He's a bit gnarly.  Cheap tattoos, dirty fingernails and a cigarette stuck to his bottom lip.  Gamy.  Messy.  Fun.  Why do I care?  I think, he provokes my nurturing side.  I think I developed crush seeing his shorts riding low on his narrow, long naked torso.  Perhaps, I detect a silver lining in his body odor?
     I want to scrub him hard, until he emerges from my bathtub with a clean slate.  I want to run his blood through a coffee filter...fix his credit him from himself.  I think he knows this.  The stupid grin on my face speaks volumes.  I'm sure he has noticed my eyes stuck on the promising lump in his lap.

That would explain a lot.

     That would explain why his shower at home is always broken, needing to use mine.  His conversations on my couch about punk culture, wearing only a towel.  His detailed stories about the chicks he fucked, complete with subtle demonstrations.  The promising lump in his lap growing from his recollection.
     Parting his thighs, his stench intoxicated me; bringing the floor to my knees.  Gamy.  Hairy.  Hung.  I don't remember how I got between his legs.  I don't remember how my throat got filled with cock.  I awakened to his balls bouncing on my tongue.  My eyes were barely open to see him shoot across my shoulder, face and opened mouth.  He's a bit gnarly.
     Using the towel from his shower, he cleans the cum from his belly.  Why is it, clarity often follows the orgasm?  Before I could wash my face, his voice killed my fantasy, "Hey, you think you could help me out?"

'Carbon Copy' by Terry Smith

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