When the rubbing of her thighs has faded, I crane my nostrils for any vague comfort; a whiff of warm toast, a… — DBC Pierre
When the rubbing of her thighs has faded, I crane my nostrils for any vague comfort; a whiff of warm toast, a spearmint breath. But all I whiff, over the sweat and the barbecue sauce, is school—the kind of pulse bullyboys give off when they spot a quiet one, a wordsmith, in a corner. The scent of lumber being cut for a fucken cross.
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