Inspiration is worth the price of a subscription. More, even.
Because that “green circle” Close Friends shot was just half-assed. Literally—full pictures. Him squatted down, legs spread, back arched. That image was only available for an additional donation to his PayPal or Venmo.
There have been other asses. Real asses—tasted and tongued asses. Massive, meaty asses like this one where no leg day was skipped, or smaller ones like tight globes that fit into a poem. This one is special, though. An ass meant for worship.
I get down on the cold, grimy floor and Cobra-pose myself to it—to savor, to suckle like Maureen under that swollen udder. Hands reaching under thighs like tree trunks, and back around to part the cheeks. Moses and the parting of the Red Cheeks, revealing a promised land of milk and honey. The silky, sweet hole of this beautiful Broadway dancer.
There are other asses as perfectly proportioned, sculpted by the gym as if by the gods themselves—asses of which Michelangelo himself never dared dream. But when you see him dance, the grace and passion of his sweaty movement flowing to the music makes the body so much sexier. I’d lower him off the pedestal I’ve placed him on, only to lower him onto my face.
I’d offer him my hunger like he’s the wolf with the red roses. I place my hunger on the altar, burning it like incense and sacrifice. Let that hunger consume me. The last meal of the condemned. A Last Supper. This is his body I eat.
Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world / Like a Colossus…
And I the petty man who walks under his huge legs, wait for his moment of rest. When he drops down, he traps my head beneath thighs that ripple—every muscle quivering, pushing the air from my body until I have to laugh at his whole self. It’s like I’m licking my way to oxygen, fervently, feverishly, frantically feasting upon him.
He’s younger than me (who isn’t?), but I’d attack his wholeness with the fervor of a younger man. His fountain would restore my youth. Who knew that his Instagram green circle was the treasure map by which I’d discover such booty to plunder? Or that even the dreams of that booty would jumpstart inspiration?
Doesn’t it always, though? How many hundreds of pages do I scribble in bathhouses? When I die, leave me as I lived: buried in his ass.
Future Rob: This entry was brought to you by N**********
