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For Sandra Yes, I want to talk at length about my semen. Or my ejaculate. Or my wad as you so lovingly put it. All right then. I'd like to mention my load. Pearlescent. Stringy and radiant when the light hits it like the moon in its full glory. Rigid, I create jewelry each day. The life inside it like a colony. Vigorous bits of slick to-the-touch-stuff that quickly turns sticky. Poppy milk without the poppy. The gobs of vanilla pudding. Elastic strands like silken rubber in your hand. It's important you feel it freshly warm, understand the texture isn't watery at all, but viscous. That I don't unravel or dribble between my legs. Rather, I absolutely geyser, yes I gush from some not so deep center-- like a Texan oil well with its deposit just below the surface, or better, like a coked-up bartender madly mixing White Russians in a cocktail shaker who suddenly looses its top. Still with me? Oh I know, sweetie, I'm waxing on, but ride it out if you will. I find the substance engaging. In fact, I'd like to stroke my fingers again and again across my quill and write a poem across the wall. "A Poem of Manhood" Would you find that intriguing? Words inked in semen. But no, not semen alone, I told you. If semen is thicker than water, then cum is thicker than sister- hood. And the way it is alive! Sparkles. Wriggling microscopically like electrolyte. From the first translucent drop of white to the pearly spray that comes later. Oh, did I mention taste? Well you’d say salt. But think milder. Savory. But lighter. An intoxicating musk from a bustling, Arabic bazaar. Viking pale, virile, and oh so distinctly male. Post a comment in response: |
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