Erotica

T and I find ourselves with rare, kid-free hours, and spend them in a tangle of laptops, oral sex, emailed fantasies, and the complicated arithmetic of compersion.

Sometimes the best encounters last just long enough to leave you hard the rest of the night.

She wrote this for me, and I’m not allowed to tell you who she is.

A late-night conversation that didn’t end nearly soon enough.

She told me she wouldn’t fuck me. I told her to take it back. We’ve recovered nicely.

Liza dreamed I gave her directions on how to fuck D. I’m happy to make dreams come true.

She rejected my choreography, and I was grateful. Then I pushed her against a roll-down gate and listened to my cock instead of my brain.

What a difference a couple of hours make.

A late-night inventory of preferences, stripped to single words.

So many questions. Not so many answers.