Socks

Here's a fun experiment - free-flow of thoughts with disregard to grammar from a perspective that isn't your own. I'm picturing, personally, a really tall, quiet, perhaps not too attractive and very rural looking guy with big, rough hands and a penchant for violence - what do you think?

___She's lying down next to me on the bed with her soft white skin all bare and glistening with sweat. I can hear her breathing and it's that deep, rumbling, contented purr that women get sometimes when the sex is good. It's a dangerous kind of breathing because women think an orgasm means eternal love half the time, and I reckon that's about what's going through her head the way her fingertips are slowly tracing up and down my forearm. It kindof tickles, kindof snags those coarse dark hairs that look primal next to her smooth porcelain flesh.
___I don't like this petting business, makes me feel a bit like a dog, which ain't right because she's the one with the dog look in her big brown eyes. It's a pleading hungry look, a sad desperate animal look, a sniveling seeking affection look. I really don't like that; it means she expects me to say something sappy-sweet now, like I love her, and give her one of those tacky little kisses on the forehead that women get all stupid about.
___Me, I'm just wondering how long I can keep this up before she goes from puppy love to snarling bitch and kicks me out of her apartment, me hallway-standing like a damn fool in my boxers with a ball of clothing in my arms, her howling like a banshee while the neighbors make no effort to politely look away.
___Probably won't get both of my socks back, never do. Lonely single gals like her, they probably have a whole heap of lonely single socks in their apartment, all different kinds of socks from all different kinds of men. Because they're just hoping to find a pair of socks that'll stay for more than just the night.