Meet me in London.

(To my webcam crush.)

Suddenly fantasy is switched on and I think of all the things we will do there in London south and north of the river, my playground, your playground for the weekend when you come over from Belgium. I want to first meet you in a park, on a bench overlooking a lake and yes, a playground, but not too close, because I don’t want the shouts of children and their innocent antics to distract me from the full attention I will pay to your nervous smile, so that you feel calm and relax.

We tell jokes about our history together, although of course it is not the first time we’ve talked, because we’ve talked on the phone several times over the last month. I know your name and where you work and where you live, though not the address, and you know the same about me. You have my photograph. You know what I seek is the pleasure of your company for the time we are together, not your money, not your promise, not your time; the pleasure of your company, which means the chance to tell and listen to stories, especially. To listen and to be heard. I will tell you about my life and show you how grateful I am to have a chance to be a man for you and with you.

I want to hear about your adult children. I want us to go to massages together (I never have massages normally, but with you there it feels the right thing to do, something I can enjoy) and watch the masseur’s hands working your back. I know you are self-conscious about your pot belly but you can see that I am just the same, you don’t need to worry about it. Afterwards we’ll walk by the river for two hours, and talk as the sky turns into colours and then into velvet grey.

The next day we will meet again. We will take two hours over a meal, eating slowly, stopping to talk, eating little and long, sharing a bottle of white wine, then go to my room and open the balcony window and lie down to sleep. Your foot is touching mine. When we wake you push the sheet off my arm and begin to stroke and fondle me as we are still half asleep. We lie side by side, nose to nose, and I look at you from this close for the first time.

We touch, trace, exclaim and laugh, recommence again and again each time in another way. We play and make love and fuck and rest and sleep and fuck again. I wanted to see you completely sated, until there is nothing but a slow glow of satisfaction in your grey-blue eyes. My own green eyes are as sleepy and lust-completed as those of a cat that has killed three birds and a mouse. And eaten them.

In my satiety I still have a slow, frame by frame vision of the next time I will see and feel and scent your semen shot or dribbled across my soft wide belly, or onto my open lips and down my face onto my bare chest the moment after I’ve released you from my mouth. I feel like a fat, complacent god that will be fed with devotion again and again while the hungry ones stand by neglected. I lick my lips and bring back to moisture the dried film that our pleasure has coated them with since we lay down on this bed.

It is almost dark and the lights are glimmering on the water of the canal. It’s time for us to rise and wash and dress. We will walk slowly down the stairs with the thin old metal balustrade, and out into the polished aggregate foyer and onto the street, down the row of hotels and houses to the park, and across it and then the next, a long walk across the royal parks of London, trailing side by side, listening to the traffic, scenting the breeze, not speaking much, not entirely side by side nor drifting apart, but within touching distance, so that once or twice one does reach out and touch the other.

We reach the restaurant and have a light supper. And after this I walk you to your hotel, because you will travel early in the morning and it is time for us to part. Yet as we reach its doors, you turn to me to kiss me in farewell, but you do not relinquish me, you keep kissing me, my face in your hands and then an arm around me, and sway there until at last we go up in the elevator together to the fourth floor and you use the swipe card for us to enter the clinical hotel hush within, and without turning on the lights we pull back the covers and lie on the bed, not to fuck, but to gently, lazily but insistently cover each other’s faces and arms and bodies with caresses, for we have abandoned our clothes onto separate armchairs (you must be neat: you will be up at five and gone at six).

A hour of this mild lovemaking subsides into sleep. I wake to the soft cries of birds outside, although the chink of world that is exposed at the edge of the stiff, heavy, softly shiny hotel curtain is still dark. I wake in a moment in which you are rolling heavily onto me, gripping my chin tightly as you force your tongue between my lips and push your hard penis into me without ceremony and fuck me for one minute, your full weight pinioning me, until you grunt as you orgasm and roll off and out and lie panting with your forehead to mine for the next minute while I frantically drive my little cock in my rush to catch up and join you.

We lie for an uncounted five minutes in the dark, becoming calm, not touching except that each has a hand on the back of the other’s head. Then your free palm descends on the back of my free hand and gives it a quick firm shake, and you get up and go into the shower. You have a client meeting in Antwerp at eleven this morning.

I will be sleeping lightly and peacefully on the wide, newly-made bed back in my abandoned terrace. The curtain will be half drawn. The light will filter in onto the sheets and my outflung, slightly freckled arm lying at ease outside the covers, while you outline your proposal and respond to the clients’ questions, illustrating each scenario and making it easy for them to agree, so completely does your company’s project plan meet the strategic objectives, that were clearly revealed by the data modelling carried out on the insights skilfully elicited by the consumer survey. The proposal is approved and the project moves into implementation phase, with only a few minor amendments.

I will be satisfied.

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