Hole

It was the bad wine of his choice whose label was more likely to be a title of a horror movie. No, that was not it. It was his smile, the laugh - mine and his perfectly blended like any blended drinks served at swanky coffee shops -- the tender eyes glittering through the frameless glasses, the voice, and most of all, the sheer nearness of him when he moved to my side to show an article on how sperm relaxes females.

After almost 2 years since I last met him, I suddenly remembered how I had always secretly sighed whenever he's around. Even if he only appeared on a chatting window once every blue moon. Beyond all the dirty topics we always ended up discussing, he's always been one of very few people I always enjoyed talking with. Had he not been born breathtakingly handsome and at the age of 34 not shown any trace of baldness, I would still be easily weak in the knee for him.

It could be 2 glasses of whiskey cola, then followed by 2 more glasses of vodka tonic we drank sitting side by side in a sleazy bar playing The Police's hits. He ever said, "After a few glasses, they all look like Penelope Cruz." So I was the closest to Penelope Cruz that night. A Penelope Cruz who sang along to "Doo Doo Daa Daa", if she didn't take a sip of her drink.

It could also be my text he still kept. He jokingly said how he so wanted to marry me because we both love "ma ling" luncheon meat, which I replied I didn't ever want his ring, cause all I wanted was a drop of his cum which then he wouldn't be held responsible for. I have always wanted to be a single parent when the time is finally right, that's what I said. So far, it's only him I could think of when it comes to picking good gene pools for my child's biological father.

Driving me back to my hotel, he showed me that text which he never replied. Let alone stating firmly whether or not he donate his cum. I was so taken aback knowing he still kept it. I tried not to read too much into this piece of cold fact, but people usually keep texts that mean so much to them.

Reaching the parking gate, he asked: "Do you want me to walk you upstairs?" I, who could never get enough of him, of course couldn't refuse, though I knew what would happen if I let him go to my room: we would do like any other half-drunk adults do.

Room 407 was dimly lighted when we stepped in. He laid on the bed as squeezing his light head. I joined him lying on the bed. Even when I had too much to drink, it still felt so right lying there so close to him like that. We talked bullshit for a few minutes only to anticipate what would happen shortly. I didn't quite remember what he ranted about, for all I wanted to caress his rough jaw, which I then did.

A second later, he moved on top of me and kissed me and the whole world stood still. His lips were made to fit mine and mine were made to fit his. We have never touched in these 3 times we met in the course of 3 years we have known each other. Now I knew why. I just couldn't trust myself around him. It's such a Herculean labor to avoid this very strange set of emotions.

With him all over me, I couldn't deny the fact how I longed for him all these years. One touch then I lowered my guard.

So there. I never gave him a call when I was in his town. A quick grab of lunch, coffee, or dinner would directly lead to a weapon of mass destruction for my heart once we parted again. I liked him so much that I tried not to see him much. The thing I fear is the look in his eyes, the final kisses, the final good-bye.

Too bad, he was him and I was me. Room 407 was once again cold after he left.