There are two of them.
Seated together but apart, side by side on the sofa, naked, cocks exposed and straining.
They are not to touch — not me, not each other, not themselves — not yet.
.
Call it imagination; call it fantasy. Whatever it is, this is a scenario I build. Sometimes the details are filled in — red leather sofa, goosebumps along forearms, button-fly undone, naked torsos (or shirts unbuttoned) (or wearing fitted T’s), bare feet (or cowboy boots) (or sneakers) (or socks), their faces taking on the familiar shapes and expressions of men I’ve known (or loved) (or despised) (or fucked). Other times it is a broad-stroke impressionist perception I create, less about zooming in on the details than about the wide-lens view filled with lust and bodies and space between us and the possibilities that fill it.
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