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Once you go hockey boy, you never go back.
My mother raised me to be an unholy terror on the ice but a gentleman as soon as I take off my skates. Like a fucking Canadian should be, she’d say.
What self-respecting man jerks off to a wedding?
“Can you please try and piece together what you’re feeling and communicate it to me?”
lately I feel a little left behind. Like everyone is checking off the boxes of life, and my pencil is broken. Or I didn’t bring one to class at all.
“Your left h-hand doesn’t cut it, huh?” “It’s like buttering toast with a spoon, if that makes any sense.”
“You like the reassurance, Britta, so why shouldn’t I give you something that’s so easy? I’ve got nothing to hide, and I never will.”
“Fuck it,” he growls, spinning me around, his mouth swooping down on mine.
“Hold on, I’m apologizing for the way I’ve treated them in my dreams.”
My middle finger slides down between the cheeks of her ass and jiggles that pucker.
