What you Don't Know

It is said by the terminally smug. in a dubious attempt to stop the rabble from eating brains instead of cake, that you don't miss what you don't know. A lack of concrete knowledge of how the crease of your neck so perfectly accommodates the wedge of my face, or how the blood sings in my ears when your cock grows hard in the curl of my fingers doesn't stop me from missing it acutely.