Blinded

The urge has gone away a bit.
Also, I’m on my third bucket of ice-cream in four days. I kinda feel like a chick – drowning my sorrows in ice-cream – but surprisingly; it works. Chicks have some pretty awesome tricks up their sleeves. Or bras. Where ever they might hide those things.
That sounded weird. Women hiding tricks in their bras… But heck; they already hide boobs and money in them, so why not tricks?
Bras should train dogs.
Ha! I sound like I’m high.

I stumbled out of the recording studio. We had all called for a smoke-break. And I needed a smoke.
I got outside and fumbled with my jacket, then with my cigarettes and then with my lighter. Smoking was hard!
When I’d finally gotten the thing lighted, I looked up. I saw a bar further down the street. I could really use a fucking pick-me-up. My buzz was wearing off.
Suddenly I heard a groan, and when I turned around I saw Frank sitting on some wooden box – a white stick between his loose fingers. It wasn’t a cigarette.
I stared at the little, white stick – the paper twisted.
Frank brought the thing to his lips. His chest grew as he inhaled. He held his breath as he lowered his arm and let his hand dangle between his legs – covering his crotch.
I stared at the stick. I wanted that.
I took a step closer and stood right in front of him.
Then he exhaled. And I inhaled.
The smell was divine and I couldn’t help but close my eyes.
This was better than a pick-me-up.

Was it the smoke or his breathe that intoxicated me – that made me feel so good?