I can't make the distinction yet, between whether he is bragging calmly, or just telling me his story. He's part of a chapter that's been long since forgotten, barely relevant but somehow braided into my history.
We had a heated fling the summer I befriended some street musicians. He was someone who sat next to us one day and fit easily into our ridiculous conversations. He used to answer the phone while his mouth was full of me and barely pause in either conversation, this impressed me. His bedroom was not cozy, but functional; he might have had a lava lamp, which I can never respect. There was almost a threesome once; she had a clit piercing. I did not play a full part in what went down, and do not regret it at all.
Smooth skin, tattoos, a brief sexual affair - and then at some point, I just simply looked away. I had a daydream, and I liked it, and when I glanced back I was surprised to find him still tucked into my shoulder. Who are you, and why are you here?
I met his mother. He cooked me breakfast. He might have told me he had fallen in love. I can't remember. I was already looking somewhere else when he said goodbye, and left the city for good.
And here he is now. After almost a decade on the other side, successes and pussy and money under his belt, he came back when things there got stagnant for him. His stories are impressive, if you're into that sort of thing. I'm happy for him, because I have no reason not to be.
He found me without the help of knowing my last name, or facebook - a rarity in this day and age. I didn't like how he kept kissing my neck.
Something about this all still feels so superficial...
More on this as it develops.
[Image credit: Modus Optimus]
