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I fucking love rain. Makes sense, considering the sweaty ballsack of a summer we get around here. When it finally shows up it cools everything down and washes away the shit of the day. Feels like the sky’s giving me a fresh start every time I stand in it. The word itself hits me like a shot of adrenaline, busting me out of the boring, buttoned-up version of myself. I hear rain and my head fills up with wet fields, green trees, wide-open water—none of which exist in this town. From the roof of my half-broken house all I see are towers, cables, and the distant rattle of a train buried behind more walls. Then the monsoon hits. Streets turn into rivers, crows sag on the line like soggy laundry, and people laugh like idiots while getting soaked. That wild joy only lasts till the thunder starts cracking and drives everyone inside. That’s when I climb those red concrete steps. The drains are plugged with old dead moss, so a thin sheet of water sits on the warm cement. I peel the dress off, lie back, let my bare skin press into the gritty, rain-cooled floor. Rain stings my nipples, my lips, my hips, my arches—sharp little pricks that get me hot right away. Every drop feels like teeth and tongue working me over, and I spread wider, letting the storm fuck me open. The sky pounds harder, deeper; the thunder slams right between my legs and the next thing I know I’m shaking so hard my ears ring and my cunt clenches around nothing. When it’s over I’m wrecked in the best way. Eventually I stand up, yank the wet dress over my skin, and kick the puddles like a kid who just got laid for the first time.
I fucking love rain. Makes sense, considering the sweaty ballsack of a summer we get around here. When it finally shows up it cools everything down and washes away the shit of the day. Feels like the sky’s giving me a fresh start every time I stand in it. The word itself hits me like a shot of adrenaline, busting me out of the boring, buttoned-up version of myself. I hear rain and my head fills up with wet fields, green trees, wide-open water—none of which exist in this town. From the roof of my half-broken house all I see are towers, cables, and the distant rattle of a train buried behind more walls. Then the monsoon hits. Streets turn into rivers, crows sag on the line like soggy laundry, and people laugh like idiots while getting soaked. That wild joy only lasts till the thunder starts cracking and drives everyone inside. That’s when I climb those red concrete steps. The drains are plugged with old dead moss, so a thin sheet of water sits on the warm cement. I peel the dress off, lie back, let my bare skin press into the gritty, rain-cooled floor. Rain stings my nipples, my lips, my hips, my arches—sharp little pricks that get me hot right away. Every drop feels like teeth and tongue working me over, and I spread wider, letting the storm fuck me open. The sky pounds harder, deeper; the thunder slams right between my legs and the next thing I know I’m shaking so hard my ears ring and my cunt clenches around nothing. When it’s over I’m wrecked in the best way. Eventually I stand up, yank the wet dress over my skin, and kick the puddles like a kid who just got laid for the first time.