Is my flesh not enough for your appetite?
Waking up today with the familiar sour that revisited after a year in long hiatus, I find myself thinking about Koen. Another text message. “Are you OK?” Somehow I’d really love to reply, to rush over to his place, where I’d thought that I could find my shelter.
But it’s too difficult. My mind keeps travelling back to that spa, to its website that I found on Google last night, to its paid super VIP service with extra masseurs which I bet you chose since you have always been that kind of luxurious, rich and over the top kind of person or, in your words, “a diva” I used to call mine.
And then It hit me so hard that there has never been a fair competition for me to start with. Those guys in that website are much hunkier, bigger and probably (or definitely) better in sex than me. Maybe at least those guys suck you off which I’ve never finished. Or they have let you fuck them which is also something that I’ve never ever even thought of doing. Maybe what you find lack in our sexual routine might as well be made up substantially by those young and fun hunks, with your generous tips that was normally used partly in our meals, art tickets or movies.
After all, we were just pulled together by loneliness. Now that one of us has find another way to compromise with it, I guess that attachment is gone. All that was left is this bitterness in the tip of my tongue.