He's a Twink

and you are not

His lovers stamp their desire onto the flat plane of his body. He’s smooth and sprawling like glossy paper so pristine it would bring shame not to see it defiled. They spread him apart like plowing snow and see purity in the pucker. 

He’s the fantasy. He’s lost boyhood. He’s the youngest 28 year old to ever have lived. To open him up like pressing bootprints into pristine swaths of snow. He’s untouched. He’s been fucked a thousand times. He’s tight like a screw flush with the grain. When he opens like a flower, the petals grip, O’Keefian in their gentle perfection.

His pleasure is irrelevant, or it is derived from its lack of importance. He’s a hole, he insists. His lovers are gleefully removed. How lucky, they do not have to really touch. How lovely it is to use something because it wants to be used, nothing to feel bad about. Take him—he loves it.

He’s a twink. He’s the ideal. No archaeology required, his bones were born unearthed. They press into his lovers’ laps, they can be counted without touch. Spine like rungs on a ladder, climb his back to the nape of his neck and pull his head into your mouth. He tastes like flesh. He is clean.

There’s the hair on his head and little else. So smooth, you’d think his skin has never pushed any scratchy little nubs to the surface but his routine is meticulous. Crouched over in the shower, the blade skims his every part, obliterating friction with the swipe of a pencil-thin wrist. All this he does to keep the palette pink. Thirty minutes over the toilet till the water runs clear.

His skin does not fold nor crease nor sag nor bleed. Pale as the moon’s glow, blue-red veins rising like mountain ridges. Push him down. See his small and make it smaller. Pliable thing, what godly perfection with god removed entirely. The twink is holy vessel, empty chalice with all the frill stripped away. Fill him up and empty him back out–he likes it this way, and you do, too.

He’s a twink. He is effortless ease. He needs no face or place in his lovers’ memory. It matters only to make pleasure, to be beautiful in fluid movement. Peter Pan wishes he could do it like this; the twink is boy forevermore. He’s dancing for his webcam. He holds his breath to trap the tummy in two dimension. He’s getting tips, tips, tips. They think he’s Greek but he’s just thin.

To the faggots, he’s the perfect boyslut. To the the trade, he’s the bashful boy who moans like a girl. To the devout, he’s an abomination. He’d grow a devil’s tail if he could—that would be hot. This is the boy who looks like a girl who is decidedly a boy. Everyone wins.

Though his lovers are many, they are just as faceless to the twink. I’m just a hole, he says. Well, they’re nothing more than a pole. It’s a ruthless transaction and the twink is the broker. Watch him bat his lashes, a demure lady looking up through delicate lids. He’ll tell you that he wants it, but would you believe he actually does? More than his lovers even, the twink will get what he wants.

Fearless creature, he’ll slip from your grasp before you even know that you wanted more. The twink is a staple and he binds himself together. They call him a whore. Say it louder, he’s getting close.

jw

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