(name), the sheer thought of your being is enough to make my hairs stand up on end. No, no, not my arm hair. My pubes rise as if it was a national anthem of my groin to your essence, of which is seemingly electromagnetically charged, which probably explains why every time I have sex with you it feels like my cock just spent 24 hours strapped in an electric chair. No theories, no law within the material universe, nothing naturalistic could explain the effect you have on a male’s sex organs. It is as if I am engaging with the face of the divine. When God crafted you, he cloned his own dick. It was not until the doctor cut off your foreskin that your cock became superior to his, with a defined circumcision line, looking like a nice popsicle that’s mostly chocolate, but with a vanilla tip. Your picture is all I ever will need to bust metaphysical nuts that manifest my balls in the astral plane where they are briefly converted to an ovary, and then back. The conversion is unfortunately lossy. What I loose is the memory of whoever the fuck I thought was hotter than you.