Blame the three thousand miles between us...
Every step he takes closer to my hotel door sends more blood to my already painfully erect dick. Throbbing with every thought, my slacks develop a wet spot at the crotch of my pants. I can hear your smooth New York accent in my ear... I can remember verbatim all of your erotic threats... Damn, I can't wait to introduce your scent to my nostrils.
Each text message, "What's the name of the hotel?" Each question, "Which BART terminal would be the closest?" A paradox of paralysis and jittery nerves stiffens my entire body. He's coming. Chugging down a glass of Fernet, I try to wash the taste of anxiety from my palette.
Blame the build-up. Reading his book. Cyber conversations on Facebook. Late-night chats. Erotic exchanges. Mid-day sexting. My asshole winks as I read the text, "What's the room number?"
My fantasies of him will mingle with memories for the first time. Soon, I'll be testing the merit of his kiss; tasting his flesh on my tongue. Soon, my calves and ankles will feel the warmth of his neck and shoulders. A second glass of Fernet makes my lips tighten... Ready or not: he's coming.
|'Mirage' by Exterface|