Tate McRae | Rihanna | Alexandra Daddario | Priyanka Chopra
The Tetrad—each one a humiliation: Tate, 24/7 sexy but unavailable. Rihanna, old wine never to taste. Alexandra, the statue never to kiss. Priyanka, the woman who left India. Each woman a rejection, a call to my lack and inferiority. Each a constant ache that tests my groin only for me to spill, lonely in my bedroom.
These four cohere in narrative consistency, complimenting each other, sharpening each of their erotic edge. Tate gives way to an older Rihanna who poses with a statuesque and burning cool Alexandra while Priyanka saunters off, ass-twitching under her gown.
Despite my feeling of lack and inadequacy, I still like any man, goblinesque in appetite, itch to take and dominate. I rack my brains to craft a fantasy—sorry as they are next to my involuntary dreams—because I know memory is a fabrication. The only question is to degree to which we believe them.
Tate McRae | Rihanna | Alexandra Daddario | Priyanka Chopra
The Tetrad—each one a humiliation: Tate, 24/7 sexy but unavailable. Rihanna, old wine never to taste. Alexandra, the statue never to kiss. Priyanka, the woman who left India. Each woman a rejection, a call to my lack and inferiority. Each a constant ache that tests my groin only for me to spill, lonely in my bedroom.
These four cohere in narrative consistency, complimenting each other, sharpening each of their erotic edge. Tate gives way to an older Rihanna who poses with a statuesque and burning cool Alexandra while Priyanka saunters off, ass-twitching under her gown.
Despite my feeling of lack and inadequacy, I still like any man, goblinesque in appetite, itch to take and dominate. I rack my brains to craft a fantasy—sorry as they are next to my involuntary dreams—because I know memory is a fabrication. The only question is to degree to which we believe them.