For a festive treat I get myself a little blonde drummer boy as a snack. Great rhythm, naturally. That he's a submissive little bitch is just a bonus. He likes to be smacked, pale skin stretched taut, both of us vibrating with the impact. Reddening. Parumpapumpum. Then cuddled. He picks up his kittens to carry them gently out of the room, rugby player thighs bulging in small black boxers, a Christmas ad for wholesome masculinity. Twenty seven & bisexual so yes of course he's all about the ass. Parumpapumpum. He mostly goes for colourful-haired non-binary pixie types, he says (as though I am a Pokémon). I remind him of a boy, boys plural. Weirdly affirming. The great comfort & joy of subby bisexual boys is that they bring their own advent calendar of Grindr-induced casual-hook-up sex trauma, which makes for a much gentler, safer prospect. Consent is so sexy. Bollocks like baubles, ass cheeks spank red. He even asks my permission to come. Parumpapumpum.