hands shake like an addict who's past due for a fix. Also, I am. It's been over a week. Sufficiently long for the delicacy in my appendages to retreat and my wounds to turn from purple to yellowish green, sufficiently long for one yearn to be supplanted by another. That is a piece of it, I know. Part of the diversion that we play that is not an amusement by any means.