She’s back.
The real mic.
The one that growls low in the throat
like lust denied too long.

This isn’t chrome—it’s flesh and fire,
stitched leather like skin across muscle,
tank curved like the hip of something
you shouldn’t touch in daylight
but do anyway,
because restraint is a lie the timid tell themselves.

She’s not a machine—
she’s a reckoning.
Three cylinders wide and mean,
each piston a gospel of power
spat out in torque and thunder.
You don’t ride her.
You surrender.

The backup was a whisper,
a polite nod in a room full of hunger.
But this—
this is the sound of blood waking up.
Of bones remembering
they were made to move fast
and ache later.

I’ll mount her,
feel the low idle roll through my thighs
like the voice of God
if God were drunk and angry
and beautiful.

The road will open like skin beneath a blade,
and I’ll ride—
not to escape,
but to become something harder,
hotter,
more alive than men were meant to be.

There is no destination.
Only this hum,
this heat,
this storm named Rocket
between my legs,
begging for the sin of speed.

S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Apr 7, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1909033124732006611?t=Xv4w1J-gDFOX75Iv9hkRjQ&s=19

https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2790