Your Dickpic Turns Me On

Better the dick you know than the dick you don’t

I open your message. It’s a picture of your dick; it’s a dickpic. Immediately, it turns me on. I love it!

I love it because I know it; I know that dick.

I know how it feels; through your pants, hardening under my grip. You push against me: A tiny tug of war where we both win.

I know how it smells; warm, clean, with a hint of musk, and a sprinkle of salt. I draw my breath. It smells like how it tastes. Let me sample?

I know how it tastes; your skin, from your balls, my tongue goes way up. Up to the tip where I lap up a drop: A clear viscous promise.

I know that sound; I know all your sounds. From the clank of your buckle, your zip- zip-zipper, to your sighs — your mmmms — your moans.

I know that sensation: The void I create, my pull. You push and slide, to fill. Then, we meet and dance — in Elysium.

I love that pic because I know the dick; up close and personal, inside and out. I know the person attached to it; the thoughts that inspire it; the heart pumping blood to it.

I admire it, how I admire a portrait of someone dear; not for her pout lips or pronounced cheekbones, but for the warm words whispered and the hugs when I needed them the most.

In essence a dickpic, but to me, much more. Not yet another faceless one.

I love it because I know it. Because it’s you.