From: ubahorton@cc.memphis.edu (Roman)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.erotica
Subject: From a letter
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Date: 16 Jul 1994 09:38:59 -0400
Organization: The University of Memphis
Lines: 45
Message-ID: <308ntj$p64@amhux3.amherst.edu>
NNTP-Posting-Host: amhux3.amherst.edu
Keywords: mm
X-Moderator-Review: 6: cute, but doesn't go far enough

Archive-name: from-a-letter

(Excerpt from a letter, July 12, 1994)

I'm also sad to see them go because one of them was an example of the
perfect male body (you knew sex had to figure in there somewhere).  Oh
dear God!  About 5' 10'' and lots of meat on his body, blonde (of
course) short-cropped hair, glowing golden radiant healthy skin that
just begs to be licked, and he wears blue jeans that fall in the most
erotic way over his behind.  He has the most incredible butt I've ever
seen!  For the rest of my life my hands will never be satisfied until
they caress buttocks as beautiful as that!

I just don't think I can explain it to you.  Let's just say that Tom
Cruise and the Tommy Hilfiger model could either stand nude in front
of me or go jump from the Empire State Building and I wouldn't care as
long as I could have this guy.

The morning they were leaving he came to my door to tell me something
clad only in boxers.  I _seriously_ nearly came in my shorts.  My mind
was preoccupied for hours afterward.  I was so seriously overcome that
had he said, "Listen, I want you to touch me in ways that no one else
has ever touched me; take me now!"  I still wouldn't have been able to
move.

But his chest!  Oh his chest!  I could write a twenty page ode to his
chest!  Smooth, robust, muscular, just slightly defined and cut,
perfect for rubbing baby oil all over and... and... oh God, grant me
his chest... and his sides!  Don't forget the sides: the way they
slope down into his hips and thick thighs!  Please, please, please!  I
want him!  I want him for Christmas or my birthday... hell, I want him
for Easter or Groundhog's day, in the middle of a hot sweaty August
day or to warm me up in a snow storm in January.  We could roll in
leaves in November.  I could rub mud on his flesh in spring, crown him
with flowers, and bathe him in a stream.  Morning, noon, and night.
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  In a cramped telephone booth.  In an
open field in the rain.  Under a car in a greasy garage.  On the
slopes of an Aztec pyramid -- he could be my Sun God.  I would worship
his hands, pray to his face, feel his body, taste his neck, swim in
his clear watery eyes, burn at the touch of his lips, keep time by the
beat of his heart.  Is that too much to ask?
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