The Levi’s are hanging from the Fireplug’s dungeon bed, a maneuver the manufacturers no doubt never anticipated. But the sturdy steel beams, hooks, and support rods, all quite handy in various carnal situations, work equally well for other tasks.
Ultimately, out of something like seventeen pairs of Levi’s, only two or three didn’t make the cut. He tried them on for me and damnit if he didn’t look sexy as hell in all of them. Add to that the hotness factor of Levi’s themselves, which turn me on in a way no overpriced pair of Diesel ever could, and I felt, once again, like I had picked the right boyfriend after all.
I suppose, out of superstition, I kind of held my breath there for a bit, after declaring my love for the fucker in the last post. But since then the man’s only grown more crazy for me, so my plan has worked, and he’s in my clutches now. Which must have rankled at least one or two boys at the International Mr Leather contest this past weekend in Chicago, where we went, and which I will tell you more about in the next post.
But the afternoon of the spring cleaning reminded me of what I love about the Fireplug. It’s companionship, pretty simple; a companion for lazy weekend afternoons, someone who will sing along to Johnny Cash as he hangs his Levi’s on the bed, where I lie on my back with a book, shoes off, looking up through a canopy of blue, the pairs swinging gently above me as he hunts through them, his dog’s tail thumping against my leg as he watches his daddy move about the room.