I remember him very well. He has full lips, bouncy body, dark hair and wide doed eyes, likes taking selfies, which I usually refrain from, and sweated all the time. “It was the weather,” he said, to which I replied “Come on, you’re Brazillian.”

With Brazillians, the pickup strategy goes very simple. One magic word: cachaca, and it just happens. Futuro was no exception. He was supposed to go to my place to show me how a caipirinha should be made under the hands of an authentic Brazillian but we ended up having a beer in his fancy hotel room instead. Who doesn’t like a luxurious whoring nest?

But what differed him from the rest of the Brazillians was, except for his youthful and naive good look, something else.

After my refusal, he let me take the sweet hole right by the room window. The image of the encounter that lingers was of him holding on to the sofa and the curtain with his head pointed downwards to the floor. We didn’t stop there and threw each other onto the bed. It was migrating. To any space that could possibly occupied in the room. And it all ended up with my cumshot landing all over his face.

He rushed to the bathroom to wash the cum off his eyes and then walked back to the bed in a funny manner. To my surprise, he told me he hadn’t been fucked in a long time and mostly top. And to my other surprise, he put my now-softened manhood into his mouth again and let it growingly take up the space inside the kissable haven.

It could have been just like that, just another souless hookup. But upon my leaving, which was at around 7 pm only, he was holding my hand back, looking straight at me and asked me to stay.

I hate it when a guy does this. I’ve taught myself to master the trick of breaking it first or getting the other to break it on you. But at the same time, I like hearing this sincerity because it is a sign that there could be more than just physical pleasure, that there is also desire rather than only lust and horniness, and that he sees me as the object of such desire.

Sometimes, I still read his last message since it provides a brief joyous moment. “If only we had one more night.” I didn’t stay that day nor come over the following day as he had expected but yeah, if there had been one more night, I wouldn’t mind.

This entry was published on June 19, 2016 at 12:43 am. It’s filed under Futuro and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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