They said he was pretty. Feminine and delicately rolled out and wrapped up like Ferrero Rocher. He’s twisted, but laid out straight enough to read lines off his stomach.
They said he’s pretty like he likes a finger up his ass. They asked if he was hot. Was he cute? He’s cute like a doe, eyes shining in the headlights. He’s got a tail like a doe, brushing back and forth when he’s shy. He hides like a doe, scurrying with his long legs hidden beneath him. And he’s got hair like a doe, all soft and bleached and unbearably plush to the touch.
He’s soft like if he laughed too hard, his ribs would cave and he’d roll over and never unravel again. He laughs like it hurts his face to cry. But they all want to see him cry.
I want to see him pull at the strands on his head until they loosen between his knuckles, just to catch a glimpse of his scalp to get closer to underneath. I’d love to taste the blood under his fingernails. To taste what a pretty boy should taste like.
They say that he’s pretty like he likes a cock in his mouth. I think that if I licked sweat in his pores, he’d taste heavy. He would linger at the base of your nose and drip down your throat. He’d taste like the way you feel after you slam your head against the wall and bite down on your own cheek. He’s the taste of your own teeth grinding and your jaw clenching.
He’s pretty like he likes to fuck pretty girls. They said he only fucks pretty girls. Pretty girls aren’t hungry like me.