Flavors of Rofus
I’m going to tell you about my new inhaler. Last time my wanting you to know, scared you away from ever wanting to learn. Now you need to know. I am merely a lover, Jarred. You can hardly call me a brother, but I am anything for you. I can’t stay away, especially knowing your hatred. You still read my letters. You’re addicted to me. I love it.
Rofus’s flavor, the latest air I breathed, was very unique. He wasn’t sweet like you, or spicy like Libby. He had less tang than Chuck, yet more zest than Mr. Ashley. Rofus’s flavor was unique in the way oatmeal is bland. I loved it.
The way his smooth lumps slid down my throat was what laid me down at night. His aroma fused well with rope burns and rubbed leather. My finger, the same one I give the suck for you, is twirling in my belly button as I write. Rofus was a palate worthy of sacrifice. Make him thicker. Add some cinnamon, metal, whip cream, or butter. I’m a collector, Jarred. As a particular man who has tastes for interesting flavors, Rofus made me lick my lips all over. The way his ass smashed down on that bar stool was how he smashed down on my face. I breathed him in, Jarred. I ate the air from his ass. I will always love it.
P. S. My lungs don’t ache today.