Memory or fantasy?

Green gabardine shirts, buckets of wet sand hauled from six-foot depths, and a shared copy of Playboy — the holy trinity of all-boys camp in the early ’80s.

“I can’t wait to feel you in my mouth,” Tamora wrote, in anticipation of an upcoming date. And that makes two of us: I can’t wait to feel myself in her mouth. I seriously can’t.

I like being a part of someone’s rapturous joy. I simply will not participate in manifest suffering, if I possibly can avoid it.

The hotel didn’t, initially, want to let me up. Thank God they eventually did, so I could fill Hope’s mouth, and her cunt, with my cock.

One day, someone will explain to me the logic behind the current epidemic of security theatre around the country. In this episode, my (ridiculous) pseudonym is questioned, and I’m unable to prove that my fake name is MY fake name.

A surprising first date with a lovely young thing.

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.

A new beginning, with Hope.

Hope, and confidence.

A painful, promising tease…