19. Fustian

How do I love thee? Let me count the threads…

Of course, I’m having a little tickle’s worth of fun at no one’s expense – a mere romping play on words, so you absolutely must excuse me if you were hoping for something a little heavier and void of levity. I beg of you: do not miss the understanding: I do take my pantaloons seriously, but, as a fancy lad in fancy pants, I’m afraid I may present an air of flippancy and social carelessness when I let my sleeve’s heart beat freely for all to hear and see.

Forgive me if I do carry on like the flame upon the wick.

The pants that paint these legs, color them not merely the basking’s amber triumph that blaze before your eyes, but also in shades of warm, tones of snug, and broad, velvety strokes of snaz. Oh, you’ve caught me: a slight commoner wearing the cord of the King? Lock me up. Toss the key into the fire. Let it burn like the crotch of these cords when thighs make haste in conjunction with my whole toward the nearest lavatory. Let it be lost in flame like all other trousers I owned before these. Let it smelt and ooze like the satisfaction does from my similes.

I’d die a thousand deaths as long as before each one I was let to lust my final leaving breath whilst still adorned so assuredly as I am now, in these golden, roasting cords with a width of wale (2.5 per inch) that could rival that of the finest davenports in all of Davenport.

Any death wrapped in a wealth of embrace, as is such the case when clothed as I am, would be ascension to Heaven before Heaven got the chance.

 

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