يمشي بمفرده في الليل - لكنه يعلم أن شخصا ما يراقب

One man. One night. This is how I love to roam the streets— no people (or are there?), no cars (well, a few), and just the occasional strange sound (someone watching, perhaps?). Torn jeans. A cropped top. A heavy ballstretcher. A swaying, shameless shaft with air-kissed eggs. It's not just the urge to pee that builds up out here— sometimes, it's the throbbing weight of what's waiting to be released. Freedom tastes better when it pulses between your thighs.