Yeah, this started out as a poem, but it just couldn't get there, y'know? Plus, I'd rather write as though I were telling a story for this one. But, here it goes.
Oh god, I had a lovely time last night. The best fucking time. I don't care how much my friends tell me I'm a fucking whore. It was amazing and beautiful and lovely and I have the scars to prove it. Let me tell you, this guy I know, Jason, has a way with his mouth. He's just so good with his mouth. Knows exactly what to do with his tongue, no matter what part of your body he puts it on. Sweet fucking friction though, oh my god. He's still so big it hurts (Jesus fucking christ eight and a half inches and wide too that shit rips you in half, there's a reason he calls it Vlad the Impaler) but goddamn, I'm getting a little used to it now. After the first thrust it ain't half bad, but with each and every time the boy moves his hips you feel the energy rippling through the tangle of intestines, up through your chest, and right into your neck. And when he scratches my back, oh god. Leaves the best little red marks and doesn't stop until the little drops of blood come. Always really polite too, asks if you're into it before he does anything. The line of bruises along my collarbone too. I love going home at the end of the night smelling like cheap cologne and cigarettes and his sweat. It's actually a little comforting. He doesn't even mind when I bite, or wrap my fingers in his hair. Lovely, lovely Jason. Dear god, last night was epic.
Long story short: Sex is delightful.
Okay bye.
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