I have this imagination. In a red light showcase, those of Amsterdam, male bodies stood, posing, daze eyed. This came from the cravings for foreign penis tastes; pushing foreskins of different shades backwards. Tortilla. Ivory. Chestnut. Saline droplets and moisture enclosed in a hood coat made of human flesh.
And maybe this had me understood the desperation hours of midnight men. A glimpse of calf-tight leather boots. I understood, or imagine this need: Breast goosebumps, pouring out of tank tops of corset rigidity. And there would always be another pair; another pair left unkissed, although willing.
Social conventions were webs of distance made, your mind wander off to fantasies with utopic imageries. Production line fantasies. Hypothetical penises. A databases of human genitalia and their data down to cosmic accuracy.