Greg40 has earned his comma.
And my body is responding.
My penis throbs. The memories of those lost in wars past, school shootings, political terrorism: they all live on in my unrelenting erection. Every middle school flag flown at half-mast is done justice as the juices rush through my yearning member. Twitching in the evening wind. Reaching ever upward. Thick with veins running blue as the Montana skies. It calls out to people like a restored church steeple on Sunday morning. They come from miles around. Each pulse ringing the truth of God's work. And the Word is good. The Word is Greg. A meaningful droplet of seminal fluid moistens the head.
My scrotum hangs. The skin, freshly sheen like a sheep in summer's heat, droops smooth and mature. Childlike with the hard earned wisdom brought only by age. As I walk up his driveway, my sack keeps the rhythm. Each step celebrated by the sound of scotch tape carefully removed from a birthday present - a thoughtful child hoping to reuse the wrapping as wallpaper on her new doll house. The shiny ballbag sticks to my leg. But only for the slightest moment. It swings like a rusty pendeulum on a grandfather clock much needing service. My tween carriage glistens with sweat while my leg remains dry - insulated by a thick nest of transitional body hair. A boy in a man's world.
My balls are stretched taught. Enjoying the cool nighttime air. Full of my seed. Destined to be sown on a barren landscape. Beautiful destitude. I've been saving for this. The world is asleep. Greg's living room window pane is a harsh environment. My massive ejaculate globs in lifeless streaks, save the solitary rope stretching its way to the flowerbed below - ready to return home bringing life to the soil. God's circle. Greg's doormat, rough and used, proves equally unforgiving. My semen pools thick like bacon drippings. Ready to soften with the rising sun. Greg's couch, the scent of his manhood alive in the cushions, proves a willing partner. Dancing fast. The third number ends before the dance is over. Thick ropes, their existence summoned from depths unknown, sink, lost between the cushions. A happy surprise - more than spare change down the road. A clock slowly ticks in a nearby room. This is the moment. He now slumbers below me. The satin sheets steadily rising and falling with each breath. Instinctively, my breath syncs with his. I climb in. Spent but ready. Spoons. His eyes are closed but his heart is open.
