News from afar...

Thick Alan, from Glasgow.

Indeed, I remember leaving a certain premises in Peckham - with a smile on my face ... it was only the next day, when walking through town, I glanced down to find a trophy such as yours on the front of my leather jacket.

A dried, long trophy - stretching from my lapel to the base of the zip. A snail-trail that spoke a thousand words to anyone who cast eyes upon it.

Instantly I took my jacket off and [no, I didn't put it on the ground and roll around on it like a she-dog trying to scent myself in the glory that is eau de 2625!!] was forced to conceal my trophy - until I was able to wash it in the restroom upstairs a the Kings Arms, Poland St. London.

These are the moments we live for my love. We feed on these moments - for our souls burn ever brighter as we sink further into the debauchery and cheapness we bath in.

I can imagine Thick Alan and you know I feel love for him - without even ever seeing him. We are connected you and I. Forever twisted-together sisters of adoration and glory.

My news:

Wayne leaves me for six weeks - traveling to Alaska with friends.

This saddens me.

However, do not feel anger for me when I tell you he has only started having sex with men in the last eleven months.

Do not feel jealous when I tell you he is THICK and HARD every time.

Do not feel ripped off when I tell you he is a fantastic kisser and that, at times, we kiss for over an hour.

Do not feel remorse when I tell you his lovely, fat face looks so hot when he towers above me - drilling holes into me - grunting with his totally animalistic, sexually charged green eyes blazing into the night.

Do not wish me dead when I tell you his precum tastes sweet, but peppery and that it turns me into a moaning, thrusting cum-slut from beyond the threshold of decency.

And please, please, please do not commit suicide when I tell you he asks me every time if I 'want his cum'.

Do not.

Do not

Do not.

Please do not.