N. Likes

In which Hope, anticipating my cock in her mouth, writes some words for me, in my journal.

Ten seats away, a woman I’d once made out with was surrounded by men — and jealousy surged through me with an intensity wildly disproportionate to reality. Turns out, she wasn’t even the right woman.

I’m really very easy to please.

Hope texts me she’s wet. Two hours later, she’s on her knees in a hotel room, chopsticks still in her hair, my cock between the same glossy lips she’d photographed for me that morning.

What am I writing? Wouldn’t you like to know….

Wondering what I look like? Wonder no more….

A new beginning, with Hope.

Hope, and confidence.

We’re getting the whole Facebook/Cambridge Analytica thing all wrong. Remember: if you’re not paying, you’re the product. Period.

A painful, promising tease…