A short passage from a short story I’m writing

Angel sits postured like a female, legs crossed at the groin with the fabric of his jeans bunched up in his crotch. He holds a Sierra Nevada beer by the neck with the first two fingers of his right hand. His palm faces the sky and for every twitch of his foot the tips of his fingers bounce the beer up and down, up and down. He is, needless to say, very distracting. I wish I could say I was focused on the dark contours of his jawline, or the smooth planes of his lips as they spread across his teeth, but instead my eyes were drawn to the wad of cloth at his groin that theoretically hid his dick. His legs were crossed so tightly that I wondered if he actually had one. There’s no way that position could be comfortable.


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