As I laid in this bed, "jotting" this through my phone, all I could think about was you.
Our first interaction wasn't the best as you were quite curt, telling how "short" I was in my content. You came later to tell me how underwhelming my writing was, and how I bunkered the English language.
"I advise you take two years of English Composition, lower level," you said, and I took it as constructive criticism, with a slight acidic extract, but kept my head down hoping for a breakthrough that would make you, and perhaps others, change your notion of my writtens.
"I have one way we could solve this issue," you stated.
"How," I asked.
"Let's see if what you're writing about, has any merit to it," you said.
You messaged me that last statement and I was confused. Where were you? How could we see if my writing skills had any "merit?" What would happen after we verified if what I wrote about, correlated with my performance? I pride myself on executing sex for I love it, and yes I write about it, but my passion in bed in a notch higher than what I type and share. I love the feeling of another man, whether through mouth or appendage, or if he offers himself for me to examine and plug, as it all satisfies my cravings. I'm blessed to be black, hung, and young, and active enough in my life to where I'm agile, in both the mental and physical, and when the opportunity is given, I never fall short in proving so.
"Is it that your desire is bred from what you've read," I asked.
"I think it is. No way you could do half the things you mention," you stated. "Eat an ass after you've fucked it? Cum from having your balls licked? I've yet to experience a guy with these traits.
