It took a few seconds for Phil to notice that he had called Clint his, and he let the perfect fit of it sink in. There was a gaping pit in his stomach as he saw a message icon appear on his dashboard, and he clicked it with something close to dread working over him. When I was this kids age, hot guys like him never talked to me.
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It took him three tries to type his phone number correctly, his fingers were shaking so badly, but he did it. Me and my friend need some gas. May jaw dropped. With one hand he gripped the pump, and with the other hand he held up his sweatshirt. It was the most beautiful dichotomy, this contrast between the earnest hope of a boy looking for a Daddy in the body of a fully-fledged man. He wanted Clint and dirty pictures and lewd messages and long, quiet cuddles. I was speechless as he used my hand to stroke his thick meat. He looked up at my face, seeing the hunger in my eyes as I watched his hand go up and down his veiny shaft. My eyes went right outside to pump 9.
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I could see him laughing at me and my fascenation with his perfect physique. His hand soon met the waistband of his sweatpants. He realized right as he hit send, and he spent the next few minutes paralyzed by fear that Clint would somehow see through his TheSuit username and default blog theme straight to the old, boring man underneath.
He looked up at my face, seeing the hunger in my eyes as I watched his hand go up and down his veiny shaft. He was good with words when he had long minutes to compose them and press backspace on the ones that showed too much.