I kneel forward and slowly pull this coil. In my hands right now, just a shadow of his former proud state.
Years have passed, and it’s obvious.
Now unsheathed, still stale and unclean, but primed for re-invigoration.
How many other lovers have there been?
How many hands have distractedly stroked him, fast, slow, sharp nails, no nails, stressed, relaxed, or profanity-screaming?
What of the good news, the bad news, the tears, the heavy breathers, and the anonymous Johns pulling without remorse?
Secrets stay with spirits.
Arsch! Bubble-wrap strangle this old call-box cable.