Vaseline on my knees, scrapin up glitter and cum, a doll’s sacred mess on Canal St. Regular.

Regular. concrete. The floor’s a Dimes Square confessional, shimmer and shame under neon. I’m no saint—just a tongue hungry for trans vibes. Found her note in sparkles: ‘Worship my girlcock like it’s your religion.’ Damn right. Janitor’s gotta clean up his sins, one lick at a time. Sexts blowing up my phone—her silicone halo’s callin me back. Fuck yes.