Speculative

It doesn’t mean what you think it does; it never does — the brief glances, the dilated pupils, the rapid breathing, and the quickening heartbeat. What you’re looking for is the flush, while what you’re receiving is the pale. He is not lying in wait, watchful, hard, desperate, clinging to the thought of cleaving you and cleaving unto you. He is trembling and wilted, manhood desecrated and unresponsive, a dangling rosary to a dead god.

Nothing about him is precious, and nothing about his touch can quench the heart of the sun, nor can his kisses spark anything. Instead, they were always sloppy, wet, some probing tongue almost demanding to be bitten, making you work harder than you’ve ever done to stifle a gag reflex blossoming more quickly than any hot house flower, turning to spoil, rotting on the vine.

He does not want you, and you don’t want him.  Why, then, the wondering how you might make it work? How you might make it beautiful? Discard it, discard him, lift your head, wash the blood off your hands, and walk away.

Never look back.

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