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The next time I killed someone in winter, I really needed to make sure I was wearing a coat, or socks at least. Jail was always colder than a brass toilet seat in Siberia.
Could I be dreaming? Because this is a lot like an erotica short I read once. All I need is at least two more guys, some zip ties, and a fifty-five-gallon drum of lube…”
Definitely a ride or die birch.
I mean, before he had forced me to torture myself all day, I would have said he could be my master. But having him see me at my weakest made me think that ship had probably sailed. Not much sexy about snot, grease, blood, and tears.
“The Great Gate. What’s so great about it? Is it better than the others?” It probably was; how could any other gate be that sexy? And so strong, and tall, reaching all the way up to the—
It was the crack of crafting, the heroin of home décor, the meth of maker spaces everywhere. “Glitter,”
“The guy that’s about to make me shave off smut and cry acid tears all day? That’s a super obvious red flag for a potential boyfriend, Sunny.”
Gates are not appropriate romantic partners!
Even his hair was more shimmery, like a raven’s wing. I was about to ask him what he used for conditioner, like the blood of Edward Cullen or unicorn jizz, when the corner of his mouth curled up in lazy amusement.
“Yeah, my vajayjay. My bajingo. My front bottom. My penis fly trap. My lady garden. My beef curtains. My—”
