counter, holding the plate, occasionally sipping an Italian imported wine that I’d picked up on sale for $125.
I like good food and wine. It’s my guilty pleasure, especially when I’m trying to get my mind off of stress. And tonight certainly qualified.
With my guilt over how the evening ended subsiding, my thoughts turned to the other tragedy that had occurred: getting worked up without coming.
Logic had made a comeback in that hotel room and had won out over my cock. And what a battle it was, considering how exquisitely gorgeous Catherine was.
Golden blonde hair past her shoulders. Crystal green eyes, a short nose, and full lips that I could have had fun with in a number of ways. Perfectly sized breasts, too, with the nipples slightly perked upwards. She was not thin and not overweight, definitely a body built for sex.
She had once referred to herself in an email as “average.” I wondered why, and figured it was one of those cases wherein someone sees themselves entirely different than the world sees them.
My cock hardened as I stood there in the kitchen finishing off the glass of wine, thinking of what could have been with Catherine earlier.
Goddamn. Maybe I should have stayed.
No. No.
I was getting sloppy because of sex. Couldn’t let it happen. Wouldn’t let it happen.
I had to prev ent myself from falling into the dick-over-mind trap, and there was only one way to achieve that. At least in the short term.
Once the water in the shower was warm enough, I stepped in w ith a bottle of KY Ultraglide. Standing under the hot water, I opened the little bottle and got just enough to make my hand slick. I wouldn’t need much, not as worked up as I had gotten myself. Or rather, as worked up as Catherine had gotten me.
I was finished and out of the shower in less than five minutes.
I looked at myself in the mirror as I toweled myself dry. Who had I become? What had I become? Not just tonight, but over all these years.
I was approaching the age of thirty and living what some might call the life of a playboy. And not even a glamorous one, at that. It was more the life of an opportunistic rogue, snatching up the chance to be with a woman whenever the occasion presented itself.
The only thing I didn’t feel badly about that night was the fact that Catherine knew all of this going in. I had made her well aware of the circumstances. She’d known them for months, actually, so it’s not as though she had been duped at all. Hell, I had done everything to warn her, short of having her sign a contract.
As I brushed my teeth, staring at my eyes in the mirror and wondering all of these things, I thought maybe the contract wasn’t such a bad idea.
That thought lasted all of five seconds. Of course a contract was a bad idea. It was a terrible notion when it came to some kind of fuck-buddy arrangement, just as it was a terrible idea in terms of getting married.
You’re either with someone or you’re not, contracts be damned. It’s my belief that those who stick around without a contractual agreement tethering them to another person have the real bond, anyway.
. . . . .
Before getting into bed, I checked my email. I hoped there was nothing from Catherine, and sure enough, there wasn’t. I briefly considered typing a quick apology to her, but reasoned that it was probably best to leave things as they were. Why prolong the pain for either of us?
Maybe I should even add her email address to my SPAM list, so nothing she sent would get through.
Fuck. The idea of doing that was crushing.
And yet, maybe the best idea I’d had in a while. No, I decided, I’d rely on self-control and only read her email if I felt like it.
. . . . .
I don’t watch much television, except when I’m winding down for the night. After getting into bed, I grabbed the remote and turned it to a local news channel that was just starting its 10 p.m. report.
The broadcast opened wi th a video of a house on fire. I doubted
I like good food and wine. It’s my guilty pleasure, especially when I’m trying to get my mind off of stress. And tonight certainly qualified.
With my guilt over how the evening ended subsiding, my thoughts turned to the other tragedy that had occurred: getting worked up without coming.
Logic had made a comeback in that hotel room and had won out over my cock. And what a battle it was, considering how exquisitely gorgeous Catherine was.
Golden blonde hair past her shoulders. Crystal green eyes, a short nose, and full lips that I could have had fun with in a number of ways. Perfectly sized breasts, too, with the nipples slightly perked upwards. She was not thin and not overweight, definitely a body built for sex.
She had once referred to herself in an email as “average.” I wondered why, and figured it was one of those cases wherein someone sees themselves entirely different than the world sees them.
My cock hardened as I stood there in the kitchen finishing off the glass of wine, thinking of what could have been with Catherine earlier.
Goddamn. Maybe I should have stayed.
No. No.
I was getting sloppy because of sex. Couldn’t let it happen. Wouldn’t let it happen.
I had to prev ent myself from falling into the dick-over-mind trap, and there was only one way to achieve that. At least in the short term.
Once the water in the shower was warm enough, I stepped in w ith a bottle of KY Ultraglide. Standing under the hot water, I opened the little bottle and got just enough to make my hand slick. I wouldn’t need much, not as worked up as I had gotten myself. Or rather, as worked up as Catherine had gotten me.
I was finished and out of the shower in less than five minutes.
I looked at myself in the mirror as I toweled myself dry. Who had I become? What had I become? Not just tonight, but over all these years.
I was approaching the age of thirty and living what some might call the life of a playboy. And not even a glamorous one, at that. It was more the life of an opportunistic rogue, snatching up the chance to be with a woman whenever the occasion presented itself.
The only thing I didn’t feel badly about that night was the fact that Catherine knew all of this going in. I had made her well aware of the circumstances. She’d known them for months, actually, so it’s not as though she had been duped at all. Hell, I had done everything to warn her, short of having her sign a contract.
As I brushed my teeth, staring at my eyes in the mirror and wondering all of these things, I thought maybe the contract wasn’t such a bad idea.
That thought lasted all of five seconds. Of course a contract was a bad idea. It was a terrible notion when it came to some kind of fuck-buddy arrangement, just as it was a terrible idea in terms of getting married.
You’re either with someone or you’re not, contracts be damned. It’s my belief that those who stick around without a contractual agreement tethering them to another person have the real bond, anyway.
. . . . .
Before getting into bed, I checked my email. I hoped there was nothing from Catherine, and sure enough, there wasn’t. I briefly considered typing a quick apology to her, but reasoned that it was probably best to leave things as they were. Why prolong the pain for either of us?
Maybe I should even add her email address to my SPAM list, so nothing she sent would get through.
Fuck. The idea of doing that was crushing.
And yet, maybe the best idea I’d had in a while. No, I decided, I’d rely on self-control and only read her email if I felt like it.
. . . . .
I don’t watch much television, except when I’m winding down for the night. After getting into bed, I grabbed the remote and turned it to a local news channel that was just starting its 10 p.m. report.
The broadcast opened wi th a video of a house on fire. I doubted
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