bronzeage
I am a river to my people
- Joined
- Jun 20, 2005
- Posts
- 49,685
That does not sound like any fun at all.
Love Letters
- Thread starter sweepthefloor
- Start date
That does not sound like any fun at all.
sweepthefloor
see jane nurse
- Joined
- May 25, 2010
- Posts
- 11,836
It is not fun. I will get back to writing love letters soon.
bronzeage
I am a river to my people
- Joined
- Jun 20, 2005
- Posts
- 49,685
Poor baby. If you need a good scrubbing, you know where to find me.
sweepthefloor
see jane nurse
- Joined
- May 25, 2010
- Posts
- 11,836
I need scrubbing for sure-
bronzeage
I am a river to my people
- Joined
- Jun 20, 2005
- Posts
- 49,685
Rubadubdub, Sweepy in the tub.
A sponge for the tender parts
and a loofah for the rest.
Lie back, smile and be flirty,
for a bath that will leave you clean,
but feeling dirty.
sweepthefloor
see jane nurse
- Joined
- May 25, 2010
- Posts
- 11,836
Love at First Suck
Where are the love letters? None this way! Some kind of love you just can't forget, and you spend your whole life trying to be silly again.
---
It is a fourteen-year-old birthday party for a- me in his attic with all our neighborhood friends, and the game is strip poker and booze. It was good times on his dirt bike, kissing his black bruised eye and swimming in the dirty lake using plastic construction material for floats.
As I kiss-ied his eye he kiss-ied my scars, and I sucked his cock with some brandy on top. We were not lovers at all, but that was the last of my loves innocence.
He wasn’t digging for nothing. I am looking for the bike scars on my calves and they are gone. Motorcycles burn the inside of the calf, and the dirt bikes scar the inside of the ankle. It must be the height difference; it must be the difference between the boy and the man. The hot summer night sheets rub the skin off and the burns don’t heal for months.
I am lost in his soft black curls and his lips I never kissed, but he is dead now so I stuff it. Sometimes I want his shirt to sleep in, but shirts are like words so fuck it, give the self nothing tangible to hold on to. It is his fault for being dead. I still kissy cock, and I don’t have any scars left.
I miss my finger in his ringlets and my mouth on his silly cock. What kind of blowjob is this? It is a funny kind of blowjob, cause he is looking at me, and I am looking at him, and I am licking it and pushing it forward with my tongue and it bounces right back to my lips. How does it do that? I am kissing his iliac crest, and the hipbone is connected to the leg bone, my mouth bone is connected to his dick bone. Am I supposed to do this without laughing? It tickles my mouth and I am looking at him, and he is looking at me and his eyes seem to darken, but they probably didn’t. It is suddenly not silly anymore. His hands find my ears and he can hardly touch me, and something happens when he comes and I don’t know what to do except take it out of my mouth and watch it, while we both watch it and my eyes grow wide and I say: that was fucking cool.
It is love at first suck and I have been blowing it ever since.
Where are the love letters? None this way! Some kind of love you just can't forget, and you spend your whole life trying to be silly again.
---
It is a fourteen-year-old birthday party for a- me in his attic with all our neighborhood friends, and the game is strip poker and booze. It was good times on his dirt bike, kissing his black bruised eye and swimming in the dirty lake using plastic construction material for floats.
As I kiss-ied his eye he kiss-ied my scars, and I sucked his cock with some brandy on top. We were not lovers at all, but that was the last of my loves innocence.
He wasn’t digging for nothing. I am looking for the bike scars on my calves and they are gone. Motorcycles burn the inside of the calf, and the dirt bikes scar the inside of the ankle. It must be the height difference; it must be the difference between the boy and the man. The hot summer night sheets rub the skin off and the burns don’t heal for months.
I am lost in his soft black curls and his lips I never kissed, but he is dead now so I stuff it. Sometimes I want his shirt to sleep in, but shirts are like words so fuck it, give the self nothing tangible to hold on to. It is his fault for being dead. I still kissy cock, and I don’t have any scars left.
I miss my finger in his ringlets and my mouth on his silly cock. What kind of blowjob is this? It is a funny kind of blowjob, cause he is looking at me, and I am looking at him, and I am licking it and pushing it forward with my tongue and it bounces right back to my lips. How does it do that? I am kissing his iliac crest, and the hipbone is connected to the leg bone, my mouth bone is connected to his dick bone. Am I supposed to do this without laughing? It tickles my mouth and I am looking at him, and he is looking at me and his eyes seem to darken, but they probably didn’t. It is suddenly not silly anymore. His hands find my ears and he can hardly touch me, and something happens when he comes and I don’t know what to do except take it out of my mouth and watch it, while we both watch it and my eyes grow wide and I say: that was fucking cool.
It is love at first suck and I have been blowing it ever since.
