He was too laid back. Sensitive. Liked to read big bulky brick-sized books like “Shogun” and listen to The Cure and Depeche Mode and didn’t care...much for aggressive hip hop or popularity or the latest clothes, fashions, trends. And he didn’t have a fade or a flattop. Instead he had shoulder length dark wispy hair, parted down the middle, mutton chop sideburns and wore solid black shirts and jeans and heavy, murky eye liner.That’s why he fit in with us. That’s why he was a fag. Because we were. I felt his tongue following where hishands had gone. He was licking my thighs moving slowlytowards my private parts. My pussy. I tried in vain toclose my legs but I was tied in place. His mouth was gently sucking my outer lips as hisfingers softly parted me. When I was opened to him andthere was nothing I could do about it. There was a pausein his movements as though he was waiting for myconsent. Just as I admitted how much I craved for him tocontinue his tongue slid up my inner folds and he. More

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