A refreshing or disgusting break from the cute-fluffy-animal or random-youtube timewasting fillerpost-parade. Summer boredom prompts me to surf the internet aimlessly (funnily enough so does mid-term frantic academic blitzkrieg) and I found this wonderful little website called Hipsterotica. Just in case you were missing those eclectic parties:
I knew what was going to happen from the onset. The way you softly inhaled the smoke from your Parliament Light, only to exhale deftly defined swirls, spelling Replacements lyrics in the ether. We sit in the diveiest of dive bars, populated solely by amputees and 9/11 victims. Your eyes glimmer like the pale blue on a Pabst can, even through your horn-rimmed glasses with plastic lenses that have no corrective value. Your sweatshop-free skirt is hiked just high enough to allow me to see your hyper-ironic Thin Lizzy tattoo, just inches away from those boyshorts you got from Neighborhoodies. You know, the ones with “I Am a Scientist” printed on the ass. You speak of Four Tet and Jean-Paul Sartre, often in the same breath, only to dip the end of your cigarette into the vintage “F-Troop” ashtray. After countless gin-‘n’-tonics, your stares only magnify, and you hint at the presence of your 1983 Volkswagen Golf parked outside. Before I can say “Grande soy latte,” we’re whisking by the squares in the promenade, screaming Undertones lyrics and, gradually yet decisively, rounding third base. When we arrive at your apartment, you’re quick to put the first William Shatner album on your reel-to-reel to player, explaining, “it just sounds so organic.” As he shouts “Mr. Tambourine Man,” we’re enthralled in the embrace of one another, smearing your Sephora all over my face. As I unbutton your dress, you assuredly remind me that it was made in downtown LA. In what seems like mere seconds, we’re naked and entangled, my ironic handlebar mustache giving you goose bumps with every forceful kiss. All at once, I catch sight of your signed Burt Reynolds poster framed on the wall, Shatner bellows “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds” and you scream “ahhh, daddy!” The sheer, unfiltered irony is overpowering in its raw sensuality, and I cum inside you, groaning a final Kierkegaard quote before burying my head in your frazzled, Debby Harry hairdo.