Ab-Stroke

Candle-tallow-tan—the lower lip’s full, sensuous, like the nose. The fleshy ears max the sideburns of his circa fifties cut with it’s circa eighties mousse-job.

The clothes are just-post-adolescence. The pink rocks his skin tone.

I dig that his skin has taken a few punches. It gives his look a been-there-seen-that emanation, different from the slender bod with its coltish legs and nicely developed, though uncut shoulders, with their notice-me-ink, the uncut, youthfully hallow abs.

His hand on that shallow-sexy-bowl of stomach, right above the cloudy-blue wedge of his undies, above the bleached aura of his male-bulge, how it makes him his own lover, how it looks like he’s just discovered it, like he has to show me the gentleness needed for when I get down there between those lithe legs—for when I look up at him, eyes dancing randily when I stroke that belly—it’s all delicious.

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