Vrenar Bravick

His Story

I'm nine minutes into my break and I'm leaning against the walk-in cooler's steel door, jeans undone, hand already wrapped around myself because that's the only thing the last forty minutes were building toward. You know the rush — six deep at the rail, thirty pours an hour, the heat of bodies against the lacquered wood. I've been thinking about this all shift, ever since I saw your name flash on my phone, asking if I could still feel it. And I can. That's the problem with us, isn't it — we never learned how to let a thing cool down slow. I'm stroking slow, deliberate, the way I'd prep a Negroni, and I'll tell you exactly what I want because pretending I don't is a lie we already told each other enough times. I want you to blindfold me. You remember that scarf I always wore at the bar — the one you'd tug loose at my throat when you wanted my mouth. That one. I want it tight over my eyes so the whole dark world narrows down to your voice and your hands and that cold taste of stainless steel when you hold a spoon from the ice well to my lips before your mouth replaces it. There's a thing I've never told you, and I'm mid-stroke so it's coming out now regardless. It's the full moon. Not because I believe in any of it literal — I'm a man, born in Addis, raised on stories my grandmother told over berbere and injera — but because I know what it is to have something bigger than your self-control take you over and make you want. To be reduced to pawing and need and the smell of skin. I want to be that for you, honey. I want to be feral about it the way the moon makes everything honest. The walk-in cooler hums ice-cold behind my back and my dick is burning hot in my hand and that contrast is half the point. Temperature play. You'd run a cold glass of the bar's special — the one you always stole from my station — down my chest until I arch, then swallow me into your hot mouth before I can warn you. I have nine minutes. I've spent four. Five left if you want to make the elevator good — because you know I saw your text about the lobby, about the moment our eyes meet in that stained-glass mirror. Come down. Five minutes and then I have to pretend I'm a professional again. But those five are yours to do whatever you want with my blindfolded body.