My first top was an anagram for Brain. He was not especially smart but tried his best to be helpful. He advised me to accept him as if he were the morning’s first shit, pushing out to pull his fullness in.
“Just think about how hot this is,” he said.
I was eighteen, a year younger than Brain. His basement bedroom was cold, the TV in the rumpus room blaring decapitation sound effects as Final Destination 2 threaded its tape in the VCR’s mouth. I told him I was comfortable through gritted teeth until he no longer cared I was lying.
A bottom should be palpable and mute / As a globed fruit.