Smile For Me ( : (

What if it turns out we’re each other’s portkeys?

Why? Why are you still here? I can’t run off to anywhere. If you run now, I’m alright with that. I got nothing left.

This little finger move, aka the Prostate Locator 3000. He doesn’t need a milkshake, the boys are already in his yard thanks to this.

On a scale of 1-5: 🍉🍉🍉🍉🍉

We get it Porsche, you can fit a lot in your mouth.

On a scale of 1-5: 🍌🍌

But as we all know, that won’t stop him from trying. The sick burn is made null and void by how fucking fruity he was to judge a man’s breedability in the first place.

On a scale of 1-5: 🍇🍇🍇🍇

Another fine example of the Prostate Locator 3000, but what really elevates the fruity factor here is the little shoulder shimmy he adds in. If fruitiness were an Olympic Sport, my man would be gunning for gold.

On a scale of 1-5: 🍋🍋🍋

Queer culture at its finest to sit in front of a monk, listening to his wise sermon, making merits with your enemy’s spy while you grope him for all to see. It brings to mind my days of sitting in mass thinking about kissing girls.

On a scale of 1-5: 🍑🍑🍑🍑

Oh, to be a man, freshly railed, drinking milk at night with another man (who used to date your man), locked in a petty exchange of innuendo to gloat about swallowing come. Milk has never been fruitier.

On a scale of 1-5: 🥥🥥🥥🥥🥥

This is the healthcare we deserve. Pride flag ambulance lights, cute robes, and a shared cigarette with which to indirectly kiss your fellow patient.

On a scale of 1-5: 🍓🍓🍓

Gazing up through your bangs with fear in your pretty eyes after suffering brutally at the hands of your sexily troubled kidnapper? Something LGBT is afoot.

On a scale of 1-5: 🍊🍊🍊

He’s eating his ass. What is there to explain?

On a scale of 1-5: 🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

Nothing fruitier than wedding rings. The produce aisle is wiped clean.

— Federico García Lorca

Loving you is blue 💙