Potrillo

I don't even know his name. But is enough to see his number showing up in my cellphone screen at 2:00am to get me salivating and my crotch aching. When that cloth of flesh draps over me, so beautiful in its manly perfection, its manhood proudly pointing upwards with the snob "stiff upper lips" sort of attitude, it's fingers pushing and separating, preparing an aching body to be unrelently, unnerving in its intensity and elating in its tenderness to be ploughed, ready to sow and reap, such a beautiful, long and maddening fat member in such a beautiful body of a man that expects and demands, it feels as big inside as its owner body towering all over me, while he speaks of how good it feels, of nasty words said with the greatest tenderness, with the eagerness to please, to respond and demand answers from a body that up until him, just never enjoyed such pleasures, "let it go" he'll said, and I will, while I get a fix on whatever I can grasp my hands to while allowing myself to enjoy what I wasn't meant to, to let me drive for him to that point that triggers such a rapture, both staggering on the cause of it and the intensity.