Kgal Posted

I bought myself a bottle of wine to go with you.

The weather is cool and crisp – perfect for cuddling up with a good story and a glass of merlot.

Cheers.

I’ve been in a frenzy of expulsion. It feels like I’m riding down a steep grade on the way to a gas station/motel. I can see rolling golden hills and a couple of cars in the parking lot. The lot is sitting in the rain shadow of the mountains.

The narrative I try to construct is of ferocity and stubborn resolution. I write of conquests who are as few and far between as the rains (there’s the weather, again) and disclose little of their personalities, as if the nature of their being is irrelevant. They revolve around me as floating bodies drawn in to an immeasurable gravity which is granted only by the confidence I receive via their attention. Even now, thinking of what to disclose, I only want to discuss the ease with which I brought The Wife (my new archetype of infidelity) to orgasm by taking her labia in my hands and gently kneading back and forth, telling her how gorgeous she was in slightly less than drunk fashion. I want to write of physical attributes, of the tremendous release I felt when I was inside her, but not of moral implications. She was not a mother, as her and her husband had decided it was not a good time to raise a child. The financial burdens are many, she’d said. She worked as an HR coordinator and discussed a man who quit by sending an incendiary email to the whole company. Troublesome people. It went on like that until I got close and told her it must be stressful. That she was entitled to some joy and satisfaction. I always harp on satisfaction. That life is just, just so damn short. I wanted to enjoy it, as I told it. I took her freckled hand and told her I would leave soon for my motel, and she’d have a better night with me than in some shitty bar. Not a false word or hesitation. My voice already thinking ahead to her sweater on the floor and her hair in my hand. A miracle in the light of reasonable day, but a certainty under the rainslick twilight.

We did spend the entire night together. She cried, and I held her, which my mind urged me to quickly stop. The tenderness would be confusing, although the question is for whom. It was not a peaceful sleep. After I’d taken her to her car and returned to gather my things, I lifted her pillow. It smelled of our sweat and her perfume. I never asked what it was.

It’s been a while since the last time I was with a prostitute. She was a full figured hour glass in a tight dress and more makeup than necessary. Her amazing breasts hung over the fabric of her strapless dress as I rolled it down past her ribs and hips. She had the areolas of a madonna statue, and it drove me to focus on her upper body. She had small moles all along her shoulders. She asked me if it hurt when she rubbed her hands over the tags amidst the hair on my neck and shoulders, but I assured her she could continue. Time passed in this way. I wanted to get to it, but delayed the gratification for as long as possible. She mentioned it to me after nearly an hour. When I told her over the phone that I was inconsistent in my behavior—could be rough or unusual—she said it was my time, but no hitting or scratching. She expressed this forcefully in what I could only assume was a show of experience. I reminded her of it. My time, remember? I directed her for three hours. My dick was aching. When I finally fucked her it was to end it as expected, though I had hardly anything left in me. I keep thinking she was the model for my dream.

In a forum discussion about one night stands, someone wrote that it only works if neither party expects anything. If it’s sex for the sake of enjoyment. I thought this was a reasonable idea, but that I could not be that man. There will always be strings—memories trudged up to make the most of the experience.