Sensitive Gay Guy
The sensitive face of the shy kid, grown up, the eyes—a bit red. They’re looking up. Are they beseeching? Are these the features of an introvert? The skin is a lovely—milk chocolate and honey, while the eyes and hair are ebony. Brows and lips?—they’re voluptuous, definitely.
The quiet man in the background, waiting to be noticed—I peg him, decisively. So, I think. Then I see it. I pan down with the camera. Not that it leaps out. It isn’t meant to, though it’s supposed to be noticed, certainly. It’s there, on the tee shirt; Abercrombie and Bitch—the logo, just a little snotty and brilliantly stealthy. Aha, a quiet brat, I think. Better yet, a slightly twisted intellect, perhaps.
If I’m right, and lucky, this one would happily send me lewd texts over lunch, call me in the wee hours of the morning with a play by play monologue, describing every article of clothing as he disrobes, followed by every action thereafter. He’ll play with his dick. I’ll play with mine. We’ll come, hard, then make a date to come even harder in person. I can’t wait.
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