Thursday, 5p.m.

I tucked you in so you could catch up on sleep.  We tend to abuse our time like this, staying up longer than we should since we enjoy each other's company so much.    You once told me I have an addictive personality.  While I know you meant I tend to get very attached to something I like, I sometimes wonder if you meant I can be quite addictive to have as well.

Questions.  Sometimes, I find myself surrounded with such questions.  They come and go and they sometimes appear out of nowhere, but when they do manifest they latch on to my head like a latex condom on a hard prick.

Okay.  That analogy was a tad out of place.  Or was it?  Sometimes I can't tell anymore.   I'm older than most expect for someone with raging hormones and an almost insatiable libido.  Someone of my age shouldn't be wanting seconds as often as I  do.   Someone of my age shouldn't still be jerking off at an almost nightly basis.  But is it really that bad to enjoy such a self-serving habit?  Or is it just long ingrained Catholic Guilt still whispering in our ears?

Again, the questions.  

They really come and go quite quickly.  They emerge when you least expect and snuggle between the folds of your brain.  Sometimes the questions are delicious, like warm lubricated fingers that gently slip past your inner ring, and find that sweet spot that makes your body all electric.  These questions are thick and heady and almost always excite you to the point of wanting to share it to others.  Second cousins to rumors.  Bedmates to scandals.   But sometimes, questions are rough, painful and distracting.  They bite hard against your thoughts and you find yourself inwardly squealing like a false masochist tied in the bed of a true sadist.   You strain against the bonds and hear the incomplete answers like the jingle of chains and struggle to find sleep or release.  But all you can do is hear them jingle on and on like a non-stop last song syndrome stuck in reverse.   

There.  I lost it. 
The heat is gone.  The rudely straining erection has relaxed. 
My white boxer briefs will live to see another day.
Or night.
And you will get your sleep.
What?
What was the point of this story?

Now that is a question, isn't it?

-----

by Tobie

Another Webcam Night

"So are you going to jerk that off for me?"

I glanced away from the screen and stared at my own body.  Sweat traced the arcs of my chest, sliding down the curves of my slightly defined abs.  Some clung to the tangle of hair of my delicate love line; a black lush from my belly button all the way down to my crotch.  My cock was rock-hard, proudly towering above the trimmed growth of hair.  I didn't like shaving.  I was always happy to have this hirsute body I was given.  I saw no joy in trying to make it look prepubescent.


"Are you going jerk off?" the voice came again and I looked back up towards the screen.  The built-in webcam stared back at me with its red eye.  On the screen, a window showed the stuttering image of... his name was lost somewhere between my brain and my lips.  While this wasn't the first time I allowed him to watch me relieve myself of orgasmic tensions, I always recognized him because of his avatar picture instead of his name.   The website allowed its member to change their names whenever they wanted, you see.   A small privilege which I found strange, if not counter-productive to making friends.  Why all people to change the very thing they use to identify themselves, I will not understand.   Then again, I never liked using handles or aliases.  Even in that social network, I refused to enter something witty or informative like camluvingtop or hairycumgusher.  I used my name.

The other guy, on the other hand, loved changing his name a lot.  When I first met him, he called himself Desert, which I thought was in reference to the image of a Frank Herbert sandworm or Shai-hulud which he had as an avatar image.   A quick chat later revealed it was meant to be a pun; something about wanting to be rained upon by another man soon.  When I bumped into him online again a few weeks later, he was calling himself JacobLovesYou.  I shot him a message in jest, telling him Twilight will forever suck in my book.  He shot back I had my fandoms wrong and that he was referring to a certain island and the Dharma Initiative.  That was his name when we first cammed.  He told me it was a social-experiment, like in the show.  I found it geekily a turn-on and decided to let him watch.   There were many other names after that.  Today, I think he called himself Sixty of Nine, another pun-name inspired by Star Trek:Voyager and what I presume was his favorite sexual position.    But still, as his profile pic, is the hungry open-mawed toothy image of the monstrous sand worms of Arrakis.

He never joined me though.  He would always only watch.

His webcam would be on, mind you.  He would gladly show his face, back lit by the fluorescent bulb on the ceiling and given a bluish tinge by the glow of his laptop screen.  The first time we did this, he was shirtless and having fun getting me more and more aroused by exposing his armpits and licking his lips.  I always had a thing for men's armpits which I never quite understood on a logical level.  Maybe it had to do with seeing someone's hair from a place of the body not normally visible?  The musk and sweat giving the black bush a lively look?  The idea it matched the most-likely maintained bush that surrounded his cock?

I would sit back, shirt pulled over my head but still worn to catch the sweat of my back.  I would have the monitor angled forward, to better catch the area of my crotch, but not so much as to deny me the pleasure of seeing how much he was enjoying the view.  I was used to jerking myself off with either hand, but for camming, the left hand was always what I used.  It allowed my right hand to still quickly type messages if need be, or to use the mouse if I needed to cancel any other messages that might be shot my way, asking for permission to watch as well.  If the net was quiet, however, my right hand would waste no time in helping the left.  There were many other things it could do, after all, to help me reach my peak.  Most had a thing for tweaking their nipples, playing on the swollen points like rubber nibs that were dying to be abused.  At times I would cup my right hand on the upper half of my shaft, teasing the head with rotating twists while my left continued its constant motions.   Or at times, both hands moved in unison, like warm deep fuck that tightened where I wanted it to.   I preferred tugging at my balls, feeling the slack sack  tighten in response.  I would hold the balls from the base, feeling the tension add to the rising tide of pleasure.

I would always be loud.  To the very least, my breathing would be heavy and deep.   My mouth would channel the air in and out, building in speed and frequency as I neared the point of no return.  Other times, I would get verbally expressive, talking to the viewer as if he were in the room.  I'd ask if he was liking the show.  I'd tell him to give me directions.  I'd dare him to do the same on his end.   And when I'd cum, I would moan so loud I was certain that the neighbors could hear and would talk about it for the days to follow.  I would end up cursing how good it felt.  I would call out to God.

And what a majestic mess would I leave in the end.  The spasms would come and with each release, I would arc myself back so much the chair would almost snap.  My legs would straighten beneath the table, at times enough to buckle the laptop backwards.   My hand would be clamped around the engorged shaft, pumping against the purplish head that released each surge of cum.  I would groan in sync with each ejaculation, barely breathing as my mouth gasped for air.     Thick ropes would hang on my skin mingling with the sweat and threatening to drip onto the floor.    I would be spent.  Exhausted.  But so overwhelmed with pleasure I would probably take a minute or two before I could type an "all done."

And yet, he would never join.

Other would have given in, sliding their shorts away and lifting their eager cocks to join my masturbatory show  once I got myself really going at it.  There would be those that would stand by then, wanting to show off their own throbbing dicks and perhaps imagining themselves above me, wishing somehow the monitor was not a screen but a window to where I was.  They would groan and curse and let fly their own explosive releases in time with mine, gasping and laughing and wiping themselves clean amid apologetic "thank yous" and complimentary statements that hide a desire to do it again.

He, however, would simply watch.  He would smile and nod and from where his eyes were focused on the feed, I can see he never allowed himself to be distracted by other things.  He would watch and wet his lips and eventually, silently, without prompting, slide an arm out of his shirt, then slowly lift the shirt over his head, to hang like a deflated backpack around his other arm.  He would then lean slightly closer, perhaps to see the details of my body better, but his hands would never seemingly disappear too long.  He would occasionally scratch his chin, or stretch his arms and expose his armpits to me, then lock his hands together behind his head and hold that position I so love seeing him take while he inhales deeply to a beat matching my own.  Sometimes, he would slide a hand down the valley of his chest, trickling his fingers against the lighter growth of hair that he has there, before dipping it down, past the limits of the camera, perhaps to touch himself.  Perhaps not.  But never long enough to suggest he would be joining me.  Never long enough for his meaty bicep to begin a rhythmic flexing suggested he, too, was jerking off.

I didn't mind though.

Admittedly, there was something titillating about the idea he was watching me.  There was something.. is there a word for the reverse of voyeuristic... that was going on.  His focused dark eyes and gaping mouth would ignite fires within my body, sizzling my nerves to a growing frenzy.  His lush armpits and well-formed chest would edge me further closer to a rising climax, inviting me to bury my face against him as I came.  Perhaps it was the lack of actual activity on his end which enticed me more, allowing me to dream the most perfect sexual trysts that never happened.  Perhaps by simply watching, he became a fantasy.  A perfect virtual fuck.  A personal brand of porn that I alone was ever to own.

"Are you going to jerk off?"

I smiled.  My left hand was already sliding its fingers around the fat base of my cock.  A droplet of precum had already emerged from the hole and threatened to slide down the length of my veiny shaft.  My right hand reached for the keyboard and quickly typed back:

Only if you watch.  And only watch.

-----
by Tobie Abad

Behind a Wall of Dancing

The music pounds a hypnotic beat.

Harder and harder.

Bass throbs through our bodies as you hands clamp against my head.

My lips part; hints of alcohol escape with my breath.

You lean close.

Your eyes locked at mine.

"Kiss me," you command.

And I pull back.

The lights swirl around like sirens

luring the unwary to their doom.

Smoke surges through hidden alcoves

and bathe us in cold swirling cloaks,

hiding us from prying eyes.

"Kiss me," you demand

And I pull back once more.

Beer bottles clink in the darkness.

Hands grope against sweaty bodies.

Tongues slide against tongues.

We kiss.

The music shifts.  

You pull back

And leave.

I guess I should have warned you.

I bite.

---

by tobie

2pm, a Saturday

I watch as he sleeps, naked like the first night we made love.

His body rests so peacefully against the white sheets.   

His skin, moist from the sweat summoned by the summer heat.   

With each breath, his chest heaves and his nipples seem to yearn - desperate for attention.  His eyes are closed, but his half-open mouth seems to whisper to me.

Closer.

Take me.

Please.

I feel a stirring beneath my boxer briefs, as a part of me rises in response. But no.  He is sleeping.  

He needs his rest.  

I stare at myself and realize I will have to beat that part of me to submission so he can sleep.

Beat it til it finally relents.

And like my lover, 

naked against the white sheets,

goes to sleep.

His eyes were closed...

His eyes were closed but his lips moved as they struggled to form words.    The syllables danced drunkenly across his tongue however, as no sounds he made could transform into anything coherent.   The rise and cresting of sensations were just too much, overwhelming any semblance of expressive self-control.  He felt the other's warm hands continue the ministrations, running circular motions between his aching muscles.  He felt the nudging firm touch pressing deeper against his skin.  It was gloriously painful and yet indulgently satisfying.  He took a deep breath and swallowed all the stress and frustrations of the day away.

This was heaven.

This deep and oil-enhanced melding of the senses.

When it was over, he opened his eyes and waited for his vision to adjust to the dim light.  He was alone now, save for the soft voices in the vicinity that were enjoying their own private indulgences.  He slowly rose from the bed and saw the tiny envelope left beside his keys.  Smiling, he took both and got dressed and reminded himself to tip his masseur generously for such an effective massage.

Sometimes, it can be almost better than sex.

Almost.

-----

by tobie

Dealing With It Alone.

The noises were the cue things were about to get messy.

I slid my hand down hoping to calm it, but it had a mind of its own.

The spray exploded out of my control, a sudden gush that drenched me

all over my arms, my sweat-soaked chest...

...I remain thankful I was fully naked.

But even as control finally came and the torrent calmed down to drips

I exhaled deeply and tried to recover from the earlier tension.

The worst had already passed, after all.

I knew my partner would probably give me a knowing smirk.

Having chosen to do this alone was probably not too smart

but he understood that I had my needs.

I was never the kind of man to ignore things that needed my attention.

And this growing problem had to be tackled one time or another.

While I knew my partner would have probably preferred I waited for him

I just thought I could tackle this cleanly on my own.

I guess I was wrong.

So here I am now, messily wet all over,

but at least the problem has been dealt with.

The faucet is finally fixed.

-----

by tobie

Morning Would...

...last a bit longer,

one would hope.

It was your warm hand that stirred me.

Your fingers slid across the valley of my back

and rested at the space between my buttocks.

I raised my head from my pillow

still half-submerged in a barely-remembered dream

and you leaned close to kiss me.

Your mouth unlocks my eyes.

I see your naked body slide against mine

and the sheets of the bed shy away.

We share the bed

and keep the cold away 

by ourselves.

A few more minutes

before work demands I go.

----

by tobie

On the topic of delectable dots and biological buttons

Your nipple is an island of pleasure.

A solitary haven

thrusting towards the sky from a sea

the color of silken coffee.  

There are tiny creases upon it;

like the fine lines upon one's lips

that whisper of secret things.

Unlike the bashful mimosa

it yearns for my touch

and hardens from the slightest contact.

Your nipple is an island

And my mouth, the coming tsunami.

Earthquakes.

Eruptions.

Then soothing silent calm.

(time to visit the other one)

----

by tobie

A Quickie Update, and a teaser on Quickie Fiction

It has been a while since I wrote something other than a piece of quickie fiction or a new geekwood entry.  And mind you it is not because of a lack of things to say.  God knows I have a lot of thoughts on being gay, being a geek, being a gay geek, being a guy, being a guy who likes guys, being a gay guy who still likes girls, being bisexual, being a gamer, being a gay gamer, being a geeky famer, being a gay geeky gamer...  and more.

And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

From blog action day topics, to theorgy initiated discussions (or at least discussion, since they haven't followed up on more), I can also write about my bar escapes, food recipes, drinking anecdotes, dating, sex, raising a family, caring for a home, style, reading, shows, movies, books, comics, toys, theater...

It is just that lately things have been a tad more taxing for me.  My partner was having some rough times when his wallet was picked by some bastard on the public railway.  I, on the other hand, had to deal with some doofus slamming their car into mine while on the highway.  Toss in the additional complications of ticket refunds, vacation planning, friends who had to move, parties that we weren't invited to, parties that we were, reunions, out of town trainings and our usual weekly gaming night and yep, time does get kinda scarce real quick.  But ultimately, one learns to balance things out, resist the temptation for quick fixes and unimportant acts of stupidity and learns to hold on to what matters more.

I guess for now though, allow me to leave this:

Quickie Fiction
My quickie fiction pieces are short stories that are born from events that have transpired, people I have met, places I have been to and anecdotes that I have either witnessed or was part of.  While I do mix and match things enough to maintain a fictional narrative, all the elements are born from something real.

I don't really know yet if I would be ready to outright narrate actual notes of my life in the way I do in my fiction (especially when it comes to matters of sex and making love) since I do hold in high regard my relationship with my partner and would not want to come of as attempting to flirt or titillate others using my blog.  While I am sure there are jerks who hold a relationship with one hand, then use their other hand to cyber sex whoever easy prey comes their way, I am frankly not one of those kinds of people.  And I even detest further those who use the net as an avenue to declare passion and love for someone else while claiming to be in a happy stable money-raining relationship.  Ugh.

But yes, read it carefully and you might find some gems hidden in the open in my quickie fiction.  Or hell, you might even find some touches that reflect something you know yourself!

While I might not score the hundreds of followers or visitors other gay blogs have, thanks to their soft-core porn posts and their frequent updates on celebrity skin, I am happy enough knowing there are those who appreciate much more intelligent... if not morally-aware blogging that is not afraid to be honest about the fact we are still all sexual beings.

Thanks for being a reader!

Count me OUT!

It is National Coming Out Day.

I am proud to be Out.

Never be afraid to be yourself.

Once again, I thank my partner Rocky Sunico for giving me the support and courage to finally take this step forward.  Being able to truly celebrate and be myself is a joy every one deserves to have.

Go 8-bit Happiness!!!

Got a load of stuff in mind for this blog.  Frankly, I'm happy as a katamari to see how there actually has been an increase in the number of readers I have in this blog.  Google Analytics reveals very interesting search key words that have lead people here, as well as which other sites have been instrumental in helping me gain more hits.  

Among the things I have in mind:

1) A short post I guess on what lead to me creating this blog in the first place

2) More Geekwood posts.  I have to make sure I widen the scope.  Comics should include manga, European comics, and possibly even local komiks.  Maybe more entries from video games, roleplaying games, and even books.

3) More Quickie Fiction.   As well as a post on the origins of Quickie Fiction stories.  Here's a little known fact:  They are not purely fictional stories.

4) Maybe even start a gay-centric online comic.  I've been wanting to do one years back, even before Diliman first found its home online.  But as always, performance anxiety gets to me.  But as Carlo Vergara of ZsaZsa Zaturnnah always tells me, "Don't be afraid.  Just do it.  Gawa lang ng gawa! (Just keep making comics!)"

But yeah, coming out was definitely a highlight in my life this year.  From actually doing it, to writing about it as part of an online event, I can only hope my own experience will help inspire someone else to do the same.  There truly is a joy in being able to proudly be who you are and stop living in fear.

Again, Happy Coming Out day everyone!

On the Dance Floor

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In the Dark

His hands were fumbling against my belt.

We first met during the night of a full moon.  I was bored and online, surfing through profiles upon profiles of men who seemed to have fit my list of preferred qualifications, when his private message reached my inbox.  I stared at the tiny black number one that was bordered by a yellow burst of color and for a moment wondered if it was really meant for me.  Not being out back then, I did not sport a picture of myself in my profile.  Everyone knows people who did not sport a profile picture rarely received any messages in a social network.  More so in a gay one.

I reached down and offered to unbuckle it myself.  He grunted and instead spun me to face the other way.  With his arms wrapped around me from behind, he slipped the belt free.  I could feel him hard and ready against me from behind.  His jeans did little to conceal that fact.

As rare as it was to get a message, the one he sent was far from conventional.   Most opened crudely with inquiries on one's preferred sexual role: Are you top?  Do you bottom?   His message, while far from the eloquence of Shakespeare, did stand out:

Was wondering if you were bored as I was tonight.  

Hitting a bar and was hoping to drag someone along with me to drink with.  

No promises.  Just company.  

It sounded smug.  Arrogant even.  And clearly, while written to not sound like a sexual invite, clearly implied that the idea was considered but left "on hold" pending actually meeting.   I glanced at the time and realized it was nearly midnight.  It took me barely a second to realize I too was bored.

My last meet up was a disaster.  The guy, while not unattractive, was far from what I had expected to see.  Photoshop seems to be liberally used on profile pictures as of the late, and his showed a greater mastery in the art of smoothening and blending.  His name never lingered in my head.  What did were the craters that marked his face by the unforgiving powers of acne.  But it wasn't his blatant act of deception of his looks or his apparent marked countenance that earned him the label of being an absolute bad night, it was his desperation to convince me to sleep with him.

Barely fifteen minutes into the conversation, Mr. Pimple asked nonchalantly, "So, you are a top, right?"  I was driving and tried not to scowl.  I failed miserably.  "Was that the only reason you wanted to meet up?"  I don't think he heard my reply.  Because what followed was an unabashed admission of how he liked it rough and dirty.

He ran his hands across my body, with his fingers coming to rest against my chest.  I did not have much of a body, I must admit.  Going to the gym was just a recently gained interest of mine.  His body suggested a much longer affair with free weights.    I was about to say something -- perhaps suggest we move to the bedroom -- but he quickly clamped one hand over my mouth and slowly shook his head.  I felt his rough chin brush against my nape as he did so.

I wanted to turn around and face him.  I wanted to kiss his lips and taste his tongue.  I wanted to see his eyes.  But his hand on my face held fast and firm, keeping me from moving.  His other hand pried free the buttons of my jeans and allowed the denim to hit the floor.  My body felt trapped underneath the rest of my clothes.  I strained to move, but his embrace had a power over me.  A control.  And while I knew I had the strength to push him aside, deep down I felt I did not want to.

"If you didn't want to fuck, why did you message back?"  I stared at Mr. Pimple and tried not to sneer at him.  He reached for my pants for the fourth time and I pushed his hands back like I had earlier.  I told him that wasn't what I wanted.  Was it too strange to want to actually spend the first night getting to know one another?  Was a conversation so alien a concept?  "You know, you can just fuck me quick and I'll head home.  At least my night won't be an utter waste."

I shoved him out of my car and left him cursing on the street.

A disaster.

But this time, the message sounded more like what I had been hoping to find.  I ran his words through my head again.  As bored as I.  Drink with.  No promises.  Company.  I quickly typed a reply and stated yes a drink would be nice.  My fingers moved faster than my brain and added how not having sex was fine too, but definitely not off the menu for future meet ups.  Thankfully, my eyes caught up and alerted me from clicking send in the nick of time.  I deleted the last two lines and kept it simple.  There was no need to sound like I was looking too far ahead.  No need to sound too anxious.

"Yes, a drink would be nice.  Where and what time?  I've got a car."

I stared at the full moon as I waited for the light to turn red.  I had a simple pair of jeans on and a plain white tee.  I wasn't much into clothes.  Didn't care for the labels.  He looked like he did.  Or at least his profile picture suggested that much.  Few people who cared little for clothing brands would ever have their picture professionally taken.  His clearly was.

He was standing at the corner where he said he would be, illuminated by the windows of a nearby convenience store.  His hair was longer.  Messier.  His clothes much simpler than his picture offered.  He was tall, just above six feet, and that made him taller than me.  A soul patch on his chin.  A cigarette lit against the night's cold.  I stopped the car and opened the door.  We exchanged hellos.  He waited to be invited in.

We drove to a nearby cafe and ordered something to drink.  We traded stories.   Hobbies.  Anecdotes on what we were interested in.  He shared his recent attempts to find new friends.  I shared my disaster stories.  We were both veterans in the search for friends in a sea that sold only sex.    We talked for hours and yet I barely felt the passage of time.   It was an exhilarating feeling though, to talk and feel like you could say anything freely.   And he gave me that.

I felt him pulling against his own pants.  His hand fumbled once more against the buttons.  I reached back to help.  He pulled my hands away.  I obeyed.  He kicked his pants off and I heard land a few feet away.  His hands grabbed my shirt and pulled it upwards, forcing my hands to rise up with the cloth.  Blind for that moment, I felt him clamp his hands over my chest.  Rough fingers hunted for my nipples.  He squeezed.  I shuddered.  I pulled the shirt over my head slid it completely free.  He squeezed again.   I wasn't sure when he slid his own shirt off, but when he pulled me close I felt his hairy body press against mine.  He was warm.  Comforting.  A heat against the cold of the metal chain around my neck.  In the feeble light, the crucifix reflected nothing but shadows.  

And then he pushed me against the wall.

We met a few more times.  We talked often.  Instant messengers were close allies.  Text messaging more so. Barely a week in, our conversations began to touch on things that were far more personal.  Dreams.  And the roots behind them.  Fears.  And the incidents that left their scars.  He learned of my last relationship.  Of the four long years of lies that I was never blind to.  I simply told myself it was better than being alone.

And he told me of his son.

We went out often, drinking and dancing at times, depending on the mood.  We never kissed.  We never flirted.  But oh, how we danced.  We moved with the music like the world ceased to spin.  We moved and we danced like it was a language we alone could speak.  We danced.  And we never danced with anyone else.

I felt him press against me again.  I felt his breath against my neck.  I wanted to speak.  I wanted to ask where this was leading to.  Was this the turning point?  Was this the time we finally admitted the presence of a growing desire that had been well nurtured those last few months?  Were we finally at that moment when we realized how much we had in common?  How little we had to fear of one another?  Was this the moment when the seed of friendship bloomed into something far more tangible?  Far more real?


I turned around and this time he relented.  He looked at my body, a stark white against the darkness, and slowly began to smile.  I was breathing heavily, uncertain if it was the time for words.  He was dotted with sweat and slid his thumbs behind the band of his boxers.

The rest of the world understood.  Our favorite haunts would open their doors for us when we arrived, together or on our own.  His favorite haunt was this place in Quezon City.  The second floor was exclusively meant for guests of the owner.  And Him.  But each time I showed up ahead of him, I would be allowed upstairs without a second thought.  It felt special.  It felt nice.

Waiters knew what our drinks were.  And the deejays played our songs.

Was I falling for him?  I wasn't sure then.  I was, however, happier than I had ever been.  I felt a connection and felt that was enough.   I felt my company was appreciated and enjoyed and thought nothing more of it.  He never flirted around.  I never felt I needed to.  We were just happy.  We were just together.

It was nearing the end of a friend's birthday party when I decided to ask if he wanted to come over.  I had never asked before.  He said yes.   We reached my house after half a bottle of tequila and a few more shots of Jagermeister.  He asked to use the bathroom.  I locked up and lead him to the closest one.  The lights were out and the windows were open.  The dawn was still an hour away.

We fumbled in the dark.  He stubbed his toe against an unseen chair.  I steadied him from falling.  He clutched his hands around my waist.  His hand found my belt.   He fumbled.

That was a few seconds ago.  

Now, we stared at each other's face.  We breathed in unison, feeling a growing passion that was fanning into a flame.  I think this is how it begins.  How passion grows into something far greater than one night stands. I think this is how one falls in love.

He reaches for his boxers.  I grin, excited to make love to the man who has grown to know me.  I am happy to know he knows me as well.

This was no one night stand.

"No promises."

And that quickly, it was cold again.

-----
In the Dark
a quickie fiction by tobie