And he yelled "sergi umabao" as he deposited his viral bantu seed onto her milky tattooed sphincter. His mind poisoned by continuous images and sounds, streamed over the data device he even carries with him to release bowel contents. A moment of peace or reflection merely a oil-dripped dream. The Talmudic orgy of dripping sexual effluent and her bedazzled *******, the perfect tonic for his wayward soul. He loves her he believes. Her sphincterino now lacquered like the fondant-ensconced wedding cake a day before he loses all of himself to her and her ways, learned by the ways of her mother, and the mother before her, and the ancient folkloric succubus of yore. Just one more male no longer able to achieve his promise, now simply a controlled missive content with his toil by day at Radio Shack or UPS or Baskin Robbins. He returns home early, his hands soft and pillowed, pulling on the door to the copulatorium, he hears the roar of "SERGI UMABAO" crack the still air somewhere in the dark recess of his everyday town-home. He knows the sound all too well, the fetid tang of fresh penny and chlorine hang in the air like the wet flatulence in a Samoan home. A requiem of a dream he can never wake up from. He slumps in the corner, knowing full well his love, the queen of his nights, now lays agape providing her fleshly extended O-ring to another lost vampire. Her ******* now double-lacquered, embossed like an ancient insect captured by the amber stone of time. His phone dingles, his dignity forsaken, a new instagram photo of her renders, new lost souls grow turgid from their flaccid states...as a muffled "sergi umabao" echoes for eternity. But she loves me more.
