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Angel lifted his butt and watched it drop back into his place. It was not firm and muscular, but squishy and round. His abs were hidden under a soft paunch, and his legs would not be defined as toned. His cock was perhaps, something the ancient Greeks would find attractive, but also hidden in foreskin and a bit too much hair.

Angel remembered standing in the front of the mirror as a teenager, cringing, pointing out everything that was wrong. He made, and remade lists, of everything that needed to be fixed or improved. Starving himself hadn’t shortened the list. Exercising until he passed out hadn’t either. And putting out for any man who even looked his way hadn’t made him stop standing in front of the mirror and frowning. So he just covered up and rarely ventured out and kept to himself.

An yet.

This morning, the words of the man at the bar last night rung in his head clear as if they were recorded. The man had gently touched Angel’s arm as Angel passed him perched on a bar stool. “Sweetheart,” he said, in that classic gay lisp of an old New Yorker, “I have to say, I’ve seen you around here all night, and if I wasn’t very taken, I would put you in chastity and keep you as my pet.”

Angel turned around and beamed at his reflection in the mirror. For the first time, the list was blank.

Captions are fictional.


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