The thing I love most about a man are our differences.
His larger frame, its broadness. A canopy under which I may take refuge.
His muscles are hard and heavy. A distinct counter point to the suppleness of my own.
The hair scattered about his body softly scrapes against me like long beach grasses.
His beard marks my soft face like a gentle slap.
His sweat is salty mixed with earthy scents: cedarwood, bay rum, bergamot, and black pepper.
His cock the pole on which I impale my softness is the hardest of all, a totem of his man-ness. His strange and different musculature, his jawline, and Adam’s apple.
All of this foreign being is wrapped in skin not unlike my own, possibly a different shade, but warm and throbbing all the same. Filled with the same color blood, the same color passion.
His lips are pliable just like mine; tasty.
His voice catches as I press him to his limits, touch him just so.
His climax grows and breaks upon the shore with a crash and simmer that I know all too well.
The shaking of his limbs, the tremble, match my own as we feverishly slam against one another, our destination marked and nearing.
The thing I love most about a man are our similarities.
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