|Image borrowed from Tattoo Short List dot com|
I'm attracted to your Weirdly Handsome face. Keep smiling, please, because your ugly, rodent teeth keeps me from crushing on you further. I wonder how your dick smells like? And are you doing sit ups now? I ask you this, in my head, on account of I can't help but notice how tight your fine, fine ass has become, how pronounced, how it shouts from that pair of straight guy jeans you're wearing. It wakes me wonder how your forward thrust is like. And yes, how's your day going so far, you Weirdly Handsome darling? Did you sleep well?
Let's get this out of the way. I hardly give a, well, a fuck as to what you call those butt work outs. Homo, please. The details and inner workings of your Cruising First, Fitness Last way of life are dead to me. Your jargon have gone the way of disco. I know how you prefer dicks with biceps and a six pack, and ripped things you put in your mouth are of no interest to me. I don't give a protein-enriched shit. I call it as I see it, and I see a Weirdly Handsome Man's ass with spectacular tightness.
I was watching him walk in slow motion, for that's how he registers, and I imagine my vision buffered a bit since Weirdly Handsome here is standing next to me now. Weirdly Handsome borrowed my mirror, eeek, and he stood next to me, eeek, so he can fix his hair. This goes to show that God loves the gays, too. And His Providence is standing next to me, fixing his hair, eeek. He is far more ravishing up close, his fair skin luminous, his steely Shogun eyes looking down at my mirror while his long, slender fingers were grooming his hair until it is in perfect disorder. He's as slim as a cigarette, and his cheekbones are orgasmic. There were three pimple marks on his left cheek, one below his ear. He's been biting the nails on his right hand.
I once attended a writing workshop, and My Mistress taught us that you don't have to describe everything. I will apologize now, Your Brilliance, but I will hazard a trespass. I am crushing on his Weirdly Handsome Face, and this is making me choke my sentences with adjectives. I heard somewhere that this flowery habit is borderline criminal, as far as writing goes, but hey. Let me help myself some more now, and I will rehabilitate myself later on.
I am in awe of his Weirdly Handsome features, from his steely, Shogun eyes to his fine, tight ass and the lanky frame these gifts belong to. Have I mentioned that I'm pushing 36 this August, Dearly Beloved? And I'm still crushing on Weirdly Handsome here? How fucking tough luck lame is that? But I am crushing in secret, apparently, because the Object's awareness undoes the enchantment. And I want to sustain this strangle hold on my inner (fan) girl for as long as I can. Listen here, Dearly Beloved. I will be turning 36 this August. I've been fiercely independent for more than a decade now. I have smashed a rat's head with a hammer until I'm satisfied that it is dead. I have a right armful of tattoos, and my left one will no longer have visible skin by May this year. I braved my departure from my ten year job with hardly a sigh. And I'm still crushing on some Weirdly Handsome guy at this God Damned age.
How fucking tough luck lame is that.
Meanwhile, Weirdly Handsome's hair wax makes him smell minty old. As in pensioner old, or adult diapers old, or dried piss on brown slacks old, or Juan Ponce Enrile old and why isn't he dead yet. He's always been a delight to my eyes, this Weirdly Handsome guy who thanked me for the mirror with a flash of his rodent teeth. Meanwhile, I had no idea that he will be a pungent felony to my nose. This goes to show that God loves the gays, too. Thank you Lord. Now if he can flash those rodent teeth some more, please. I will be pushing 36 this August, and I can't keep on crushing on you no more.