Yes. The first Friday I'm not working nor dead fucking tired of doing so. I was even invited out, but I can't. I'm not sure if it's worth telling you readers why I ended up choosing to stay at home tonight when for the first time in quite a long time I really feel like going out and have some fun, even if this meant only sitting around a convenience store, having Ices and few cigarettes with an only friend. It's a very sad and personal story I hoped to be drowned in vodka in a few hours. Luckily I still had some left.
Of course I was expecting the night to be a complete waste, but somehow - in a way I will always ask myself how come - turned out into something good. Maybe I just can afford to be indecently optimistic because of these smiles life saves for me among the darkest corners of my existence.
And suddenly tonight I don't really feel like telling you again how good it is to be fucked by his dick. It seems boring to describe once more the lustful feelings of his parts against mine. Suddenly tonight I wish I could make you figure the charming sound of his laughing, the childish innocence of his smile. I know you might get the chills when I write about the dripping orgasms he gaves me, but would you be able to understand how it feels when we're holding hands, caressing each other's thumbs? And when he gently takes my hair out of my face, this never gave me nipple erections, but get my heart so warm I could feel my spirit melting. And you'd never guess that his eyes shine brighter when he's telling something funny than giving any of his hottest sexy looks. That ones that makes me wet only in remembering it. A chemistry so powerful I can bring it over and over, night after night, the same fantasy, the same memories kept with the whole of my body to recreate the best moments almost as if I could feel him inside me.
But no matter how many words I can use, I will never be able to make any other person to have the slightest glimpse of how do I feel when I see him doing something funny just to make me smile. Or when he smiles at something funny I do -even involuntarily. Specially involuntarily, I'd say.
But while writting about his sex usually fills me with his presence, remembering about his love makes me conscient of his absence. As if his essence lived among the lines of each erotic story, and every sweet memory of his being was telling that he's not here. And I dunno whether I'm lucky or cursed. All I am sure now is that i'm going to sleep.
Happy.
=)
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