Jackson Biddle rolled in deep dream agony the bed of his room at the Solomon Hotel. He was remembering the days of Denver and the self he was trying to leave behind. The sex lust maniac that drove him to deep ugly bathroom extremes and horrible late night car rides. Now he had flown across the country to sleep in an old hotel and live a celebate life. He took up smoking a pipe and even discarded his old forms of dress. He even shaved the head that he used to spike up and mousse religiously every time he left the house. But, no matter how hard he tried he couldn't escape the dark soul feeling of wanting to fuck everything he saw.
Jackson Biddle walked out the front door of the Solomon Hotel and stood by the stairs smoking his pipe. Sometimes he would walk outside to smoke his pipe if he felt to closed up inside his room. He watched a few college med students walking to a bar in flash black pants and backless frontless painted pastel shirts. I'd like that bent over something in a dark room. Oh man, I'd make that squeal and beg for something. He had to shake his head to loose the pounding voice and he started walking to clear the mind. Two men passed him holding hands and walked into a black window restaurant. Man those two fuck each other. I wonder what given it into a tight ass like that is like. He almost sported one and looked around thinking others could see his thoughts and he stood ready to defend his heteroness.
Mentally challenged women, children (some in strollers), pets: his mind was a naked disgusting puss roaming with no prejudice the unlimited deviant sexual beast. Even a fire hydrant he pictured covered in his cum blushing a deeper kind of red. He ducked into a bar and drank himself sick. He could never go back to Denver - the sun and wind only made it worse.
