The Gap, Australia

#5984 Feb 1, 2013
In the other room,

a piano, softly, plays.

I'm watching the clouds now;

shifting shapes,


drifting along,

with my thoughts...

...Your fingers, on the keys,

brush the elements:

a body of motion,

you've seemed.

to me.

As clement,

is this beauty,

a touch, pierces the heart.

The softness of skin, lingers,

in each subtle touch

of melody...

...and, You are here,..

..but not.

I'll open up myself,

to Nature,

and, Time's

inclement moments.

We'll embrace the clouds

this evening;

sharing, each stroke;

each, swept hands, brush.


as I linger here,

half-way to you

and the skies blessings;

Like some love-struck poet,

The light, at least, for now, my Love,

has settled


the Clouds.

Moneta, VA

#5985 Feb 1, 2013
OMG! DeVine, your fingers move in my grazing agsint that cluster of nerves that lie inside me, that sensitive spot that sends me whimpering and moaning, it almost hurts the pleasure outweighs the pain though but it feels soooooo good it almost stops me from breathing….i inhale deeply, that breath seems to drag through my lungs as i inhale deeply your fingers still dancing agsint that spot, i lose my mind, i focus…must focus, must not lose myself , concentrate on that deep scratchy pain that seems now to fill my mind…..completely over take me, consume me….

I can’t help but push back into you wanting more, the sensation rides over me i am controlled now buy what i want by the lust and the need that washes through me, i know i must be whimpering and begging but i can not think, all i need is for you to carry on with your fingers in me, moving them, playing my body perfectly, you know just what this does to me, and you must be able to see the effect it has on me, the way it takes me over, this feeling this all consuming fire that pulses through me…

must breathe again……must not lose myself, must not let it push me too far too fast…

Your fingers seem to fill me completely as i squirm under them caressing every part inside of me , that feeling of full..but to the point it almost hurts….., that intense pressure on my g- spot….. shaking now….gasping for breath and i can feel the release the orgasm start to wash over me, my legs shake and my breath sticks in my throat and i try not to scream, really try not to scream and its so hard as warmth spreads over me completely, i feel myself spasm around your fingers, and my head it gone, its like being on a roller coaster with fire works firing off in every nerve in my body and i shake and tremble and moan, and i want you to stop now, its too much it feels too much yet you continue and your fingers move in me almost viscously, and then again , that soft warmness crashes over me, my mind spinning, and a scream leaves my lips as you make me orgasm again……its unlike any other orgasm I have ever had... it's so intense and painful and oh soo very good….OMG you are soooo divine, DeVine.
I'm being the
Truest person you . Take you poems to a shrink.... Ask a professional and be ready for extensive therapy:( no offense u sound like a very sad person going to extreme measures to feel loved or to feel anything to be honest. I do hope u the best. Please don't reproduce until u undergo treatment for your insecurities. Question were you abused sexually as a kid? Not jokes please answer honestly.

The Gap, Australia

#5986 Feb 1, 2013
For three years now, she has been my erotic ideal.

She, alone, has symbolized the aim of my erotic intent. The intended high-fashion of my pen. The slow grooming of every sophistication around the hearts of love and lust that I have ever won for my self.

She was untouchable. She was not something I was supposed to have, or even kiss. She was merely something I was supposed to want and ache painfully, silently – invisibly for.

But now, we are laying in the still of shattering night, on her bed. My fingers are drawing lines of conviction on her back, up and down her tiny spine. I am kneading her thighs. Her calves.

I am touching her skin. Proof that the disappearing girl has reappeared from the darkest of night. Proof that my heart of eroticism is beating, alive.

Truth is: She was here all along, only mythically beyond my grasp. And now, I am touching her skin.

Every now and then my noise machine goes silent and I can hear her breathing. I stop my trace upon her body only to stand in the wind – to force the memory of anything else back into me, including breath.

“My sexual choice is the sum of my fundamental convictions… The man who is proudly certain of his own value will want the highest type of woman he can find, the woman he admires, the strongest… because only the possession of a heroine will give him a sense of achievement, not the possession of a brainless slut. He does not seek to gain his value, but to express it. There is no conflict between the standards of his mind and the desires of his body.”

The Gap, Australia

#5987 Feb 1, 2013
She is sitting before me. A jean skirt, tiny and riding up on her thighs.

The tattoo on her hip is peeking out.

She crosses her legs. Uncrosses them. Puts her foot up and on my thigh.

I can see the dark triangle between her legs. But it is her head and her heart that are magnets for my eyes.

Cars in the night wash light around her head like a halo. She smiles at me and I am stricken. We are sitting with others and so I don’t say:

Somewhere between all this sex and love is power.

And in every small thing I do and say with her throughout the night, I will make certain that she feels this power, at least once. Thing is: the power may not be anywhere outside of her and maybe she has known it her whole life.

A couple of weeks ago, when I thought her heart was smiling only at me:

She was lying next to me and I kissed her spine as morning peered in through the windows. I told her that she is the most beautiful girl in the world. She will tell me, hours later, that she thought I was talking in my sleep.

We haven’t slept much together in all the beds we inhabit. Typically, we go from ravaging to comatose. However, I have heard her childish breathing turn to an eloquent snore. And I know that we have slept, invisible hours upon others because I have heard our alarms shrilling because responsibility is always standing before us. Calling our names as that tail end of our time together.

Always, always, we rise early early early in the morning. She is always off to something, or someone and breakfast is just not something we do.

Right now I am thinking of all the ways that I want to devour her.

Right now I am thinking of how I will not take our next moment for granted. How I don’t know how to, because she is quick. Here. Then, gone.

Right now I know that this is all I have: these thoughts of her…

The last time I tasted her, weeks and lifetimes ago now:

She was sitting on my face while I stroked my self in front of her. I was lapping at her citrus juices. I nibbled, sucked and tasted all that I could. In that sober morning moment, I took every sensation with me and stuffed it into my memory’s pocket for future use.

When I exploded all over my stomach, she slowly crawled off me and sighed.

I grinned, knowing that this is how we begin our days together.

It is said that if you don’t have any disasters to endure, you may need to create some. To be complete. To become whole.

I am nervous and naked, crawling from her bed because it’s too hot to sleep. Because I can’t sleep. Because I just want to watch her, even though I know that she needs this rest. This sleep.

She is exhausted, like my heart.

I put on my pants and shirt. I slip on my shoes. I am stricken. The sadness wells in my sternum and I am too nervous to tell her that I love her with all of my heart. Instead I kiss her on the shoulder. Musically she says, call me later please…

I lock her door, open my car door and drive into the night, alone and under the pale of all love’s stoplights.

The Gap, Australia

#5988 Feb 1, 2013
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance:“The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

I did not meet her standing on the ground. No, instead we met over a thousand feet up, far above the city lights. Standing, and we were looking down.

As the clown in my circus of will and ambition, I have fought the fight of attrition.

I am not a poet, nor sorcerer by trade, but I have believed in love as apathy’s raid.

If you want to see the saddest boy tonight, pull your mirror and see me, sitting across from thee.

If you have never seen love unfulfilled, stare across this table as though your trembling made you able.

I am not a poet, nor sorcerer by trade – but if you wish toward the sea’s winds to see the sun fade – from this life I am born.
From this life, I am torn.

I am Wednesday.

I am heartbroken.

I am me, unable to dress. Unable to eat.

The simplest of duties, stricken by fate in the circus of this life.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

Thank you for giving me this. This is much and more and the score of my days.

For when I have been empty, broken and struck by the light of eve, you crawled from beneath me to leave.

I want simple. And settle down. I want the sun to rise and fall over our heads. I want no pomp or pretense, instead I crave your intense,

Potential that only I can see.

Power that soars over me.

The drive and pistons burning free.

I am nothing more than thee.

(and I want nothing more for me)

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

From “I Can Write”
by Pablo Neruda

The Gap, Australia

#5989 Feb 1, 2013
omg wrote:
<quoted text> I'm being the
Truest person you . Take you poems to a shrink.... Ask a professional and be ready for extensive therapy:( no offense u sound like a very sad person going to extreme measures to feel loved or to feel anything to be honest. I do hope u the best. Please don't reproduce until u undergo treatment for your insecurities. Question were you abused sexually as a kid? Not jokes please answer honestly.
(1) Mature audiences only.
(2) Not suitable for people with narrow minds.
(3) The capacity to acquire and apply knowledge required.
(4) Void where prohibited.

Only nyarlathotep, the crawling chaos, you seem to possess
is given a human semblance of intelligence......

In an instant I seemed to see this unnatural contest between a dead intelligence and a breathing mechanism, but only as a spectator--

Such fancies are in dreams; then you've regained your pathetic identity almost as if by a leap forward into a sick mind, and the straining automaton had a directing will as alert and fierce as that of its hideous antagonist.

FYI, My childhood was free of any of the sexual innuendo, you seem to make indirect or subtle, derogatory implications by your sick expression here, therefore I'm unequivocally and positivity. refuting every part of your grubby question in all its malicious overtones ;.

Your attack on me, would lead me to question your own childhood, and the lack of moral convictions.......Just because your Mother and Father were Brother and Sister, there is no need to try to justify you uneducated, misinformed hostility and animosity toward me here.

The Gap, Australia

#5990 Feb 2, 2013
Her bangles!
Whirligigs of piety.
Her feet bending like reeds
billowing in the fragrant wind.
Her mermaid-like hips!
Crazy, I love her so much that
I’ll let her french kiss me
while I watch the scythe-like moon.
I’m a satyr eager to give
up grazing so that the romantic wind
can blow my taut body
into her silky arms.
There my hungry eyes will read
the pages in her quiet, silver bosom.

This half empty bottle on
the table tells me that
my life is half full.
The key next to the dormant guitar
says a few doubts
have to be unlocked.
The patient explorer I am may go
all the way. The angry fox
in me may start
to bite after half a half mile.
Hope her cartoon-like father will
stop hammering my fingers, or else—

When it rains I still take my
umbrella to water my lawn;
I want it green for my princess.
People’s blablabla in my ears.
Like giving grass to a hungry tiger.
I’m now a hardworking guy.
An honest Scar.
It’s just time to fill the half
full bottle even if I have to use
blue teardrops instead of water.

Level 6

Since: Apr 12

Location hidden

#5991 Feb 2, 2013
Keep delivering.

The Gap, Australia

#5992 Feb 2, 2013
Walk down Darlinghurst Road, Kings Cross. Sydney through

the conduit of condoms and ratty pigeons

smashed phone booths

and smears of hooker nylon

the distillation of ammonia and traffic

of the pilfered shopping cart

home to the less and the free

as above the windows painted

with replication of the Gods and

above the gods the edifice of cloud

imbroglio transfixed by the heat and screams

a seagull gleams by the El Alamein Fountain at the (un)Civic Center

the crack fiend lists and careens brandishing

moronic exclamations of bliss like fists

thrust into root fissures of spent dreams

the city is fiendish and weird and

walking through is carnival ride

no Hades ever knew.....

The Gap, Australia

#5993 Feb 2, 2013
I woke up yesterday morning
with some misgivings,
as a cascade of piss hit my hotel window.
I shrugged it off.
that can’t be piss, I thought, no pigeon is that fucking big –
Palmer and Leichhardt being a refugee zone, the fact is
when there is little money, less hope, and few prospects,
one might occasion God for answers.

I noticed one of His representatives near the entrance
to the liquor store, reading
from a dog-eared New Testament,
a pint bottle poking out from his ragged jacket pocket.
he didn’t seem all that thrilled,
street preaching amidst
the filth and degradation and howling sirens, the garish
pantomime of painted streetwalkers, the rowdy fury
of thugs in training –

And myself, nearing the mirror image
of long deceased relatives.
I woke up this morning with
that the world still revolves while forests burn, water cranks
in the piping and there’s still
glorious vice galore to
keep a man from doing the dirty work himself.

I paid the rent today, but eventually someone will take my place
when I’m out of here –
they will stare at the dirty flowered
sheet that serves as a curtain,
they may brave
a medical emergency to wash their feet
in the sink, as the bathroom down the hall is
owned by a colony of roaches,
God Bless.

The Gap, Australia

#5994 Feb 2, 2013
I'm shooting snooker with smoke
the Coach in a fuddle, spills
half a pitcher blaming
it on God, and
poor aim
the part of a mis-begotten character
loafing in the cortex
of hummingbird logic

Deonie and Raine giggling on the pew under
a portrait study of the Shroud of Urine.

It's just a towel, from when
we beat the boys from Bogey’s, back
in the summer of ‘08
for the ‘ship,
drones the Coach,
looking over his cue sight shiftily –

he of the bleach gray hair and
bleached white undershirts and
Fester Addams
sunken cocaine eyes.

This place is chock full of studies
in default and mother-fuckin'
stupidity, he goes on, pouring
once, shooting
from an onion hamburger cheese gut

as Raine presses against
Deonie, finger floating blue
pansies of delicate
a couple white trash floozies
so becoming in their
lack of media gestalt

Now enchanting this glorious
landscape of panache bewitchery.
get me some pink
glory girl, roll me in sunshine daily,
sings out Raine, fumbling
with the blurred lyrical
turquoise green expanse, pitch of dreams,
the snooker table beckons
scrappy fandom.

I hit with the Coach for a couple racks,
he takes me down to the black number 7 ball
on fouls, so
masterful is bone
powder and line of entropic deity
potentate to the brain
while chancing
half smiles for the sluts.
I wouldn’t fuck that
with a crutch, the Coach nods

After a bout with leukemia removed one of
his testes.

You win again, Coach, you old
pour me a golden from that there decanter
of filthy modernity.

The Gap, Australia

#5995 Feb 2, 2013
lovely’s lovely

hers is a golden gulch of sweet, beefy pussy
mooing a love ditty of milk choked wood pails

a loud honk sneaks from her fist neatly clenching on
the meaty knot of her crotch that likes high pressure

there will be enough quiet to hear a sigh escape her lips
when the husks betray the ear to the big polished scythes

checking the no box and the yes box at the same time
feels good while her fluid turns juice colors in the sun

now laid out in the beauty of the dirt, she holds a lantern
at arm’s length trying to decipher the writing on her walls

within her an old librarian sees everything from a swivel chair
she reads where pleasures have been chipped away by fingernail

there is no one outside to tell her she goes too far inside herself
only she winces when the lantern bumps the edge of her fleshes

no hand rests on her back when the glassy swath of light strikes gold
the shuddering is long as a dark shaft digesting a few screaming men

no one ever checked out any books from the librarian
the boredom left her plenty of time to sit with her hands clasped
politely inside of herself like Lovely arcing into the bristly grass

where the shitty cows stand around
chewing up fold after fold of earth

The Gap, Australia

#5996 Feb 2, 2013

f uck the snails cruising along
on the lube of their ooze.

f uck the deck chair branding
its leather thongs into a
sleeping sunbather.

f uck each ray of light
making fizzy suds beneath
the fatty bacon parts of her body.

f uck both corners of the red mouth
of the umbrella that dozed close
in the coddling blankie of air.

f uck the blue pool water calling out in currents
to her skin lifting now like female thoughts
about a man’s strong, cement mixer arms.

f uck how her throat burbles to urge another snore
up to the clouds where it will give thickness
to the contours of their grey face paint.

f uck the world for rotating her
so the heat slides smoothly
into the sweat hatching
on her sealed lips.

f uck all the lotion looping
in frosting layer shapes
on the cakes of her
teetering breasts.

f uck her sudden waking
for being violent as star after star
after star pretending to look the other way.

f uck the nick of blood spilling onto the green field
of the too crushed snail shell where she stood up.

f uck her hands clasped on her foot
for pressuring the timid mollusk bits
into something they did not want to do.

The Gap, Australia

#5997 Feb 2, 2013
The special hurry
of the edges of testicles
into the chins
of bears ain't nothing
to be worried about honey

semen will flee before you
when you do come to life

so do not go overboard until
spring thaw when the bears
are out foraging off
a season’s hunger

just hold that teddy tight
so dreams of the real
thing will be

The Gap, Australia

#5998 Feb 2, 2013
“I’ve met God across his long walnut desk with his diplomas hanging on the wall behind him, and God asks me,“Why?”

Why did I cause so much pain?

Didn’t I realize that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness?

Can’t I see how we’re all manifestations of love?

I look at God behind his desk, taking notes on a pad, but God’s got this all wrong.

We are not special.

We are not crap or trash, either.

We just are.

We just are, and what happens just happens.

And God says,“No, that’s not right.”

Yeah. Well. Whatever.

You can’t teach God anything.”

&#8213; Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

The Gap, Australia

#5999 Feb 2, 2013

waking at a reasonable hour

you think time is yours

you fool yourself

make coffee

feed the cat

drink the coffee

turn on the television

to get the weather from some blonde

with a fat ass in a tight skirt

find out which middle eastern country

we’re swinging our big limp dick toward this week

continue to fool yourself

jack-off to internet porn

on a handheld device

before you get ready

to jack-off the economy

and pay the rent

but soon the stomach aches

so you eat cold pizza

standing by the open fridge

take the coffee shit


and it feels industrious

shave like a slave

pack a dinner in stained tupperware

the one you’ll nuke

and eat standing by an open microwave

take the afternoon bus

with the other lost idiots

packed like pigs going to the slaughter

slug through those eight hours of misery

only to come home

to stale scotch

outdated cans of beer

baseball scores

as old chinese ladies pick through

your garbage

clanking glass bottles for their fortune

as your sagging bed

beckons you back

to do it all again


saturday's here

I get on the bed naked

she gets on all fours

let her stick her fingers in my ass

while she wraps the other hand around me

and starts to jerk me off

before she lays down

and has me sit on top of her

sucking my c ock until

i think i might explode

then she tells me to lay down

hopping on top to ride me

until we both come such splendid ecstasy

after, we sit in the bedroom

drinking glasses of cold red wine

kicking the cat off the bed with each furry charge

we hear the sound of the voices outside

people working on their cars

or talking to their neighbors

such fools, i think to tell her

but i don’t

I stay quiet as she sighs beside me

letting the old fans dry the sweat on our bodies

as the red wine chills our insides

thinking some saturdays

are almost too perfect

for the folly of simple words

The Gap, Australia

#6000 Feb 2, 2013
(poem to the unborn child of
an ex-girlfriend)

your mom liked to lie about her age
she told everyone that she was twenty
when she was sixteen
just sixteen
but that was back then
and your mom liked to hang around
a lot of older guys
she liked to talk about sex
to prove that young women liked sex
she talked about sex with the older guys
and about being twenty years old
and enjoying sex
she was interested in how many partners
a guy had
the more the merrier
you mom said that having a lot of sex was cool

your mom liked to sunbath topless
in the public park
she was very european like that
she watched movies naked
and gave away nude modeling photos of herself
she was skinny and blonde and could eat
whatever she wanted and not gain a pound
she was a hell cat in the sack, too
she was the first chick i ever knew
who swallowed it down and didn’t complain
she rode vigorously
she liked her tits bitten
and her ass slapped when done doggy style
just as long as you didn’t try to fuck her in it
your mom wasn’t one for wearing underwear
in the summer, kid
she liked ice cubes shoved up her c unt
before she was eaten out

but your mom had a kind streak back then, too
she made food for everyone
and bought random gifts
when she was drunk she liked to bum
joints from as many people as she could
and then give them to me
she’d show up at the job with lunch
when she knew that i was broke
and she drove me around when i needed to run rands
your mom stayed over a lot
she’d lay in the bed and skip work
not tell her parents where she was at
risked getting into trouble
all so a guy like me wasn’t so lonely at night
listening to the buses
as they rode up and down the avenue

but your mom was seeing someone
behind my back
she told me that she wasn’t f ucking him
but i never believed her
shit, he could even be your dad
but i doubt it
because that was a long time ago
and your thirty year-old mom
was only sixteen or twenty back then
i’m sure she went through a ton of men
before she found your dad
now, that’s not calling your mom a whore
i’m just saying that she was picky
not that i know anything about her now
or even knew anything then

your mom will be a good mom, i’m sure
she’ll take you to school and make your lunch
and dinner
she’ll love you and bathe you and read books to you
she’ll love your dad and her life
maybe you’ll even get a brother or sister in a few years
when your mom does the laundry
she’ll fold every pair or underwear that she has
and if she catches you smoking weed you better watch out
i’m sure the years have been kind to your mom
i’m sure she’s grown and matured
and hardly remembers the asshole sitting here
writing this poem about her
i’m sure i never even come up in conversation
that’s fine, kiddo
i don’t think about your mom too much either
except on days like this
where i have nothing else to think about
and the ice cubes in my drink taste a bit salty.

The Gap, Australia

#6001 Feb 2, 2013
I got a penis like a big flashlight all
full of d batteries. D’s are good. I’m
into the way they warm up when I
have seen real dim hours too long.

someone has to sally out
where women keep mace
in their fuzzy titty cup bras

what is a little spicy
in the face if she ends up
being into fresh battery acid?

the heavy duty beam requires some struggle
what more can you seek when your eyes need
to be heavy enough to focus on a long ray of light?

The Gap, Australia

#6002 Feb 2, 2013
There is no separating the
butter from those creamy cheeks.
You’ve got to go the whole stick
of thigh one black bite at a time.

Enter the warm feelings of digestion pooling on the inside.
A deadly shallow end to make you want to stick your toe in.

All that good yellow shit
smelling and flaking in the morning.
Enough to fix some popcorn in the tub.

Give each sick, hard kernel the go ahead to f uck
a new gap between your teeth to make way for The Darkness.

Take no light along.
She has got to snuff out the moon for a job.
Chances anyone shines through are slim as the fuzz
of reflected sun she shaves away with the blades of her legs.

Best to shut your eyes.
Then you’ll have something
to look for when it is morning......

The Gap, Australia

#6003 Feb 2, 2013
Two lane triumphs and Cycle
Miles traveled hardly stack up
In my memory any longer
To the later years of self-indulgent
Drug/drink-addled staring at four walls…
almost a half a century has taught me little
But that if I love it
I will lose it…

Born and raised to lead others
To Heaven I have been on the
Road to Hell for decades…
A road I have made my own
Choices to be on every step
It’s true…

A week of sobriety has not made
Anything clearer except that it is
Impossible to sleep…
I feel like I have lost that fine edge
I always carried with me and
That Gnossos Papadopolous immunity
That was always in my pocket…

I have lost my romance my rage,
My dancing has become awkward
And stiff and no longer do I
Hear the soundtrack music when I
Walk the streets…

I continue to sleep alone
When I sleep,
Begging my Angels to come back
But unwilling to bid my demons goodbye…

I remain, true to my nature,
As always,
Like the scorpion that stung the turtle
As he carried him across the river,
A heart full o gold
And a head full of sin….

Tell me when this thread is updated:

Subscribe Now Add to my Tracker

Add your comments below

Characters left: 4000

Please note by submitting this form you acknowledge that you have read the Terms of Service and the comment you are posting is in compliance with such terms. Be polite. Inappropriate posts may be removed by the moderator. Send us your feedback.

Weird Discussions

Title Updated Last By Comments
News The Latest: Strange penalty stalls Cowboys and ... 3 min Wholly Silicon Wafer 10
What song are you listening to right now? (Apr '08) 4 min wichita-rick 209,738
WHAT???? A NEW word game? FOUR WORDS (Sep '08) 16 min ImFree2Choose 45,929
A six word game (Dec '08) 20 min ImFree2Choose 20,870
Word Association (Jun '10) 28 min KNIGHT DeVINE 31,832
News Woman reveals what it's like to make love to a ... 30 min Fake news 13
Word Association (Mar '10) 36 min KNIGHT DeVINE 21,703
True False Game (Jun '11) 54 min KNIGHT DeVINE 13,403
What Turns You Off? 59 min TheJerseyDevil 77
El's Kitchen (Feb '09) 1 hr TheJerseyDevil 68,024
What turns you on ? (Aug '11) 3 hr Bad Bex 2,031
More from around the web