ode to buddy
He was one of those men with bronze forearms, sandy hair, and rugged denim
shirts rolled to the elbow and unbuttoned to the cleft between his
pectorals. A slender silver chain with a St. Christopher's medal reached
tightly around his thick neck--so taut that the medal dangled precariously
across a tight wire. His smile was all mischief, occasionally the smirk
that let you know his mind was mushy with smut as his eyes gazed at you.
More animal than man at times. More thrust than technique. Mostly just the
right cure for that achy tightness clenching in the uppermost corners of
your thighs and tummy, when you're the most horny. His name didn't matter,
he'd usually picked up a nickname at twelve. Something sly and slick, just
like him. Somtimes Tex or Buck, but usually he was Buddy. And, the name
was the only one he knew. Besides, it was easier to call that out in those
moments of quickening passion. Easy to moan, easy to gasp out. Forgotten
during the incoherent mumblings in the moments after, while everything
inside is unraveling while he sleeps above you, his sweat drying sticky and
sweet against you.
ode to buddy copyright 1995 flowerboy productions
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