Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. I’m here, aren’t I? Like, I’m here. I’m doing this and I have a reason…somewhere. I know you’re supposed to think I’m beautiful, and I know I’m supposed to think so too, for now. Your mother probably had you believe that no girl really wants to have sex, and thus you think you have to talk her into it. You have to make her feel special. But see, I’m not your mother’s daughter. At least I hope not. Gross.
And what does it mean, beautiful? I guess a lot of girls are beautiful when it’s dark and their heads are all the way down there, aren’t they? Aren’t they all?
While you’re not talking, don’t ask me if I know how long you’ve wanted this. I don’t. And don’t ask me what I’m thinking. If I were thinking, there’s maybe a ten percent chance I would be here. Let me for once not think about what happened before this and what will happen next. Let me be in the moment. But if there’s a god, for his sake, do not say anything that includes the words “in the moment.”
Tell me I have great tits. Tell me you like the smell of sweat. These are small things that I can believe and I will believe them more if you show me, and believe me. All I want is to believe. Show me how you stroke your cock when you wake up in the morning and you have a little time. And show me how you like me and how you like me to to touch you and how much you want to touch me.
I’m saying: feed me cock. Not lies.