My Dearest Kyle: A Love Letter to Kyle Korver
My Dearest Kyle,
Everything about you screams "Fuck me! Fuck me hard!" From your hair -- styled expertly to ever so sightly hide those baby blues -- to your bad
But, despite the "I've been a bad boy" routine, typically, you take command. Ripping wet threes from all spots, coming off screens and fading into perfection as the ball slips through the orange hole with ease. The game is yours. You take the lead. You are the Dom.
But that hasn't been the case lately. Somethings off. You've lost your edge. I know shooting the way you do is not a skill, but an art -- the way you rise above the defense, arching the ball perfectly, your right hand goose-necking like the boys on Halsted. And like all artists or writers, sometimes there's a block, an uncontrollable loss of creative flow, a back up in the pipes, if you will. Kyle, my love, you have shooter's blue balls.
The way you are, the way you dress, the way you unconsciously beg for punishment demands that I scold you. I should pull out the ball and gag and make you pay. But no. That's not what you need right now. You NEED someone to hold you. Someone that understands YOU and YOUR issues. You don't need a good fucking, you need to MAKE LOVE. To cuddle, to spoon, to hold hands, to feel wanted, needed. You need an encouraging word. A kiss on the neck.
Kyle, you are sex. Girls want you. Guys want to be
Author's Note: Ricky's idea.
Z.W. Martin (Dubs) is a Contributing Editor of TUP and freelance writer in Chicago, IL. You can reach him at firstname.lastname@example.org or follow him on Twitter @ZWMartin.
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