in which I imagine you, lusting for me

You were leaning over looking up from some sort of work, your muscular arms braced firmly on the desk, that very clever look on your face. You looked in command of the situation, and seeing you there like that made me want to come up behind you and reach around to unbelt you, to unzip you, to yank down your briefs–carefully, because by the time I got to that, even quickly, your cock would be pressing hard against the fabric, immediately reacting to my brazen interruption. You would not need to run your fingers beneath the lace to know my panties are drenching. You would look back at me and grin, then start to straighten and reach for me, to pin me to the wall and hold my wrists while you kiss my neck and tease me. You would turn back, then push me toward the stairs. But no. I would put my hands over yours on the desk and tell you to stay. Just like that.

But not just like that: I would kick your feet apart a bit then, as you lean now against my dining room table. The windows are open, and you are completely exposed to the ladies who walk by to their appointments next door, if they have the sense to catch a glimpse of your lovely cock through my window. The trees and bushes most likely distract their glances, but maybe they saw you come into my house. Maybe they wish they could have you, too.

Your cock is hard, but it does not interest me now. I click open the bottle of lube and use enough to worry you–enough to grease your secret hot hole, for me to coat my fingers in it, to run my fingers around the tight rim and enter you as you breathe in. Oh yeah. Oh you like it, I know. You love it. You love the feeling of my finger slipping in and out of you, first one, two, the forbidden exquisite pleasure of me fucking your ass, just like that. Your nerves swell,  electric, I follow them, pressing hard, making you moan. I love this.

Little beads form on the tip of your cock. I have pulled my fingers out, your ass still open and gorgeous and succulent, my tongue incapable of resisting you, yes I lick, yes I love to drop to my knees in worship of all that remains obscene in your mind. I push you farther, and know you ache still for more.

I imagine you alone, thinking of this, of me.

I imagine you in a moment when your mind clears of the day, and night comes, or in the morning, the quiet. You think of me here, of yourself leaned over my table and cursing as I open you still wider, as I devour you, let your darkness find the light, as I lube you once more and lube the dildo that is far longer and far thicker than even two of my fingers, as I push it gently into you, then stop. As I push it in farther, then stop. As I push it in to its tip, and then stop. Then pull it out nearly all the way, and push it back all the way. I imagine you fucking yourself with it, just like that.

What do you do when you are alone? Do you shudder still as much as you push the cock into your delicious ass? More, because you do it selfishly, just the way that feels perfect to you?

Do you pull it in and out from the back, fucking yourself hard as you lean over just as you do now?

Or do you recline as I do in a bed with the pillows propped up, your legs spread wide, your ass all open and exposed like my cunt as you reach between your legs and fuck yourself? Do you watch your come-heavy balls tighten as your full ass quivers, as your cock fills and stiffens even more? As you know that even one soft stroke will set off a pearly white fountain of lust?

Do you let yourself come like that? Or do you let yourself calm with the dildo still and deep? Do you let the pleasure wash over yourself slowly, so that when you do stroke your cock, you can control it? Can you imagine still your sweaty palms now all lubed up, too, imagine the narrow slick tube your hand makes into my pussy, now so tight and hot and wet imagining you?

Do you close your eyes and think of the way my breath changes as you push me to climax? Do you dream of this as your own moans escape? Do you try hard to hold back? do you stop to breathe, to squeeze gently, to postpone your excitement just a little? do you prolong the intensity of the fuck, as you do with me? Do you let yourself ache then with  need? with the need to let your cock push to the very end of my cunt one last luxurious time? Do you think of my cry, my incendiary frenzy, my ripe swollen breasts, my lava laden cunt that you at last spill into, the whole of you copious and thick and flowing out of you deep into me, your ass full and deep, your heart full and pounding?

I think of your sweat slick body, you lying on a bed with one hand caressing the end of your cock, with the other firmly grasping the base, with your back arched to keep your biggest dildo from slipping out even a little. I think of you all alone and full of grinding lust. I think of your head turned hard to one side, of your heels dug into the mattress, your rough voice, your breathing, your hands sticky with come.

I think of you, later, dressed and recovered, your cock relieved and resting, your walk reminding you of your ass still slick and open now as you move on with the ordinary, your lust satisfied but not completely.

twitch 2

9:30… nearly a half-hour to drive, very close I think. A half-hour to turn back, not go. A half-hour to contemplate the birder, his thick cock pressed up against his shorts.

I enter number and street name into the GPS and let the voice guide me:

“Turn right.”

“Go straight.”

“Turn left.”

Bend over, on your knees. Kiss me. Lick me.

I am soaking now, I know–my panties clinging to skin, my shorts no better off, my pussy still throbbing now in… what? I think, the window down with the scent of damp lilacs in the cool air surrounding me, an odd wood fire. I try not to let my mind wander too far into the realm of possibilities while I am still behind the wheel.

Around a series of now forgotten curves and turns, I find myself at the edge of yet another forest. Yes, birder the outdoorsman may well live here–it is plausible that he would be comfortable here in this land of ski racked vehicles, bicycles on front porches, rocks and wild things across the yard. A canoe. Reading between the lines of the REI ads, I have always suspected that the underlying adventure always is never so simple as climbing a mountain, but about that most urgent nature, the need urging me here, now. An address, a time. I am on time, and I wait. He is not here.

Or is he?

The birder has a way of appearing suddenly, not answering front doors as ordinary people do, but coming around to the porch from somewhere else, as though he had never left this morning, as though nothing had ever happened, as though it were perfectly normal to turn women around and push them gently through a front door they have never before seen.

Tea. It was tea he offers, black tea. And it is cool outside and warm in his house, suddenly soft here on a sofa, here with the wood burning, and his warm tea breath on my neck, my skin electric as his fingertips trace my hair, the edges of my clothing, as he kisses me here on the sofa. Yes, that giddy hot feeling as he silently grins and unbuttons my blouse, peeling back the fabric and exploring each new inch of skin with his tongue, his cock hard and full against my leg as I lay immobile with lust now lavish and full.

And yes, it is that sharp acidic scent damp with perspiration that I kiss the top of his head as he kneels between my legs and unzips my shorts, rolls them down, pushing my legs back together as he grabs the shorts and tosses them across the room, then opens my legs again, my panties still drenching, caught to my hot skin, not a modest covering, but a souvenir catching the scent of my desire now for hours, the near climax in the woods earlier, the walk, the anticipation, all here in red lace slick, too, and in the way in my own mind, but not in his as he simply moves the fabric aside from my swollen labia, his tongue now close, just touching a shudder. Fuck me now. No. Take the panties, take them off, all the way, please. Let me spread wide open for your lips, your tongue sucking my clit as your fingers explore skin, my dripping desperate cunt. A cunt that wants you now.

Yes, I hold your head half for bearing in this real world, half to keep you from stopping, my legs shaking as I squirm wider open to your face, yes. My near the edge panting–was it moaning, you said later–my need-you fucking good time hoping that you will not stop praying that you will not. I want you, and it is not about the bird now, is it? not about the birds and the morning hike and the pine and the crackling leaves. I want you to flip me over and fuck me hard while you pull my hair–you do not even know my name to shout it. And I want you, want all that you might be and all that you are, your shorts now so crowded that I stop your sacred tongue. I want you, and I stop your tongue and its magic all as I unhook your belt and buttons and zippers and want you, yes, this cock so willing and delicious, so eager as I push down your shorts and your briefs and your cock bounces back my lips surrounding you as you sigh and push deep into my throat just as I wished you may. Wished you might, and your semen beads up, your cock ever harder. I want you to fuck me now, plunge right into my sweet pussy in one quick stroke, your balls tight and wet now, too, you deeper still and motionless inside of me as I try to writhe and pump you, as you push one notch farther in, and my head falls back and lets you, my nipples hard and no longer forgotten as I come once more, as you now pump me and groan as your cock fills me white.

I knew you, birder, I call you, though I do not truly know you are such an avid pursuer of winged creatures like that. Or are you following me, perhaps, in the early morning, wanting me, wanting you?

spring twitch

Birders are a fascinating breed, those oft-bespectacled early risers, out to catch a glimpse of whatever variety of fowl tickles the fancy that day, or week, or season.

Conservative though he may seem, the birder has been known to captivate the careful observer with his particular habits. So, I indulged my own curiosities this weekend and headed into the woods at the break of dawn, armed with my trusty binoculars and notepad, and a backpack full of assorted accessories ready for the right moment. After all, the Lady was once a Girl Scout, and she has never forgotten exactly how to be prepared.

6:00 a.m. I have arrived to the hiking grounds, deciding on the trail that leads toward the river. A note near the park headquarters indicates that the birder has arrived, has already seen a pileated woodpecker.

6:15 a.m. I have sighted the birder walking quickly beyond the meadow, entering another part of the forest. Through binoculars, I watch as he stops, looks around, then looks down before walking a little farther. He hesitates once more before moving on. I follow. The birder is molting, I believe, as he removes a jacket and stretches for a few moments.

6:25 a.m. The birder has disappeared. I followed into the dark forest, but he is nowhere to be seen, although I clearly saw him enter at this point, and there is no clear path he could have taken to elude me. Perhaps he can fly. I walk on.

6:30 a.m. As I have walked on the path, it occurs to me that I have not seen a single other person here, much less a pileated woodpecker. Birders, as I said earlier, are indeed a curious breed, and I wonder at my own curiosity to have wandered here to follow so damned early in the morning.

6:35 a.m. I am still on the path, noting the appearance of thorn bushes–berries perhaps, but none yet at this point. A creek is ahead, and I realize that it is time to stop and pull the blanket and thermos out of the bag, and simply wait.

6:45 a.m. Coffee is good. The morning is lovely, still dewy now and chilly, but not cold. Stirred by the scent of the pines, I long for company, bird-related or not, but settle instead for my own hands brushing my nipples, which harden as I feel my pussy clench, moistening, noting conveniently that the woods are the perfect place of course for a proper fucking, if only a fuck were anywhere on this horizon.

6:50 a.m. Birder be damned, the woods are wonderful, and Girl Scouts always travel with dildos as well as condom, because a ready penis is not always available, but silicone will never let you down. I have unzipped my shorts, fingers stunned by the intensity of the hot wetness beneath my own panties. My fingers quickly find my greedy clit, and I cry out at my own lust, feeling the urgent desire for cock, any cock, now, ramming me by its own power or by my own. In the still of the early morning, I take my shorts entirely off, my red lace panties down to my ankles as I fuck myself with the dildo, ecstatic, the mist in the woods, the sheer joy of masturbation here in my own secret forest, my own

7:00 a.m. I hear a rustling in the trees, and oh my fuck, a groan perhaps. Compromised as I am by my own desire, I quickly pull out the blessed dildo and quickly pull up my panties, find my shorts. I was about to come, damn it.

7:10 a.m. I have walked on through the woods, now quite disheveled and horny, frustrated by the interruption that was evidently not an interruption other than my own fear of being caught, my own wondering if perhaps I should finish the job now, or simply walk on, try to see the pileated woodpecker that drumdrumdrumdrums loudly somewhere–I have spotted him for a moment only once on this walk. A dragonfly–yes, a dragonfly. Swallows swooping in the meadow as I cross over it, wanting, wanting.

7:30 a.m. The river: a heron stands still in a shallow part, waiting, hoping, praying. I wait there, too, wanting.

8:30 a.m. In the parking lot, I see the birder. So there he is.

“Did you see anything,” I call to him as I open my car door.

“I did find the pileated woodpecker,” I say, as he walks over, now standing quite close to me.

“There are all sorts of surprising creatures in the woods today. I took a few notes,” the birder pulled a worn notebook from his backpack, opened the page:

I look at the notebook, drawings of all sorts for pages back, words, numbers. The heron, yes. A snake. Oh. Scanning for filth, I am, and I find none, sadly.

“Yes, well, I never saw the snake,” I said, then blushing.

The birder has not shaved this morning. He stands over me, grinning and not saying a word as I feel myself turn red, as my pussy starts to throb. He reaches to push his glasses up his nose, and looks baffled as I hand back the notebook.

Birders are, as I said, curious creatures. I turn to open the door, ready to go home for a bath and other grooming that has presented itself as necessary this morning.

The birder is now behind me, closer, reaching around to open the door. I wonder briefly if he is completely sane, but change my opinion as he traces my wrist, runs his hand down my hip, and smacks me firmly on the ass.

“It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature.”

“Oh, how was I fooling anyone?” I answer.

“Letting anyone think that you are more interested in pileated woodpeckers than in.. snakes.”

His cock is hard and pressed into my hip now as he growls. I arch my back, let him run his hands down down down–yes! His beard scratches my neck as he kisses my ear, then bites it, his cock throbbing as I gasp and sigh.

A car pulls up. Hikers.

The birder straightens up and tears a page from his notebook, scrawls an address.

“9:30,” he says.

to be continued…


Dear readers, I fear that I have might have much to confess this Christmas morning.

I tried to be good this year. I really did! But I apparently have not succeeded.

Oh yes, dear readers, my stocking was filled with coal!

Filled right to the brim, which I suppose could be a good thing on a cold morning. But given the traditional symbolism of such a gesture on such a day, it is clear that Santa really must have been watching, and knows without a doubt exactly how naughty I have been.

A couple of days ago, as you know, I implored the elf to define naughty and nice. I feared that many of us around here might be getting coal, and frankly, I had hoped for a clearer definition to share with you on this Christmas day. Still I am not entirely sure of anything, except that I have done something.

Oh yes. “Lady D.,” he says, “you have been a very, very bad girl.”

All right. It is true, I am sure. Yes, true! All of it is true.

But how much does Santa know?

And coal is all fine and dandy, but what more does this mean? Oh, Santa, tell me! What becomes of naughty girls?

Does Santa just give coal, or does he punish wicked girls, too? Does he bend them over that red velvet lap of his, and spank? Does he bend them over and hold them down while lifting their skirts, while lowering their panties? Does he hold them down while they squirm and plead and cry? Does he leave their white cheeks all red and hot, their pussies swollen and hot, and wet?

Oh, Santa, no! Not that!

Oh, no. Probably not that.

Now, given the fact that the rest of the day has been rather pleasant–a copper pan for cooking risotto popped up under the tree, for example–I might assume that Santa only wishes for me to know that he knows.

But things are never as simple as they seem. Yes, he will be jovial–all ho ho and all that–and act as though everything is perfectly fine. We will ignore the topic of coal in the stocking, until later tonight, when he asks me about it.

“Oh, Lady D.,” he will say, “what did Santa leave in your stocking?”

And that is the part where I will have to admit to him that I noticed the coal. And he will ask me, I imagine, why I think I might have gotten coal.

And this is when I am supposed to confess, I know.

And to be honest dear readers, it is difficult to know what to tell when I still do not know which part of my fun Santa has deemed naughty. I do so fear the punishment that Santa may ultimately dole out.

So… let me think.

The holidays this year have been festive, ’tis true.

The party last Saturday was a joyous affair. Perhaps my flirtations may have gotten a little out of hand. Anything outrageous was unintentional–at least a little. I confess that I could have stopped earlier.

And it is true that bawdiness was not completely out of the question any other evening last weekend. I did behave myself! (well, at least in public).

And it is true, yes, oh yes!, it is true that my little dinner parties are so rarely altogether innocent. I confess to some level of debauchery. Do I really have to tell more? Do you really want to know?

Oh, Santa! Do I have to admit to all of my pleasure? All of it?

I cover my rear in anticipation. I back off, try to think how I can get out of it, how I might tell part of the truth that Santa already knows. I try hard to fathom how I might phrase things to make them seem less… less… slutty.

So… realistically… I leave it to you. Readers, how could Santa really know that the muffled whimpers and sighs and outright screams are anything more than my own exclamations of the joy of the season?

And it is joy, I am quick to say, that should indeed extend throughout the entire year.

Does Santa need details?

And yes.. yes… I have already said this: I fear that Santa may have more in mind than the coal.

And yet, one friend has already suggested that my deeds–misdeeds-may indeed be more meriting of a trip down the chimney than anything else. But I know all too well that Santa is very likely to be collecting his switches, now that the season of lap dances has ended. I know that he intends full well to use those switches on me, to leave me marked up and excited, to tie me down and watch me squirm in misery.

And ecstasy.

What is a bad girl to do?

Must I tell all about the sensations and the flesh, the feelings, the flush of cheeks? Must I tell everything!?

Oh Santa, as I mentioned here days earlier, yes: I embrace the coal. I accept your gift in all its smutty goodness. Thank you Santa. Thank you.

Will there be anything else?


“One day to come together
To release the pressure.
We need a holiday.”

“Honey, do you know where my g-spot it?”


A g-spot is not a clitoris. It is not the perineum, nor is it labia. It is certainly not a nipple, and it is not that area just inside–oh my–the entrance to my pussy, although, I do admit that once you are there I am nearly gone, gushing, grinding into your hand in some vain effort to show you just exactly where that sacred spot is.

Oh mercy.. you found it. Oh sweet heaven in my bed, you found it, and I can barely stand it, pushed over the edge as you show me that despite your own drained state after the blow job I just gave you, despite your prior feigned ignorance about such matters, you know exactly where I want you to touch me now, exactly what will happen if you press on it just… like… that. Oh yes.

It makes me think a little of the evening before, when we were not alone here just the two of us, when I had my fingers curved back inside a nice warm cunt, my tongue on her accommodating clit. Ah yes, I had always wanted to do that–friends must be for this sort of thing. But you know. You were there, kneading nipples, fingering with admirable dexterity, exploring and satiating your female audience: both of us.

Amazing. Simply amazing.

I am exhausted now, nearly a day after sharing so much. Moments come back to me, in kaleidoscope-like glimpses as I catch variations on the movements: one moment you, one moment me, one moment her, at all moments all three, joined in an intimate space. So warm, so hot.

And still, in the night, more. Much more.

To be continued…

lazy days

It is Sunday afternoon, and I cannot seem to get myself out of bed.

The telephone rings. I know it is you, and yet.. I cannot quite get myself to reach over and pick it up.

I want to tease you, want to torture you little more as you sit still in your car outside my house, knowing I have just spent a good hour upstairs fucking another man. Will you stay? or if you will leave in utter despair at this new level of decadence?

The phone rings once more…
This all was your idea, you know, though you may now regret it. It was your idea to spy on these interludes.

The suitable character for this scenario is a friend of yours, you tell me–I have never seen him. You know my type, though, know I’ll like the beard, the strong shoulders defined by his dress, the white sleeves rolled to the elbow, the fisherman’s cap perched jauntily on his head, the red curls, the fair skin, the faint fresh smell of soap… innocent he seems, though not young. And now he is here, obviously… interested. He is here, and I see your car parked across the street as I open the door and let him into my house. He is standing here in the doorway, takes off his cap right in the spot where you yourself kissed me this morning.

He is perfect, really. Soft-spoken, amusing, as we exchange pleasantries in the hallway. I have made tea, and he takes a cup, sipping as we chat in the living room for a few minutes. The tea is hot, black, sugared, steam in my face, making me flush… or is he making me blush as I warm up, relax? He pages through the purple book on the coffee table, and mentions something about the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River… ah.. yes. Well, then, this is not some thug, some ordinary guy, not a figment of my imagination this time, but a real person you hand picked for me… And as he sets down the book and leans over me, abruptly emphasizing the purpose of this visit.

He is handy with his tongue, quite handy, I say as his soft lips press into mine, his tongue circling slowly, gently, then not so gently as I tease back… and I think of you sitting there in your car. Do you wonder now what we are doing? He is kissing me, kissing my neck, biting me now until the goosebumps appear on my arms. I imagine you there, scanning the radio stations, your cock rock hard.

The thought of you there makes me lustfully giddy. You choose your friends well, my dear, and I hesitate a bit at first as he backs away and takes my hand. I stand, then walk across the room and up the stairs, feeling guilty, perhaps, guilty, as I realize that my panties are already soaking wet.

I dash upstairs, nervous, wanting this, not wanting this. Your friend follows, then grabs my hand again, stops at the top of the stairs and pulls me close, pinning me to the wall. I feel his cock stiff and pressing into my hip as he kisses me silently again, letting his hands run down my hips, my thighs.. He pushes me into the bedroom.

He stands there in his button-down shirt and his suspenders–really?!–and his trousers, and speaks not a word as he unbuttons my gauzy blouse and kisses my nipples–I did not wear a bra. And you are sitting down in the street, in your car, waiting, as I feel my swollen pussy start to throb, aching with excitement.

There you are in your front seat–yes, I can see you now!–sweat running down your bare forehead, a catch in your throat, your heart beating faster as you see me, then a shade… You look up as shadows walk in front of the bedroom window, and then disappear.

And yes, he is still undressing me now, sliding that translucent blouse off my shoulders. I think of you, but my excitement is too much, too much to contain as I fall back onto the bed, as he unzips my snug black skirt, slides it over my hips and stops to admire the black silky panties you gave me to wear today–the same ones you dressed me in this morning. He pushes the lace aside to let his fingers trace my wet labia.. I am so wet, so wet. He smiles at this, and I resist, feigning modesty… He smiles, and I yield, gleefully, as his hands abruptly pull off the soaked satin and push my legs wide apart.

I know that you are there, there downstairs, tapping your hand on the steering wheel, looking at your watch. I know that I want you… and that I am here, my legs still spread open while another man kneels at my bedside with his head between my legs. He lets his tongue tease me for a moment before he stands, then strips his clothes off in front of me. He tosses his shirt, his trousers (suspenders and all) at the foot of the bed, as he pauses, then peels off his briefs and looks at me again, his cock now free and rising from his red curly hair. He reaches into my nightstand–you must have told him–and rips open a condom, rolls it down his huge cock.

Your friend is about to fuck me, and I am not unimpressed with his maneuvers, not uninterested in his fingers now on my clit–so attuned to my breathing–Oh god–as his finger circles then teases, just inside, my moans louder and louder as I arch back, quickly losing all control… “Don’t stop!”–while the phone is ringing, and I know it is you.

I don’t answer, wait, want to, want to tease you at first. And then I want to answer, but cannot answer.. cannot answer as his tongue is now sucking my clit, his fingers reaching inside me as I am so close to coming. So close. I cannot resist, as he stops!, his hands now pulling me roughly to the edge of the bed as he stands and pushes my cunt open, as his cock glides deep into my swollen tight pussy. Oh I need it, need this… His enormous cock fucks me hard, fast–just the way I need to be fucked right now. Just the way you picture it as you sit down in your car below.

I gasp, think I hear the door downstairs, a little afraid, a little hopeful that you have come to watch me here like this. It is only the wind, though, and I look up at this stranger’s face, soft, then tense, his eyes shut–oh fuck–his cock ever closer to bursting… I can feel him swell, as he slows, then pulls out a bit, grunting, breathing…

“You are a good fuck,” he growls, ramming then hard into me. He pushes deeper now, and I feel light, light, feel his cock like fireworks deep inside, dancing… I am drunk in the decadence, sweating, thrashing, as his climax then sends me over the edge, too.

A good fuck? Then I think… I think I have done nothing here, nothing that impresses me personally… There is nothing I can claim but the wanton lust that brought me to this situation in the first place.

I cannot stop thinking of you, there, waiting, tortured, your cock swollen, your mind reinventing all that we are doing here now. I imagine your bulging jeans, still zipped but full of hot envy. I imagine you, as you dial, hear the phone ring, then my message answering as you look at the windows, think of whether to come in, to join us perhaps? Or perhaps just to watch. Or, not.

We fucked, that’s all…

I want you now, want the familiar urgency and moans of you…

I want you, want to feel the rage of you, pushing me into the bed and telling me what a slut I am as you fuck me, fuck me harder and faster than your friend. I want you, want you to tell me how naughty I have been, how naughty you have to spank me now, bent over your knee now and exposed, wet you know as your fingers make their way between my legs, your fingers now wet, fucking my holes forcefully. I want you, want me bent over your lap, you throbbing, you pushing my head down onto your needy cock.

Your friend gathers his clothes quickly, puts them on before he leaves, I am sure. He leaves as soon as he comes, throwing the used condom in the wastebasket as he slips out the door. He turns, and blows me a kiss, winks.

“Thanks to both of you,” he smiles.

And I lie here, lazily wrapped in the bedsheets, lazily lying here, naked, well-fucked and yet wanting you. The phone rings again. I reach across to the nightstand, and pick up the receiver….

double trouble

“I want to fuck you while someone is watching us. I want to watch them, too, and I want to see how excited it makes you…”

These were your words. Remember?

In truth, I have been planning something like this for some time. It all started with an advertisement:

A thousand scenarios run through my mind as I type this…

Yes, it is true. I do have so many ideas of what this is supposed to be, what it may feel like. I am nervous, surprised I even ran the ad, wondering what you think of me for actually doing it.

We are real. Somehow it seems even filthier, more exciting with people who could be your neighbors, or your colleagues. Much hotter. Write and tell us what you like. Be real. This could be a one-time adventure or an ongoing situation if we all enjoy it.

It is filthy, isn’t it? It is hot. I am nearly shaking at what I may have unleashed.

But we are never less human.

I arranged to meet her. And finally, after many mishaps, we did. She is quite attractive, I’ll say, delightful. The bartender appreciated our presence, tried to persuade us to stay, offered us free drinks. The excitement buzzed through us, making us glow, I am convinced of that. But no, we did not take the free drinks. We all have lives we drift back to.

We are ordinary people, dreaming, feeling. She wants to bring a man. I want to bring you.

I wonder what I have done. I am dizzy, surprised, frightened, exhilarated….