He shows up in silk boxers and a look that says “don’t ask.”

Istanbul’s chaos suits him. He melts into the couch, dressed for no one, like someone who treats every mirror like a performance.

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There’s lipstick on his t-shirt. No one knows if it’s his.
He’s not here to explain, just to exist. Loudly.

Somewhere between a dirty youth fantasy and a billboard for sex-positive softness.
 

Carne Bollente came to Istanbul, and he wore it well.