raspberrycordiality:He’s a little vanilla. “Kink” is definitely a four-letter-wo
raspberrycordiality: He’s a little vanilla. “Kink” is definitely a four-letter-word in his vocabulary. Compared to some of the other men I’ve dated–”dated” has such a civilized formality, let’s say “tasted”–compared to some of the other men I’ve tasted he’s not a little vanilla, he’s full-on, unscraped, just-plucked bean. He has no piercings, no tattoos. He hasn’t any vengeful ex-lovers, he’s never gone on a bender that he’ll randomly remember with both relish and regret, he’s never had to have a blood test, he’s never cleared his browser history. I’m not sure I could say why, why him. Him rather than them. But he’s all mine. My bean. It’s definitely more than merely his physicality, but I can’t deny he’s so, well, nutritive. Nothing mere about it. The perfect distribution of hair on his chin and jaw, just the right amount of evolution. Lips soft enough to have some give to them and firm enough to push back. A double-digit dick. If he were just (and I trust you to hear the irony, to see it dripping there like saliva) a straight-acting top with a double-digit dick and buttery lips I doubt I’d care so much about keeping him, especially given how shy he is, how he shies from the meanest little sexual suggestion. Maybe I love him, I’m not sure. I suspect it requires poetry, and I’m not much of a poet. He forces me to be creative, forces me to poetry. Forces me. Perhaps that’s it. Like the watch I bought him for his birthday. Plain sloping curves, stainless matte steel that doesn’t reflect that much and a black leather band with the barest hint of shine. The dial was the shade of white I’d consider “eggshell,” it was a tick away from being sterile and thus was all sorts of fecund. Hatch marks instead of numerals; they reminded me of the button holes on the cuffs of all his dressy shirts arranged on his closet rod by color starting from the R in Roy to the V in Biv. Clean and simple. Just like him. My bean thinks that clothesline rope is what you hang your laundry from on a sunny day. He’s never stepped foot inside a PetSmart. He considers a creative use of handcuffs is as a prop on Law and Order. I’m certain he would go to his grave pleased as punch never knowing what a Jennings gag is. But every morning he goes to his jewelry box and he picks up the watch, the watch I gave him, my watch, and he fastens it to his wrist. He slides the leather strap through the buckle and he threads the clasp. He wears the watch all day long and doesn’t take it off until he comes home to me. He wears the watch and over the course of the day the band leaves an indent around his wrist that barely fades away by the time he wakes up the next morning. He does this all without having to be told to. I never knew how savory a flavor vanilla could be. hngh(I’d write something longer about how I just got myself off to a picture of a watch, but honestly, in and of itself that’s old hat, and would be a bit dog-bites-man. The remarkable thing is really that I just got myself off reading a description of a picture of a watch.) -- source link
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