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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 3h

Marc plays hockey. One time, I go watch him, at the arena. I can't really see him, inside all his gear. I hope he doesn't see ME, in the stands. There aren't many people here, but it's not well lit; cold and gloomy, kind of depressing, but you sip your cocoa (you get at the snack bar) and watch.
❄️🏒♥️

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 3h

His name is Danny, Marc's brother. There's a field behind their house, with tall grasses and wildflowers growing in it, beneath steel hydro towers that look like giant robots, walking.
Cain killed his brother outside, was it with a rock? I think Marc and Danny would be very beautiful in their field.

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 3h

Marc's at the bathroom, and his younger brother comes in. He calls me a f*g—very calmly, quietly; he's younger than I am (by two years?), but very sure of himself. His eyes are cold, they don't change. He really doesn't like me. I didn't think he knew me. He won't hit me, but I know he'd like to.

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 3h

Marc and I are doing an astronomy project together: making a model of the planets. We're working on it in his bedroom. (His house is in a cul-de-sac.) It's raining, on a Saturday afternoon in the fall. One time, Marc pulled his jeans down, to play tennis, but he was wearing tennis shorts underneath.

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 3h

Some of the guys at school wear jackets like Titus's (with stripes on the collar and cuffs), only they're black and orange. You have to play sports to wear these jackets—to be a real boy, not a f*g.
Marc M. wears one of these jackets. He has light-brown hair, fine and wavy. And braces on his teeth.

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 22h

A sweet little bluebird has come to keep my company, on the windowsill. It's so friendly, it's letting me stroke it, its tiny head, with a finger pad, and its soft, café-au-lait breast feathers, with the back of my index.
The porridge has grown quite cold and congealed, on the equally cold stovetop.

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 22h

Ayden is still sound asleep.
In my arms last night, he seemed to experience such deep delight and relief—sighing, and even PURRING at times, rolling his head back on my shoulder (I was spooning his torso, half sitting up)—that I have to wonder how long it's been since anyone's TOUCHED the poor boy.

1

bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 22h

At St. Stephen's, you have to light a blue votive candle, it's the only colour they have.
I like to see Titus in different-coloured tees and boxers, he's a subtly different guy in each.
Fire and assholes are kind of alike, aren't they, in that you can't quite believe you're seeing them when you are.

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 1d

I went to St. Stephen's Chapel today, to light a candle for myself and to confess to my spiritual guardian my obsessive craving for big black cock.
For my penance, he told me to offer the disgusting old queen sitting behind me (as old and repulsive as myself, she was) a blowjob. (Her jizz was VILE.)

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 1d

One of my colleagues is a tall, lanky black guy. His name is Thierry. I bet he's hung down to his knees, but I can't really tell, because he wears baggy pants (low on his hips, to show off the upper halves of his (dark) boy-moons, hidden in (coloured) underwear). I wish he would spit in my face.
🌑🍆🌑

2

bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 1d

I'm trying to focus on work, but I keep picturing a bunch of shitholes, guys' shitholes, lined up in front of me for me to lick, to try and work my tongue deep into (our tongues are not long enough to do this well, God damn it), to savour, SUCK OUT, the different flavours of the guys' shitters.
🐂🦬🐖🐃

2

bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 1d

Titus just called me from work (he calls about ten times a day, to say he misses me). We're looking forward to spending the night in, to cuddling on the couch and watching TV.
All you need in life are cocks, BIG cocks, shooting in your mouth. Everything else is bullshit.
Oh—everything but STAR TREK!

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 1d

In the eventuality that I might have to restrain Ayden, I gathered vines and switches, in the woods. And belladonna, to spike his porridge with. I crushed the leaves in a mortar: the notes the pestle struck, in the kitchen, in the stillness of the woods, soothed me, and my concerns almost left me.

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 1d

I let the boy sleep.
I went out and found apples, to slice into the porridge. And wildflowers, chicory and goldenrod, I made into a posy, for the table. (Would Ayden let me adorn his hair with some of these? Was he a sweet f*ggot? Or had he made that mess in the kitchen, thrown a violent fit in it?)

1

bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 1d

I set the chairs to rights, in the kitchen, and cleared away the broken crockery. I made porridge, left it simmering on the stove.
On the attic floor, on his belly, Ayden's morning wood was impressive, uncut—I licked my old cocksucker lips, eyeing it. It, and his wickedly glinting nipple barbell...

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 1d

Well... Ayden (though he'd yet to tell me his name) was shivering (it was an autumn wood, we were in), so, I went back downstairs and gathered up the bearskin rug I'd seen, from the hearth; and, back upstairs, wrapped it around him. Then lay down with him, inside it. On the floorboards.
Good night.

1

bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 1d

I was lost in some woods, but then came to a house, in a clearing. Its door was open... Right there was the kitchen: full of broken crockery and overturned chairs. I heard crying... in the ceiling. So, I went upstairs, and there was a naked boy there, frantic and afraid... I opened my arms to him.
🥣

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 1d

Ayden is like some of the stop-motion clay animation friends I used to have in my View-Master (they're still in there, I bet). It always looked so cozy in their 3D worlds; I wish I could have lived in them, too. Sitting side by side on mini couches, we could have jacked each other off, good buddies.

2

bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 1d

Irish guys are hot. Do you think it's true they drink more than other men? Drink themselves to an early grave—leave better-looking corpses?
Would it turn you on to rim a (live) guy in a cemetery? How could it not? By moonlight, so you could see.
(The colours of flowers are strange by moonlight, eh?)

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 1d

I think Superman's asshole must be looser than Batman's (who seems pretty intense to me, like he wouldn't let anyone near his pucker (which is why I'm dying to see it/sniff it)), because villains who capture Superman must often like to stuff pieces of kryptonite up his chute, and watch him squirm.
💚

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 1d

Who do you think has the bigger cock, Batman or Superman? I think they must both be hung, but that Batman is more likely to be uncut. (I think they both have big nuts, too.)
Batman is more of a dark angel, eh? And Superman, more an angel of light.
Not sure what I think their assholes might be like.

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 1d

Gilles' feet are often cold (maybe because he's tall? have I told you he plays basketball, is the star player on our team at school?), so I like to warm them for him, by rubbing them, and huffing on them, on his bare (hatchling!) toes. While he's sitting on the sofa and looking down at me—king-like.

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 1d

Gilles says he wishes I were his brother, instead of his own brother (my stupid cousin Jacquo) (who's cuter than I am, though) (but an asshole, I don't like him) (but I can't help seeing how cute he is). Gilles says I'M the way a kid brother should be—nice to, even WORSHIPFUL of, his big brother.
🙏💪

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 1d

Titus pulls his fingertip out of my bumhole, and I pull mine out of his, and we each give the other a taste of his own backside. Then we taste each other's backsides, on our own fingers.
Tonight, we decide I'm cleaner.
Then we kiss some more, sloppily, getting our shitty tastes into our big beards.

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bluelit.bsky.social @bluelit.bsky.social · 1d

Titus and I are kissing in the La-Z-Boy, (not) watching STAR TREK. Our baggy pants are down enough for our hands to be on each other's bare bottoms, and our middle fingers, in each other's bumholes—but only up to the first knuckle.
Closing the circle of our digestive systems this way makes us dizzy!

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