February 2012
1 post
You’re supposed to come slap me around and squeeze me til I stop breathing (and therefore crying) and tell me to quit being such a faggot with kisses. Five minutes. Then I’d be giggling, minus the black eye and multitude of skin carvings, and you’d be back home with your favourite boyfriends and your video games.
Oh, it’s nothin’ but a goddamn shame is what it is.
January 2012
50 posts
He becomes “my Man” more and more as each day passes, spent always curled up on his lap, in his bed or fitted into the spaces of empty air surrounding one side of his figure as we take our places upon the throne that is his couch. Many come by through the days, all the while we occupy our thrones, stoned and cuddly, entertaining guests as he hand makes every food item I ever eat these...
