Below his waist was the glowing point of his essence,
but it was no more than a tiny wick,
only four fingers tall.
Yet I lit it for him,
dancing with my offering as a priest might,
my tongue for the first time steeped in the scorching heat of masculine virility,
I sucked him greedily, my tongue tingling with a strange, sour numbness...
It is now four in the morning.
Under the covers, I'm browsing my iPad,
reading The Forbidden Fruit of Adam.
Theme:
