I’ve always loved the feeling of a stiff, raging manhood, still caged and tamed inside white snapping underwear. I like the thrill of teasing and taunting; rubbing and gripping. It rouses me to imagine the sight and the pain. I like the absurdity of getting excited over something that looks similar than the previous ones. It doesn’t matter. What often matters is whom it was.
I want to prolong the pain of anticipation, because it’s ecstatic; addictive, even. Oh, how orgasmic to finally let lose of the beast; see it wobble and regain balance, holding itself stiff and hard, bowing, surrendering to my face as I kneel. I want to stay there for a while. Memorize the sensations.
And in odd places, I try to consume my own hunger, drowning in the cheap thrill of hiding and the possibility of getting caught any moment.
Boys write in white ink that’s easily erased. But I, in an attempt to preserve, now write our stories of lust, in black. And that’s how I was able to conceive and eventually give birth to Merla Diaries.