I should just blame it on the boots and leave it at that, all these years later: I still don't have it through my thick head. How surreal. I just sat there in plain sight, beer in hand, and flirted, and he flirted back, and boy did it get me into trouble. Truh-Bull. I became my worst nightmare, and he stayed just the way he was. Driving to his empty house in silence, past my apartment, knowing I should just get out, pushing through his back door, putting my hands on his face and kissing him like there was no tomorrow, taboo and hot and I still hate myself for it. He proved the point by going for the laces on my up-to-there boots, rather than the zippers. Men can be so stupid. But. Then. Well. So can I. When it was all said and done, the best he could muster was that he'd never had better sex. I hated him for being so shallow, even though I still fall asleep hoping I'll find someone to top him and his god-damned go-juss cock. And that's how K and I met, in the end, after all that time. Mr. fucking Man.
Updated June 2024 | Acknowledgements | Copyright ©1998-2024 Risa Horowitz