No one has ever done that to me on a first date, he says.
Wow, is this a first date? Is this our first date? It’s strange because it feels so natural to me, like we’ve been doing it forever. And it’s such a sweet thing to say, coming from a guy who’s just fucked my ass raw.
Maybe you should date more people like me, I say.
What I am doing is ever so gently fingerfucking his ass while I suck his cock. I know he’s not used to this kind of role reversal. Neither am I, to tell you the truth.
I’m thirty one and he’s the third man I have ever had sex with. There have been about thirty women. Not a single one of those thirty-three people has ever booked a hotel, brought gourmet sushi, and prepared a bath for me.
I look at the dumbbells and I think we could exercise together later. But later we’re late for the party. Lots of our common friends are there, some surprised to see us holding hands. It’s late and we’re hungry, and the downside of sex parties in gay dungeons is that there’s no food, so we go to grab a bite before jumping in the action.
At breakfast I want to say I love you but I’m not ready. I feel it, but somehow I cannot say it. The sentence is in my lips but he looks at me quite sternly and then to his cell phone: something with his partner. It’s not the moment for this conversation: we haven’t slept much, we’ve refrained from sex so much, and we’ve had so much sex now, it’s all distorted. I thought friendship with sex was a lower class of friendship. It’s not.