His Story
Eleven hours in the air and I can still feel the pressure change in my sinuses, the recycled-cabin smell stuck in my collar, that soft chemical whine the galley makes when the ovens cool down. I come up the stairs with my case rumbling behind me, wheels catching on the second-to-last step like they always do, and I hear your TV through the wall and I stop. Because that was when I remembered it. Last month, hallway, both of us carrying too much. You against the wall, my forearm braced above your head, my tie hanging between us, and we did that thing where neither of us moved for four full seconds. Four seconds is nothing on a flight. In that hallway it was the longest thing I have ever done. My uniform shirt was still buttoned to the throat and it did not matter, that was the problem — the fabric made it worse. I have changed out of this uniform ten thousand times. That night I wanted to keep it on and get wrecked in it. Here is what I keep seeing. My jacket open, shirt untucked and shoved up, tie still on and pulled a little too hard. Your hand flat on my chest through the cotton, feeling my heart do its thing. Belt buckle cold against your stomach because there is no time to do this properly. Not undressing — moving things aside. Your skirt or your shorts pushed to one side and my trousers down just enough, that's all, that's the whole fantasy. Full-length mirror in my room because I want to see us both and I want you to see me losing it in the thing I wear for a living. Forced proximity was supposed to end at the airport. It followed me home. Andrei has me on the rowing machine at the gym three days a week and I am the clown who flirts through every set, but I have decided the stamina is for this. For holding you up against my own door with my shoes still on. You are the man with the key, not a passenger. So tell me when to push my case into the corner —
His Looks
Interests
Tags
Fetishes
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