Boys from the Bay

I like doting on men.
Saying sweet shit like I don’t ever need anything else but you and making them poetry, and stories and songs and doing all of the stupid and specific sex shit they like and acting all vulnerable and innocent and pleasant and letting them fuck me whenever and wherever they want to in public or otherwise because I don’t care what anyone else thinks but them and standing behind them and never checking up on them and screaming their praises at the same time to anyone who will listen to me and wearing shirts around with their faces on them or their names on them all proud of them whether they call me their girl or not while not telling them that they are pretty and their bodies make me want to faint and sending them semi nudes to their phones while they are at work and buying them things they mention in passing that they really like and taking them places in town, on planes, across the seas and fixing them soup when they are so sick from some simple shit that would not phase me at all and getting them fat and comfortable, and lazy and happy and dependent no matter how long it takes.
And I yearn for the day that they are so satisfied that they are unsatisfied again and frustrated somehow and feel emasculated all of a sudden and need something more and different than what I have and who I am and that’s when I fuck them like I just met them two minutes ago, with every single part of me brand new to the smell and the look and the touch and taste and even my reactions are being taken in for the first time and as soon as they go to cumsleep, resolute to be mine for just a little while longer only to see just what other tricks I might have up my fucking sleeves, I slit their fucking throats, peel their skin off, and bake them like chicken in my hearth, every time.

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