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 score...save 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|