[Canal St. Regular. Regular. Regular:]
Oh, it's hard to pick just one! She wore Andersson Bell, corset cinched tight, eyes like Arca’s abyss. We didn’t do dinner, just mezcal and myth, talking detransition as erotic gift. In her Bushwick bunker, she made me her throne, straddling my face with a dominant groan. Her girlcock divine, a forbidden fruit’s bite, I worshipped like Mishima under moonlight. She sighed, “It’s not crude, it’s aesthetic revenge, spilled in the blood.” We lay there entangled, screens flickering blue, parasocial lovers in a glitchy tableau. That one still haunts me in the best way. Girl cocks matter ✊🏻