Package-Prattle

I like a sweat-shiny-schnozz on a veiny-armed, mustang-not-grizzly-pumped-guy, who’s crotch-grabbing his own package—his own pale blue, plaid package—right up under the tea-bags, thighs thrust, smile-sneer on his panting puss.

You can hear the grunt, hear his mind-chatter—how he’s got a conversation going on off camera—with you, me, the guy, he knows is looking at him. You can hear what he’s saying to him. You can make it all out, if you just try.

All of it, he’s saying, right now, off this fat-ass- tree—fruit so saggy, they’re like big ol baby coconuts, which you’re gonna eat, cause I need you to, gotta have you guzzle up my melon balls, boy, and right now—while you’re on your fucking belly.

I will see that mouth of yours open, see it suck-ready, and before I finish this sit-up, or I will crush your head.

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