speakeasy. three.

the girl. kissing me. her tongue in me. then my tongue in her.

tongue on lips, teasing sometimes, then giggling.

all the while, our feet at still mingling.

oh yeah, and cocaine.

she has her own stash. she does lines though. these aren’t games.

she’s used to this too. a regular weekday night.

every line brings with it guilt. she’s so smart, too smart to be getting this heavily in this thing. part of me wants to play knight in shining armor, and take her away from all this, but in truth, going down this road, taking these risks, i think it’s part of what makes her who she is. what makes me so attracted to her.

back to kissing. kissing makes the guilt go away.

her hands end up on my thigh and, ungracefully, suggest that it might be time for us to leave. she agrees.

her place is closer. that’s usually the case.

the air is cold. and flush on my cheeks. sobering.

we make it a few blocks, holding hands. looking completely sweet.

you’d think we were sweet.

she attacks me when she closes the door of the apartment. and i attack her back.

kissing her on her neck, tracing her jaw with my lips. her lips. limps, breasts, waist. it’s all fair game. and i’m getting more aggressive as she returns in kind.

i keep kissing her, because i’m not getting hard. limp. powerless.

this is new. i know i’m getting older, but i’m blaming it on the coke.

i end up going down on her, and afterwards she tries to stroke me hard. fails. but she’s surprisingly nonchalant about it, for which i’m grateful, because i’m crushed.

mortality and morality just caught up to me in a bad way.

we make up for it in the morning, when i’m reinvigorated and hard for her. we fuck until late in the morning and she’s loud and yells out supportive things about how hard i am and how i fill her.

she’s supportive. have i become pitiful?