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January 25, 2005
His mouth's been doing all the work, and it's time for his fingers to relieve it so he'll be able to order breakfast tomorrow morning at the horrid diner he takes me to whenever I visit.

His finger glides in, and ... jesusfuckingchrist ... is that a HANGNAIL??? With each successive stroke, the tiny skin-flange seems to increase in size so that eventually he may as well be jamming a rough-barked twig in there instead of his poorly-groomed finger.

I dig my own expertly manicured fingers into his shoulder, my moans of discomfort disguised as pleasure.

Still, it's better than the diner.