by Edmund Colell
I love your mouth.
The firm scrub of your teeth against me.
Your tongue slobbers gobs of glee.
I love your… something… south?
*
Fuck it, I don’t know poetry. Maybe you don’t expect sweet and clever things from a wad of gum. For all the years we spent exchanging juices, I didn’t need to. Bathing your throat with natural cherry-watermelon flavor, letting you stretch me into a jump rope before you strip for cameras, popping over your face when you blow me, that all used to be enough for you. We became business partners, emphasizing your oral magic and earning your stage name, “Slutton.” Together, we’ve climbed to a level of brand recognition that maybe five other adult movie stars can claim.
Then came that taffy. The gang-bang scene at Steam Cathedral a week ago. You released me from your mouth to make room for a…
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