Manny called last night.
Long time no hear, he said.
Yes, indeed, I said. What have you been doing?
Nothing much, he said. That's the problem.
Me either.
He wanted me to go over there.
Practically the one night, in the last month, that I'd smoked dope - thanks Tom - and I couldn't drive. Wouldn't you know it.
Glen had bought Manny Calvin Klien underwear and insisted on Manny modelling them, for him, when Manny said he didn't want them, because they were the wrong size.
Sick fucker, he'll do anything to get Manny out of his pants.
I thought small wouldn't fit, but they fit fine. I tried them on after Glen left. Manny's voice turned husky, I'd model them for you, if you came over. I've got a big bulge in them, I'm adjusting it now.
He knows I've got a thing for guys in underwear, he knows which of my buttons to push. But it was 23.00 and I just couldn't drive.
3 comments:
O powerful, thirsty, hungry games men play... I think (better: I'm sure) that's why I like/love/adore them so much.
(After reading the text I desperatly needed a glass of water. I wonder why.
And you, dear Christian, must be a hell of a teaser... (Not that I mind, not at all). :-)
We tease each other.
Touché!...
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