In response to us imagining me in his arms. My instinct is to ask whether he’d take advantage of me.
Do you really think so?
Do you mean it?
Category Archives: strangers
Oh, okay.
I guess that puts me in my place.
At least I go out of my way not to leave guys hangin’.
To the boy who should fuck me.
[The gift he gave me.]
But isn’t nice, sometimes, to think so? To daydream romantically and not simply sexually? This has appeal. Even for emotionally irresponsible, selectively idiotic dimwits like me.
The afternoon barista at the coffee shop I regularly go to always says hi to me. They all do — I’m a regular — but his hellos are particularly sweet. His biceps are also sweet. And his face is especially sweet. The tight suggestion of his butt and the smooth, private clutch of that hole between those cheeks… And yes. His eyes when they look at me, and even when they’re not looking.
It’s nice to think that I, too, might be sweet. To him, or anyone. Or at least some part of me. It’s nice to think that I might walk into a room and make someone’s life a little brighter for seeing me. Continue reading
On fucking Republicans. Feel free, Bro […]
— to make up your mind.
Really.
No, no. Really. Take your time.
Meanwhile, I’d probably let you fuck me while we wait for you to choose a clear stance. I say that genuinely. Why else would I be following?
Because I love getting fucked by fratty white bro Republicans — Bi, straight, “straight,” alien, inanimate, whatever — with suspicious views on race and the economy, views I’d never be caught dead agreeing with by day. [And they, I’ve learned, love fucking the hell out of me.] Because I love how disgusting and rough and hateful it feels. I love winning the argument and losing in bed. I love that it soils our political spirits. I’m not talking about log cabiners, who aren’t as enticing. I’m talking about straight-up closet hetero Republican freaks who are, (not) surprisingly, often remarkably good lays. Continue reading
This is Intimacy.
mystery Man
One of my favorite things about NYC is the subway.
I love long train rides during which I get to feel like a part, however small, of the other commuters’ lives. I love peering in on conversations, surveying what everyone else is reading, learning the curves of peoples’ faces and bodies, the ways the hold themselves up, the ways they pass the time… feeling like I know something about the people I’m with. I love feeling like a silent observer whose distance is a part of the scene; part of the action, but not in it, part of something, but not of it.
I love feeling like there’s an “Us” that I’m somehow a part of, even if only for 45 minutes. The same complaining “us” being made late to dinners or meetings, the “us” who all can’t stand the sound of the one man snoring, who make eyes across the aisle in understanding, the “us” all politely vying for a seat. Sharing time and space with others and becoming “we”: this is intimate, to me.
As you might guess, this is made all the more exciting in the presence of a beautiful man.
BrooklynFaggot 
