Well I guess they would, just not in the way that I'dwant. It definitely would get me attention from bullies... the typeof bullies who would stuff me into a locker. Still I didn't reallyhave much of anything to lose so Sam and I followed him through thestore and down another aisle. The old man stopped to paw through oneshelf, muttering to himself as he did so. Finally though he seemedto find what he was looking for."Aha! Here we go," he said as he turned around and handed me whatappeared to be a handheld mirror. "I believe that this should besufficient for helping you with your problem."It was the type of thing that my grandmother might've owned, adulled bronze with ornate designs adorning the back of it. Theactual mirror itself, however, was cloudy as if something had beensmeared all over it. I tried using my shirt to wipe it off but thatdidn't seem to any sort of effect as the mirror still looked cloudy."I think your mirror's defective," Sam said while I attempted tohand it back to. ... down my neck, a sort of spout. I can feel the desire fill my cock, the way red wine fills jars - or a blossom is made. My thighs shift and squirm. I can still taste the fig on my tongue - so sweet, in all its fleshiness. Down, down - valleys made of skin. My mouth is gaping - as if for use, as if any man or woman might shove their tongue in it, lick out all that fig from it, and maybe branches would sprout from my bones. I have reached my nipples, less white - teasing them, teasing them harder - a sort of childish bullying. I feel the air in my mouth and hole and brushing against my balls. It is so sweet, and my hand is reaching down - down to my boxers, swelling, as my feet dangle in the warming swimming pool. The first tangle of my hairs - I lick my finger, and can taste the sweat of it all, each meal and fibre of my being, emenating from me, as I feed myself my own desire by the water. Ah - and there it is, my hand grasping my shaft - half-spent, already sticky, already salty -.
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