61 Frames Per Second by John Constantine Today in Nerve's videogame blog: Street Fighter. The movie. A new one. With that chick from that Superman show. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about!
The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Mad Men's January Jones struts her stuff in Vanity Fair. Plus: Damages returns, the latest Gossip Girl guest star and Donna Martin capitulates.
I saw him sitting by himself.
I saw him reading a book I was reading, too.
He was in school. I was in school. We were taking a trip somewhere
without knowing each other. I think we were going to Vermont.
I sat down next to him.
The train kept making false starts and finally lumbered through
the night like a hungry, but slightly disinterested panther.
I looked down to his book and couldn't read the sentence.
I looked down to his crotch and imagined that his cock was getting hard behind a story.
His cock is getting hard, I thought, because the combination of reading
and someone looking at you with passion is the sexiest thing.
I could see his cock tilt the book he was reading. It was getting hard.
The cock was tilting the reading because by this time
the book had become a blanket that was laying over the crotch.
The train was slightly dangerous and slightly cold. But all this warmth moving up between us.
I could say something now — seeing him sexily move back and forth
between the sentence and the hard cock. That all meant
I could say something now. About now.
It was okay to take my slightly shaky hand and put it under the book
where I found his cock and the rest of his mind and I said
Hello
Hello
Hello
until the panther rested — down so much — in the springy hills.
