Magic Magnus

We’ve lived together nearly a year. At first we fucked every damn day, then less and less until last month we just laid there, thumbs scrolling in the dark. Laziness or distance—who knows. Either way I missed it. It poured the day I came home soaked and wiped out. Dallas sat on the couch in leather pants, the heavy kind that hugged his cock like a second skin. We’d watched Magic Mike a couple nights earlier and clearly he took notes. I reached for him right away, but he told me to sit my ass down and enjoy the show. Silly? Yeah. Hot? Fuck, it worked. There’s that old Russian saying about a bad dancer always blaming his balls. Bullshit. My man can’t dance worth a damn, but when he fucks me he can make my eyes roll back till they stick.