The Punk Rock Age of the Polk Street Hustlers has faded perfectly into the memory of Fun Terminal young boys off the bus cruising Greyhound T-room, amyl nitrate urine sex Sugar Daddies prowling in tan four door mystery ignored from sneering toughs, thumbs hooked in jeans.
"I'm Beef," he grunted.
"I'm yours," I panted, looking up from my thin white duke puked and torn, safety pinned together with anarchist zeal visage,
"My name is Vince Deranged, wanna get high?" I hissed in prissy punk pet rock pallor, dreading any answer. I feared that I had even spoken in this nightmare. The freeway underpass had the lingering stench of burning road kill robots from the recent Survival Research Laboratory performance. I grabbed his cock, my spike heel skull buckled boot ground into his foot.
He grabbed my neck choking me as he drove me in a tackle into the cement.
I bit his lip and we kissed.
Beef was the first hustler I gave myself to, but he wasn't the last ....
"I'm Beef," he grunted.
"I'm yours," I panted, looking up from my thin white duke puked and torn, safety pinned together with anarchist zeal visage,
"My name is Vince Deranged, wanna get high?" I hissed in prissy punk pet rock pallor, dreading any answer. I feared that I had even spoken in this nightmare. The freeway underpass had the lingering stench of burning road kill robots from the recent Survival Research Laboratory performance. I grabbed his cock, my spike heel skull buckled boot ground into his foot.
He grabbed my neck choking me as he drove me in a tackle into the cement.
I bit his lip and we kissed.
Beef was the first hustler I gave myself to, but he wasn't the last ....
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