Stifling spices, cinnamon as imagined, transparently curl from beneath meagerly whisker infested lips; they project arousal in the most intended sense. Ornate in self resolution but languid in populated eyes, he remain sexually intact only by the tip. “Suck all day, yes I do, but no, I am no fag.” Following his accusation, a turbulent demeanor takes reins, a fit likewise to that of a death threatened lobster, red face, huffy puffy, claws scratch but fists lack knowledge of action.