Parker St. John

“Cal begun ditching church services by age ten.
Wild horses couldn’t have dragged him back, or so he’d thought, but a few years later he’d found himself sitting at Eli’s side in that rear pew just to spend extra time with him.
God, that had felt so forbidden. He'd been half hard through so many sermons that he prayed there wasn’t a God. If a higher power existed, he was damn certain going to hell for all the sinful thoughts he'd entertained in a church.”
― Parker St. John, Down Low

“I don’t need to use my cock to fuck you, Cal. I’m fucking you right this minute. I can fuck you with my fingers, my tongue, my eyes. I could fuck you with my words alone, and you’d come for me, wouldn’t you?”
Cal’s thighs quivered, his inner core spasming around Eli’s fingers. “Please, Eli...”
“Please, what?”
“Please donate to the American Red Cross!” Cal yelled, thrashing against him in frustration. “What the hell do you think I mean, asshole? Fuck me! Fill me up and pound me into the mattress and fuck—”
― Parker St. John, Down Low