was it luxuriously shiny, cascading down his hockey jersey to his asstight black jeans in ripples like the powerful sea? did his equally powerful manarms sweep you into a passionate embrace, bountiful bosoms (his, not yours) heaving with desire? did your tongue search his mouth for chewed up bits of hot dog, passing sensuously through the gaps from his missing teeth? it sounds hot. go mo.
i went to the goth winter ball last night. it was great. i was donning vintage hermaphroditism and got a silly picture taken of me falling out of my friend's arms and shouting at the cameraman. this among lugubrious (i can't get enough of that word) solo poses of sad skinny boys in black.
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it sounds hot. go mo.
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mic, my one and only dear sweet mic: you are the queen of the macabre.
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