I had left Australia, a hungry wreck. And I was eager to make up for that little lack by returning to my beautiful France.
The only hitch, I return without an apartment, without a nest to welcome my one-night lovers.
I do believe the frustration may last a little longer than expected.
Back to the good old-fashioned network
If there’s one person who never stopped writing to me in Australia, it’s my little Parisian Italian.
I could make an album with all the penis pictures he sent me on my trip. But after all, she’s pretty good looking, I don’t find it distasteful.
After so much sexting, it was time to see him again. But friends, family, and lack of an intimate place delayed our date.
Mr. is a roommate and he refuses to let us go to his place. So the solutions are getting slim.
He wants it all, to see me, to do everything we talked about, add to that a threesome, an orgy and so on, but until then, nothing happens.
Then he disappears, impossible to write to him, I no longer understand. It is with his tail between his legs that he finally comes back and explains to me. Mister thinks he has an addiction to sex.
Indeed, my dating isn’t likely to help him on this. I am a pedagogue, and I concede to a coffee in friendship, no more.
When I meet him at a coffee shop down the street from his house, he makes himself wait. Finally, it’s almost not weird to see him after a year and a half.
He smiles at me, he looks a little embarrassed. We sit at the café, talking about everything and nothing. I feel his gaze on my naked thighs, I feel that my outfit has an effect on his crotch.
Yet I am cold, I feel no excitement. I came there as a friend, not more. He tries to warm me up, he puts his hand on my upper thigh, and looks at me sensually with his big black eyes.
At first, I don’t respond. But he persists, so I bring up his disappearance, his so-called “sex addiction.” I’d like to believe him, even though to me, a girlfriend is probably hiding behind it. I say no, no, nothing will happen.
But the caresses, the words and my lack of willpower gets the better of me. He offers me to join his stairwell. We can’t go up.
I hesitate. Oh, what the hell. A park, a stairwell, it’s kind of the same struggle.
So I follow him, enter his building lobby. He pulls me by the hand, he is hyper excited.
Me too, my excitement is rising, I too am craving it.
We enter the courtyard, finally it will not be in the stairwell but in the corridor that leads to the garbage room… Safer, but less glamorous.
I’m scared, I stand tight against the door, to make sure I block it if someone comes in.
I oscillate between excitement and the desire to give up. He kisses me, his tongue trying to imprint his desire on me. It is rather effective. His hands are getting wandering, and so are mine.
Oh but say so, indeed, he is quite excited this one. I slowly lower my lips and squat down facing him.
My pupils are nothing but vice and unsavory desires. I pull down his shorts and I discover his completely tense penis. My lips land on it naturally, I know it well this little, well this big…
I barely have time to play with it, I feel it clench between my lips, and the cream pours out.
Okay, I didn’t think it would be that fast. He laughed embarrassed. The situation, the expectation, me, in short everything excited him, he couldn’t hold back.
That’s a bit flattering, but it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth (literally and figuratively). Not enough? Or is it the feeling that I did something wrong?
Let’s hope the next time is better….