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Feb 01

blips

the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy is
sitting in his bedroom, on the edge
of his bed, his feet on the floor,
saying, kind of quietly, kind of
whispered, but kind of right outloud,
“sorry for the apple pie.
sorry for the cream puffs. sorry for
the cum stain on the rug. sorry for
the beer. sorry for the wine.
sorry for the whiskey.”
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
has a full thick raging hardon,
and he is gently tugging on his
big thick dick, as he says,
“sorry for the toothbrush. sorry
for the amaretto cupcakes. sorry for
the D on the biology test. sorry
for the time i came in michael’s
hair.” the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
wriggles his toes into the fibers of his
nice thick rug, and he tugs on
his big hard dick some more,
and he says, “sorry for
the airplanes. sorry for
the war machines. sorry
for the dissolution of
hopes, dreams, and aspirations
of greatness.”
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
is tugging faster, he knows
he’s about to cum, knows he’s
about to go into elctro-convulsive
spikes of shock as his cum goes
spurting out the peehole of
his big thick purple dickhead.
“sorry for the pentagrams on
the livingroom wall. sorry for
the watercress sandwiches. sorry for
the lion languishing in the
city zoo. sorry for the
pace of traffic, the sincerity
of useless desire.” and at
this moment,
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
starts spurting cum, and
it goes all over his sexy smooth
chest and flat taut belly
and dribbles into his
pubic hair and he stares
up at the ceiling and
pants and gasps with
the sheer electro-joy-jolt
of his extremely excellent
high-voltage orgasm and
then he says,
“sorry for the
pumpkin pie. sorry for the
turkey. sorry for the
methodology of
disgestion. sorry for
the horsehair in the
dead old pillows.”
then,
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
stands up, wipes the cum off of himself
with an old t-shirt, tosses
the t-shirt into
the laundry basket,
and greets the rising sun
with a wink, a nod,
and a
daub of spit, aimed
accurately at
the wall behind
his bed. “bullseye,”
he says.
“sorry.”

–Carl Miller Daniels

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