I can't explain it to you, man. Those of us who live in free states have a whole other appreciation of smoking weed and being a horny gay dude. You think it's not that big a deal until you live in a need to weed lifestyle. Socially and on the down low and the one-night lover and the dirty pervs. Everybody tokes; the doors open, walls fall, skin gets a friction sparking.
Not like electro-stim, but electric skin. Hips and ass and eyes and mouth. On you. Just you. A little more smoke and you've got kalaidoscope levels of desire. Cock is stone, but electro-pulsing with the taut throb of blood stiffening your cock.
Black pink red lips parting to envelope your cockhead in the wetness of wanting. Wanton and wilding. Every atom streaming. "Fuck me."
Anyway, being in a free state, there are a lot of pretty, pretty boys I call friends. With benefits. Guys on their own or with dull roomies who never seem to fuck enough. What's the point? You settle. Smoke a bowl and get naked and easy. I can do this, you know.
It's Hollywood, right? The beautiful men just hanging out, going walk-about, being cruised. The right combination of sativa and indica and every fuck is sublime, hot nasty and camera ready. I can't explain it to you.
Everyone's at an audition or going or cuming. Heavenly creatures and angelic demons, lots of sluts, What you'd expect. No, it's not like that. But there's a lot of cock about. Ripe and a bit ripe, Ready for a fuck and deposit: lips, ass, fingertips, gloves.
People in the night emerge -- like Storm Riders -- dressed in the freshest fetish for the evening. Mostly rigid cock or pouting lips. Or both. Excess of dirtyness overflowing like blackening smoke from the tip of your cock like a jinn. A filthy-mouthed whispering at your ear. "Let's fuck me. You and me. Let's just fuck me now."
Where is that perfect little femme boy? Slim and trained to pleasure? Adult enough, young enough still to keep your cock at attention. "Let's just fuck me now. Then again."
Smoking some righteous boo, just between two. Your minds will have stripped off your clothes and your cocks will be sweating. "Yeah. Let's."
A lot of guys live in houses just across the sidewalk from the beach. Been like that from the 1950s they say. Why not? Fit tanned bodies, surfer juked faces in dark glasses. The whole tribe from Sunset and Palm Springs pay a fortune to rent these palacios de California Sud and pluck svelte gay beach strollers. The strut or writhe up and down the small esplanade above the sands. A lot of guys don't wear revealing g-strings and male-kinis when they sprawl across the beach. Like slim envelopes of flesh waiting to blossom; to release their musky scent; to spew pollinate in gobby white geysers.
