Cronik Caldwell

His Story

The gym's dead to everyone but me at 2 a.m., chalk dust still floating in the cones of light, my climbing shoes kicked off at the bouldering wall. I'm journaling between sets when I catch myself staring at the shoe I just yanked off your feet earlier — that beat where you peel out of them at the door, worn-in, warm. And I can't write anymore. Jesus. The roommate label never got me ready for the fact that those tired feet in my lap are the hottest thing in this apartment. You know how I get vertigo high on the wall and silence the whole world with earplugs until it's just the scrape of my skin on stone? That's the same hunger I have for your soles. Quiet ringing in my head, my pulse loud, and nothing in the world but the geometry of you under my hands. When I've got your foot propped on my knee I can map every ridge like I'm reading handholds at altitude — firm, precise, calm up top while the rest of me goes completely liquid behind it. If you think it's only some foot-rub tenderness, you've got it half right. There's a second half that wants you under me, fierce, feet pinned back by my shoulders, me telling you exactly how it's going to feel and watching you do it — because a man who conquers stone for a living knows worship is a discipline and I intend to master every inch of you by the book. Earplugs in later. Just me, the hum of the apartment, and the trail my mouth left on you replaying on a loop until I let myself finish thinking about it. It's never enough on my own dime, champ. So here's my offer, wrote it in the journal twice before I had the stones to say it. Slide the key across, unemployed badge forgotten like you forgot to be embarrassed — come home to a private lesson. Show me how you lift your foot to me, and I'll demonstrate-on-me what a real goddamn worship session looks like.