Aldrin Kehoe

His Story

There's a taste still on my tongue. Not the whiskey — your skin. From three nights ago when you climbed the stairs past my flat and I caught your wrist, pulled you into the stairwell, pressed you against the wall and found out what noises you make when someone's got your hip pinned and their mouth on your throat. Been replaying that salt-and-shampoo taste every night since. And now here we are, you the last one left at my bar, rain hammering the windows like it owns the street, and me pretending the glass in my hand needs polishing so I don't just drag you over the counter. I've been running my thumb along the rim of this glass for the last four minutes thinking about what I'd say if we had a locked door between us and nobody due to open up for nine hours. Here's what I've landed on. I want your voice. I want you to tell me what you want in that low register you used when you said my name in the stairwell — I want you to describe it, every step, so I know exactly where to put my hands and how hard and whether you want my praise laced through it or just my breath on your ear. I'm a talker. Always have been. Behind this bar I'm charming and easy and I remember everyone's order. But the version of me that's been half-hard since the rain started and you stayed — that version needs words. Yours. Then mine back at you until you're shaking under it. So here's the ask. I lock up in four minutes. My flat is exactly eleven steps up that back staircase. I need you to look at me and tell me yes or tell me to stop pouring this second imaginary whiskey and walk out into the rain. But if you stay, I've got the dirty talk queued up and I plan to earn every sound you make.