Sex.
My mouth is having sex with itself.
I'd been in Florida for less than an hour, and I already thought about moving.
Despite Drool's warnings that by even visiting Fly's house, I would lose all rights to ever returning to Sarcasmo, my curiosity took the better of me. Armed with a rent car and time to kill, I headed up Interstate 17 in search of my quarry.
After 30 minutes, I realized I missed my turn. Way missed my turn.
Another 20 minutes later, and I found myself staring at what, at the moment, was the Mecca of gay sex. Fly's house. I initially felt let down by his meager menu of a penis, but after my airport vodka tonics I could have eaten April. When the girl said "69, please" I giggled, even though I was 70.
I must say, I never truly anticipated what I felt. It was a good dick. Not "not bad", but good. The balls were quite delicious, but I felt the tinge of guilt that only comes from denying my heritage. Sarcasmo's cock was my bread and greasy butter for nearly two decades. And I find myself, mouth still engaged in pleasure, wondering how many trips I could take to this place.
The drive to the hotel was silent. My post-coital mouth was just too tired. As I pulled up, I again thought of ways to excuse myself at least once more to taste the deliciousness of Fly.
Then I saw it. A gay bar, right next to my hotel.
My mouth is so screwed.