The pavement remembers my back, the cold stone holds me where you will not. I once had your bed, your hands, your claim pressed into every inch of me. Now I have concrete for a pillow and the hiss of passing cars for lullabies.
Years I gave you. My cock offered daily, my body stripped and ordered, my name forgotten in favor of what you called me, what you made me.
I was never whole, only the piece you needed a cock to keep, a servant to strip, a man reduced to the weight of his sex.
And when it no longer pleased you or perhaps it pleased you more to discard me, to watch me crawl from your doorway naked you let me go like smoke.
So I sleep here, the streetlamp buzzing overhead, the ache of loss curled inside me. Not the loss of freedom, I never wanted that. Not the loss of love, you never gave that.
What I mourn is the collar of your gaze, the heat of knowing I was owned, the brutal mercy of being nothing but cock in a world that now asks me to be whole again.
But I am not. I am still yours, even in exile, even on the street.
If you’ve enjoyed Dougie D’s writing for a while, take a moment to fill out a fun list of questions so I can learn more about what you enjoy and what keeps you here. Your answers help shape the stories and content coming up.
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.