Initially my plan was only to complain about the same old type of man, who couldn't plan to get his pants off fast enough for me, or was that his agenda, my dilemma, exhaustion in the same old stale piece of bread in a restaurant basket being recycled to me. Alas, he's a thing of the past and my one venture is to stress, my heart is not pent up in rage about the has-beens or their cousins, but to focus on the many men who don't have to try, whose witticism, criticism and cynicism come to them naturally. The way I would in the middle of the night, waiting for the rhythmic sounds of your breathing to caress the parts of you already undressed, and awaken you with my mouth, or my hand and take command like a captain at the helm and slowly steer you about. The grind of my hip, the flick of my tongue, a bite from my mouth, or suckle from my lip, and sleep tonight you will do without, at least for another few minutes. But that's another story or chapter we can explore at another time. The lack of pretension did I fail to mention is what draws me in, closer still if there's an attraction between me and the man I want to be molested by, feel ingested by. Arms so safe and warm the snooze button would be found under the bed, but alas I needn't turn the alarm on.
My hat goes off to the hard-working, truly sexy men. Not the 'no-where-to-go-boobs' who carry their little headphones to match their little cell phones and sport their little pens in hand with no plan. Or the way they wear all their labels face front. It's all a front we can see miles away like the storms given names that pass just the same. Give me the suit sulking over his briefs and I'll keep it brief how I'd love to explore his shorts or even more go over his dictation thoroughly. Give me the construction worker who's too polite to hoot when I walk past, as his friends push him, "Aw, go on." I'll hoot myself as I have at officers and firemen with their brawn.
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