Sometimes, my cock tingles. It’s not hard. It’s not aching.

It’s just calling to me. “Attend to me,” it says.

“Make me hard. Stimulate me.”

It wants… touch, sure. Images, yes.

It wants a reminder of what it can become, what it’s capable of.

Sometimes, it’s gentle, respectful. More often, it’s insistent, demanding. “ATTEND TO ME!”

Sometimes, I listen. (Always, I listen.) Sometimes, I act.

I may act by dialing up a favorite web site, a repository of women, images, that I know reliably excite me.

I may act by writing a post here.

Or by sending an email. Or a text.

I may act by looking around me, taking in the beauty that’s, thankfully, never far from me. Whether at home, on a train, on a street.

Sometimes, I act by visiting my trove of treasures sent by one or another of my distant buddies, always with a tropism toward the most recent evidence of compliance, the most recent bit of submission.

Does your cock speak to you? Your pussy?

What does it say?

What do you do?


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