I noticed his belt on my dresser this afternoon, coiled like a snake. Dark brown, almost black, smooth and well-made. Its low-key fanciness surprised me.
I pulled it through my fingers and watched its shine bend and flex with my hands and smiled. It was a nice meaty weight.
I’ll think of him, he who couldn’t be bothered to text me after sex, when I wrap it around the throat of my next sublime and willing lover. If he ever calls to get it back I’ll tell him the dog ate it.
Good sex cannot be underestimated. Its positive effects, its impact on the spirit, its sparkly-ness. Good sex is like a good meal: memorable in its fleetingness, but much appreciated, and the last time I had good sex was with Peter, probably the day his boss caught us. It’s been a long fucking time – no pun intended.
I’m too tired to go into details right now, but I saw him again on Friday. We hadn’t seen each other since before the holidays and we didn’t get out of the foyer with our clothes on. Lots of kissing and me on my tip toes and him moaning and smiling into my kisses.
A couple of hours and many shared orgasms later he took a shower while I basked in his sweat and cum clinging to my skin. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said about having to take a shower. Of course I didn’t mind – this isn’t about hurting his girlfriend, after all.
When he was over me and buried deep inside I gazed into his green, cat like eyes, so happy to be back there with him. There’s something to be said about a true affinity for someone: it’s lovely, comfort food.
The next night, after a long, boozy day with some besties, a young man came over. I barely knew his name, but he was tall, polite, and cute, and we talked for hours before I said something sexy like, “Hey, you wanna bang? Cuz I do.” (I didn’t really, but it was close). He nodded and the kisses commenced.
His shoulders were broad and his skin soapy and delicious and his mouth was beautiful between my thighs. I mounted his hips and rode him until he warned me he was going to cum and I told him to just let go and enjoy himself.
He emptied himself into the condom deep inside of me and I rained down around his hips and slipped and slid on his hot, smooth skin.
He dressed in the dark and I wrapped myself in a robe; he winked at me as he rounded the corner down the stairs. I fell into bed and noticed his belt on the floor. Whoops.
Peter lamented about us going so long between visits and texted sweet nothings the next day. Scott, the man with no belt, seemed pleased with himself, but I barely heard from him today. I still can’t quite figure out why a human would avoid another human whose body they were inside just hours before, but there it is. He’s done it.
And after contemplating my attachment style these past few days I see no future – even a casual one – with a man who essentially ignored me after his face was buried in my pussy for 30 minutes the night before. I have no room for that person in my life.
Peter on the other hand… It was like coming home being lost in the deep green pools of his smiling eyes. Ever attentive and interested in me and my life we talked and came and cuddled and fucked and talked and cuddled some more before he had to head home to his girlfriend. I’ll never call her “lucky,” because, well, I wouldn’t want to be her, but I hope he’s half as good to her as he is to me because everyone deserves to feel that kind of special.
As for Scott the Belt-less, well… he just doesn’t get it, I guess, and he won’t get me, either.