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Q IS FOR QUARANTINE
Saxon Boulevard
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Kneeling behind me Travis runs a digit along the inner length of my thigh, drawing a faint line between knee and nuts. I shiver before flushing with heat and feel moved to speak, but instead of letting the words tumble from my mouth I hold on, wrapping my tongue around the dancing letters to keep them at bay. Words feel so unnecessary as we begin to communicate in new ways. A thumb moves in small circles across my perineum; a hypnotic dance of miniature proportions. Nothing else matters. A long groan reverberates from my throat before making its way to my chest. His soft hand now grips onto my hanging balls and with a gentle tug I feel the swell of pleasure ripple from the inside out. Soon, his tongue is slapping at my hole and I see God.
F is for Flushing. This morning I wake to the sound of the flushing toilet. Still recovering from my big night out, I've slept in later than usual. Standing by the open refrigerator, Kevin is swigging milk from the carton, the impression of bed sheets etched into his skin. There's a wet patch on his navy-blue underpants. I've never known a person to be so completely comfortable with their body, and its various functions.
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