Black Hungs Tranny
Armando was short and thin, five feet tall and Latino, with loose khaki shorts and a studded black belt. He smeared grease on his slick black curls and wore a chunky silver rope chain that seemed uncharacteristically butch around his fragile neck. Armando had been a resident for a few months. He was twenty-two, and a cutter. Phil, the other RA, warned me. One afternoon, Armando sat in a chair in the courtyard, slumped over a black journal with a set of skinny pens, drawing. Once in a while he wiped a shiny ringlet aside with his right hand. Picked up another pen and shaded.
black hungs tranny