Philadelphia, under a table, at a nightclub. Both of us were dedicated sluts and during work was just so much dirtier than going home together after.
California, Burbank, in the driver’s seat of a parked car. I had, for the first and possibly only time, a desire to 69.
Delaware, someone’s basement, a couch. It seemed like, and was, more entertaining than spending another evening playing pool.
NYC, Brooklyn, a bed. It was his birthday. My lingerie had bows on. I’d planned it that way.
Japan, Matsue, a modified cargo container. I had far too much Shochu in my system, an early train in the morning, and we couldn’t manage to trigger my gag reflex any other way.
Virginia, an amtrak train, the bathroom. It was so close to Erica Jong’s zipless fuck, how could I not?
France, Paris, his office. 2 am. He’d taken me there on the back of his moped. I blew him on the couch—his desk chair might’ve been too cliche of a location.
NYC, Brooklyn, Red Hook. I thought my mouth on his dick would make a nice addition to the finger I had up his butt. It did.
Philadelphia, Rittenhouse, an alley. We had a low but existent chance of being caught. Managed risk gives me goosebumps.
NYC, the West Village, a sublet. Last day of May. I knew, from the previous time, that the liquid glossing over the tip of his cock tasted so good it could turn addicting.
Serbia, Belgrade, a bed. Even though I was writing his check that day, all I wanted to do was suck Mickey off like it was my job:
(copyright Stoya Inc 2016)