Party for Two
New Years was fucking amazing. One of the best I’ve had, I would have to say.
One of my managers asked me, “What did you do for New Years?”
“I checked into a hotel. The Grand Hotel.” I sway my head to the right as I say the word grand, as if this adds some emphasis to the word.
“Oh, that sounds nice. Did you have a party?” I look at her for a second and pause.
“A party for two.” She smiles at me knowingly.
“Oh my and my ex-husband used to that. It’s the best.”
It was. We checked in on the thirty-first and didn’t leave the premises for another two days. The mood was romantic, and we both had been looking forward to spending some intimate time together. The days seem to melt into a haze of bliss.
Ice was constantly clattering into a glass as we made drinks. We’d say cheers as we had shooters. At regular intervals I’d roll us a doob, or pick up a generous roach from the ashtray. We made the best of the pathetic CD player that was provided, blared tunes, spontaneously busting into dance. I would work my way over to where he was standing, and let him whine his bum cheeks expertly over buddy.
During the whole stay, we only got fully dressed once, for when we went down for breakfast. Otherwise, we sauntered around the hotel room in our underwear. They seemed to come off quite easily, as with steady ease we found are selves falling into long pleasure sessions. The sex was intense and frenzied, but at the same time lazy and leisurely, as we knew that we had no other demands. I emerge from the shower after one session and start talking to him about something, while he sat on the edge of the bed. While in mid-sentence, he pulls down my briefs and I am surprised that I am instantly hard as we just had sex ten-minutes ago.
Highlight of the stay would have to be being on the rooftop terrace in the hot-tub. There were traces of snow outside, but the water was a relaxing hot, and we sat and watched the jumbo-tron screen. We sipped our gin and tonics, taking in an excellent view of the city. Mr. Honey Tongue sat across from me, and under the water his foot was stretched out gently massaging my boys.
Conversation is easy, and we talk about everything under the sun. We joke and have ‘nuff laughs. We tease each other, trying to outdo the other with our sarcastic bitchy humor. Or, we snuggle in silence, muttering in intervals some sweet nothing into the others ears. Everything feels so right, I am just happy and satiated the whole time.
I wake up on the second day of the new year, and feel sad. I whine that I don’t want to leave. He says that he doesn’t want to leave either. I get my things ready, and as we are preparing to leave I want to cry. It’s not fair I think. Our little pretend world has expired, and we return to reality. Reality is that we live in opposite ends of the city with our respective parental units. It also doesn’t help that we have totally opposite schedules.
Must move out this year. Must leave this so-called home. Must regain a life.
One of my managers asked me, “What did you do for New Years?”
“I checked into a hotel. The Grand Hotel.” I sway my head to the right as I say the word grand, as if this adds some emphasis to the word.
“Oh, that sounds nice. Did you have a party?” I look at her for a second and pause.
“A party for two.” She smiles at me knowingly.
“Oh my and my ex-husband used to that. It’s the best.”
It was. We checked in on the thirty-first and didn’t leave the premises for another two days. The mood was romantic, and we both had been looking forward to spending some intimate time together. The days seem to melt into a haze of bliss.
Ice was constantly clattering into a glass as we made drinks. We’d say cheers as we had shooters. At regular intervals I’d roll us a doob, or pick up a generous roach from the ashtray. We made the best of the pathetic CD player that was provided, blared tunes, spontaneously busting into dance. I would work my way over to where he was standing, and let him whine his bum cheeks expertly over buddy.
During the whole stay, we only got fully dressed once, for when we went down for breakfast. Otherwise, we sauntered around the hotel room in our underwear. They seemed to come off quite easily, as with steady ease we found are selves falling into long pleasure sessions. The sex was intense and frenzied, but at the same time lazy and leisurely, as we knew that we had no other demands. I emerge from the shower after one session and start talking to him about something, while he sat on the edge of the bed. While in mid-sentence, he pulls down my briefs and I am surprised that I am instantly hard as we just had sex ten-minutes ago.
Highlight of the stay would have to be being on the rooftop terrace in the hot-tub. There were traces of snow outside, but the water was a relaxing hot, and we sat and watched the jumbo-tron screen. We sipped our gin and tonics, taking in an excellent view of the city. Mr. Honey Tongue sat across from me, and under the water his foot was stretched out gently massaging my boys.
Conversation is easy, and we talk about everything under the sun. We joke and have ‘nuff laughs. We tease each other, trying to outdo the other with our sarcastic bitchy humor. Or, we snuggle in silence, muttering in intervals some sweet nothing into the others ears. Everything feels so right, I am just happy and satiated the whole time.
I wake up on the second day of the new year, and feel sad. I whine that I don’t want to leave. He says that he doesn’t want to leave either. I get my things ready, and as we are preparing to leave I want to cry. It’s not fair I think. Our little pretend world has expired, and we return to reality. Reality is that we live in opposite ends of the city with our respective parental units. It also doesn’t help that we have totally opposite schedules.
Must move out this year. Must leave this so-called home. Must regain a life.
posted by dutty brown boi at
1:21 AM
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