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| lyrics, transition, teeshirthell.com, speech, spanish, pregnancy, costa rican, 1930s, serbia, news weekly, watch my life, photo, gigglechick.com, velvet acid christ music song lyrics, beck, m, your, bc, piercings, seattle, | along the side of his face and neck where they will rise from within independent and someday make sense. You inhale the smell independent of his rakish cologne, feel the rough of his hasty shave. But among these man-made independent smells there is the smell of something salty and damp. You are tuned to the smell of sweat on the skin of his scalp and his neck. Is this the closest we come to cannibalism, you wonder? In the next instant you want nothing more than to stand in the shower and take in his breath—the taste of salmon and salad and a vinaigrette dressing. You are not content to make love to the water. Because with your senses awakened so is your power of analysis. You are seeing, feeling, hearing. You are processing. Now it doesn’t make sense. Now it does. So, you wish the man to step in the shower and enter you from behind and you want the water to flow. The man will say something about the moon and his lawn and how he wants to fuck you under the stars, and enveloped by the affectionate smells of antibiotic soap and talcum powder you follow him. |
Best Mature Paysites
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| To your surprise you discovered the son—Damien? Josh? You try to remember if gigglechick.com the man has mentioned a name—is a Berkeley dropout with a Muslim wife (the man draped a paper napkin over his head at this point), who mans a flower kiosk at a Los Angeles mall. My Ephraim and his Fatima, man and wife, Jew and Muslim, that’s how I raised them, the man said. Me and my late Olga raised them to tolerate, not to ride trains without tickets, he lamented. And you wonder about the relationship gigglechick.com between his late gigglechick.com wife’s tolerance for pain, his tolerance of a daughter-in-law’s headscarf, your tolerance for the stories replaying themselves with a hard cock in hand. And only because he has stopped talking about serial fucking on the house’s various couches—somehow now this word tolerance seems like a noble word, a word you have hung your coat of hope on as a lonely homosexual—right then you want to hold the man, in a selfish way, like you can find some part of him to keep in your wallet, somewhere to bury your thoughts |
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