A motel room, cigarettes and strong drinks. That was all, or at least part of what Maycon needed in his sleepless nights when he felt lonely. Next to him, inside the same motel room, several prostitutes; one, and sometimes two or three girls, all gathered in the dark alleys of the city, seduced by the unique beauty of that boy whom, sometimes, they insisted on giving up their bodies for the price of nothing. Night by night, that's all. While life in the city of São Paulo progressed with great strides, with the moon in the sky shining brightly, chorusing with the lights of other celestial bodies around, desire burned in his chest, igniting his dark, virile and strong body, though now and then the room was disturbed by the cowardly currents of air that, divorced from the strong winds that blew outside, insisted on denouncing that the month of August was here to stay.
Unlike the thin, shy siblings, it was clear that Maycon could only have been born from another litter. In the brood of brutes, foals, alpha wolves with strong claws, even though lonely, yet in a somber way that no one could quite explain; Maycon was strangely beautiful, and despite that sadness always following his eyes, his firmness in gestures, actions and decisions, emerged in him a sweet and sensitive aura, always kind to everyone around him.
But Maycon had an old soul, so he felt lonely. The refuge from so much loneliness was sex. But not sloppy, sleepless, or casual sex like those quick fucks because someone has to leave. On the contrary, there was intensity in everything he did. Like a perfectly functioning Swiss watch, his feelings always synchronized with the desires of his flesh, that is, wherever his skin, his hard member, or even his fleshy mouth touched, he managed to exhaust all and any kind of sensation from that place, and the it metamorphosed into stimuli with vital eye-rolling power. Whether with prostitutes or not, that was just a detail. For Maycon as long as there was a consensus, then a woman was a woman. That August night, in the dark room of that same cheap motel, two naked girls, thirsty for his presence, were lying on the sheets. They were eager to soon crumple them.
Climbing out of the bath, stark naked and flush with the bed, Maycon gave them a feline look that made them feel like two helpless preys: with his erect member pointed at them, they became extremely wet, while thick drops of water ran down his black hair, spilling down his neck, steadying on the black tattoo on his firm chest.
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