poeticdesires

the life and musings of a kinky slut

Voluntold

“Since my demo bottom has a burn on her back, would anyone be willing to help me with this next part?”

Rough’s face stayed forward as his right hand rose up and pointed towards me. My hand was halfway in the air already. Rough knows me well enough.

Thursday was a scattered day. By the time I made it to Rough’s class, I had already figured out my ride plan with Amy, slept in a bit, and made it to the Baekry late for breakfast: blueberry pancakes, freshly sliced peaches and strawberries.

Rough’s backhanding class was the only presentation that caught my eye on Thursday. I made my way to the upper fire pit tent just after my yummy meal.

Rough went over many different techniques for backhanding people. Most memorable of these was his backhanding his demo bottom’s cunt. It took myself and another helpful volunteer to hold his demo bottom’s legs open (with the demo bottom’s consent). To our collective astonishment, (though known by Rough, hence the requested assist) his demo bottom came multiple times just from his abuse of her cunt.

Towards the end of the class, he “asked” for a volunteer to help assist him. His last technique was a backhand strike to the center of the upper back, right where his demo bottom wanted to avoid. I gave a little striptease for my fellow classmates before Rough began his explanation.

As Rough spoke to the class about what he was going to do to me, my anxiety rose. What he was describing included the words “incredibly painful”. I concentrated my gaze on the ground and tried to prepare myself.

Rough did not lie.

As soon as his strike landed, I let out a loud sob. I curled my body inward, lowering part way to the ground. The one strike packed a lot of punch. I took a few deep breaths and was back to standing in about ten seconds, but the spot where he landed throbbed.

“Can I see that from this side?”

A mutual friend of ours wanted a better view of Rough’s technique and, I suspect, another chance to hear me sob. I turned part way, braced myself, and waited. I knew it would be worse because now I knew what to expect. And, in fact, my sob was louder, and I crouched down lower than before. I did not like our friend at that moment.

“Oh, but we didn’t get to see.”

Rough’s class took place in a tent with three benches shaped like a U for people to observe. The right and left benches had had great views. The center bench wanted their turn now.

“Wait. Please. Please Rough, could you just rub my back?”

“Okay.”

Instead of rubbing my back, he pulled out his water bottle and poured it down my back. The cool water was soothing for about five seconds. And then the realization set in.

“Shit, now it’s gonna hurt more.”

For those who don’t know, wet skin hurts more when it is struck and than dry skin. Rough gave me about thirty seconds to compose myself. And then the center bench got their view. I sobbed, crouched down, and I think my knee may have even dropped to the ground.

Lesson learned.

 

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Studio 58

I hadn’t been to the space in quite some time. Drama and yuckiness aside, my life has been far too busy to fathom going out to a random Saturday night party at any play space, let alone the one I found myself in this past Saturday night.

But there was more than one draw that got me out to a town almost an hour away. Merely looking on the RSVP, I could see so many of my friends were venturing farther than I would need to, and the sheer number of my friends in attendance was more than enough reason for me to go.

I’m glad I did.

My night had no play by design. I wanted chill time with friends.

I spent the majority of my fun in the Cigars, Boots, and Chocolate area. I started off with a cigarillo, but then progressed to a cigar. It was small, but it lasted much longer than I thought it would. I spent nearly an hour slowly shrinking my stick. The taste was smooth and light. The smoke smelled great. I enjoyed the mellow the tobacco imparted me.

From my vantage point in a camp chair towards the back, if I merely looked to my right I was given a framed viewed of two friends scening. Fire danced across flesh about fifty feet away from me. For about ten minutes my head rested on my hand as I watched them play.

Once my gaze turned forward, I was greeted with the sight of a hot bootblacking scene not ten feet away. It is a heady thing to be a bootblack in a scene with three other bootblacks sitting near you. I gave encouragement while others heckled.

During my CBC time, I had a conversation with a friend from Philly. Plans were made for fun in just over a year.

When I ventured away from the CBC area, in search of a restroom, I found myself giggling with a Bambi while we waited to relieve ourselves. As we fidgeted, I caught peeks of a CookieMonster dancing in rope.

As my night trudged on, I enjoyed more conversations, more giggles, and more hugs. There was a split second touch of a knife that promised more to come. A random conversation about random things, because that is our way and I like it. A hunt to procure play for friends with a 1 out of 2 success rate. And my perving said one successful pairing.

More friends dropped by. There was fun had by many. I even squeezed in a poi practice session.

My night ended with yet another hot scene to be perved: two very pretty people with very pretty knives.

All-in-all, Studio 58 had a great re-naming night. I hope to make my way back through its doors for many more times to come.

 

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Delayed

Originally I was to pickup MissAmyRed from the airport at 9:30am Thursday morning. When I woke up, though, I was greeted to a series of unfortunate text messages. Amy’s original flight was delayed and, because of this she, had missed her connection. After a confusing number of steps and alternate plans created and then thrown out, Amy was able to secure a flight that would land around 6pm, much later than previously hoped for or anticipated.

I left camp around 5pm to go pick her up. On the way, I stopped briefly to fill up my gas tank. As I got back onto the highway, my car skidded. Though the incident was jarring, I was able to correct my vehicle fine.

But then I noticed a vibration in my car as I rode along. I hoped it would correct itself. Instead it got worse. That was when it dawned on me.

Oh shit, I have a flat tire.

I made my way to the side of the road.

Am I doing this? Am I really going to do this?

Normally I have no problem changing out my tire. I’ve done it on multiple occasions.

But I had just left camp. I was in a tight red tank top, low cut in the front, as well as a tighter black skirt, much shorter than one in this kind of situation would want it to be. My one consolation: I was wearing my black leather shoes instead of my sandals.

Fuck it.

I got out of my car. Popped open the trunk. Pulled out the tools. Set up the jack. Got a honk or two from passing cars. Resisted the urge to flip said cars off. Removed two lugs nuts.

And then the cavalry arrived. A stranger parked their car in front of mine and stepped out. Just as he was approaching me, a roadside assistance worker parked their trucked behind my car. The (hopefully) good samaritan left and the person whose actual job it was to help me took over.

The gentleman used his impact drill to remove the last three lug nuts much faster than I’d removed the first two. He filled my donut with a bit more air, used it to replace my shredded tire, and lowered my jack. I thanked him for his assistance and was on my way.

Funny enough, due to yet more flight hassles, Amy only had to wait for me for about fifteen minutes. We drove very slowly north and were soon enough at camp, delays and all be damned.

When I later recounted my ordeal at the Baekry, RtB looked at my outfit and quipped, “I bet it didn’t take long for someone to stop and help you.”

No, it didn’t.

 

 

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Wednesday Night

My Wednesday evening at Fusion had the feel of a real vacation. I wandered around campus, stopped and chatted with folks, drank a little, and had an overall chill time.

The majority of my time spent in any one place that day happened at the Baekry, a collective of friends who welcomed me in. I learned of their existence through two of my first Dark Odyssey friends, RobTheBruce and Kat. They organized and ran the tent enclave tucked just behind the Barn.

Before Fusion began, I contacted them about joining their group for meals. I knew this arrangement would provide me with two essential benefits: one, excellent food, and two, excellent company.

In events past, I have only seen RtB and Kat in passing. Being as social as I am, I often flit about at events, bouncing from one fun experience to the next. As such I would maybe see RtB and Kat for a few minutes at any given event. By arranging to have my meals with them each day, I guaranteed us more time to catch up or just hang out.

My plan was a resounding success. The food was fabulous. The company even better. I met new friends through the Baekry, including that first night. As everyone had settled in, and little play was yet starting, I found myself swinging by the tents. A simple question (“Do you play spades?”), a deck of cards, and an hour later, I’d gotten to know just a few of the people I would be sharing my weekend with.

Wednesday night is always odd at Fusion. There are enough people on campus to be a noticeable amount, yet the event has not nearly reached critical mass. It is a mixture of tension and anticipation.

Towards the end of our spades match, the skies produced magic. Far off in the clouds we could see lightning, but heard no thunder. The show was beautiful, a display of nature’s power, genuine moments of awe. Still, the threat in the air was for rain. Thankfully my friend Squirrel let me borrow an umbrella.

I strolled down the asphalt path towards my cabin, taking in the light show, and chatting with people as I went. I stopped by my friend Finn’s tent and we both marveled at the sky. When I stepped away, I felt a raindrop or two. My umbrella went up. Before I reached my cabin, the heavens opened up.

Rain fell in sheets. Thunder boomed and lightning burst across the sky. It was bright and beautiful and frightening all at once. For about ten seconds, the power went out.

By this time, it was after 1am. Since I’d only gotten a few hours of sleep the night before, and the rain, though slowed, didn’t seem like it was going to stop soon, I decided to call it a night.

 

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Recharge

“What are you looking at?”

“There are these bees…”

My Fusion was full of many moments, both large and small. My first moment happened with Roughinamorato while standing on the porch of Oink.

After fully nesting in my cabin, I could think of nothing more fun than to begin the process of delivering invitations to my gang bang. I slipped on a comfy, yet conforming, shirt and the key article of clothing for the afternoon, my TARDIS boxer shorts.

Before I left for camp, I had invitations already created and printed (on pink paper no less, being the dirty pig and all) ready to be passed out. I numbered the invitations not to create a particular order but so that I knew how many people I’d invited. The first inviation went to TruthInRope, who slept in the bed pushed next to mine. Another went to a cabinmate who was also an early arrival.

Armed with fun clothing and cheerful personality (I was at camp!), I wandered around campus looking for invitees. I saw them as I passed by, stopped to chat, handed them a cute piece of paper, and moved on with my fun.

Eventually, my walk took me to Oink. Three invitees, plus one of my concierges, was staying in the cabin.

When I approached, I saw a few people out on the porch, including Rough. He was dressed in only his boxers, given the heat of the day. Looking up at the roof of the porch, he seemed fascinated by the movement of rather large bees seeming to attempt to enter holes that were presumably their homes.

Odd conversation set aside, I offered him his invitation to my gang bang, and checked off his name on my list.

I can’t remember how we got into the conversation about hair, but somehow I ended up against the railing of the cabin, Rough gripping my mane, my head tilted up, his leg in between my limbs, and his sly grin on his face.

“You dirty girl.”

I’m known for the way I react when people pull my hair. The sounds I make. The look on my face as my eyes close and I sink into the moment. I really like it when people pull my hair.

Rough teased me, drifting his face close to mine but not ever touching.

When he released my hair, a thought came to me.

“Rough, could you choke me sometime this weekend?”

He got an almost whimsical look on his face. He removed my glasses. Moved to stand behind me. Wrapped him arm around my throat.

“Shall I lift up my arm?”

“If you want.” I did.

He squeezed. I felt the usual pressure, the tingle in my body. The lightness of my limbs.

I saw an anime: a blonde pretty-faced male superhero versus a dark green reptile-like villian. I rooted for the villian.

Rough stroked my hair. I sat on the floor on porch with my legs in a pretty position; I fall sweetly without even trying. My head was down turned. I leaned against Rough’s leg.

I remembered why I liked hanging out with Rough so much. No beating around the bush. No delay. You ask, you get, you move on.

He helped me to standing. I thanked him for the recharge. I was set to get back to my wandering.

But then Gray and Naiia returned. Another invitation was given (lucky number seven; no I did not plan it that way) with a smile before I departed.

 

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Helpful

“Happy to be helpful.” is a phrase I often toss out when people thank me for my assistance. I hope I never sound flippant when I say it because I truly mean it. I like being helpful towards the people I care about.

To start my Fusion, I was a defacto shuttle service for my friends. I woke up early, packed my trunk with all my things, and then headed over to IPCookieMonster’s home. She had baked goods, created by TruthInRope, that needed shipping to camp.

Trays of deliciousness secured in my backseat floor, next I headed over to GreyMalken’s home. We squeezed in his few bags (he thankfully packed light this camp), and then we were on our way.

A quick food stop and about two hours later, we were at camp pretty much when I had anticipated. After greetings and short chats to catch up, I dropped him off at his cabin and then rushed to mine. I was still operating on a schedule with other obligations coming up. I nested for a few minutes, discovering the extent of the wasp problem in my cabin, only briefly mentioned before I had arrived, and hastily made my way off campus.

Next stop, the airport.

I arrived at the cell phone parking lot with ten minutes to spare. Once I got the call, I slowly rolled around and picked up my last cargo for the day. Gray had bussed down; Naiia had flown. With my things, GreyMalken’s things, and TruthInRope’s cupcakes now emptied from my car, the two of them had no problem fitting in their luggage.

After a quick stop at Target for a few forgotten items, and the liquor store for a few wanted items, we were soon back at camp. I dropped Gray and Naiia off at Oink (a cabin I would visit multiple times during the weekend) and then made my way back to my cabin.

My Fusion adventure had begun.

 

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The View

~ erotica ~

 

I always see her, even when she doesn’t see me. It’s easy for her to overlook my pressed suit and subdued tie. Hospitals are busy places. Few of the staff take notice of the head of security.

She’s the best in her class. Everyone knows it, including her. The scrubs she changes into before each shift only hint at the curves she flaunts when leaving or arriving at our building. I’m sure her little dresses are thrown off and slipped on with little care what others think of her choices. I admire her confidence.

Occasionally, on the way from one meeting to the next, I’ll glance at the operations board. When I see her name, I make a point to slip into the theatre. I stand in back. Watch her work. There is a fierce determination in her eyes, a single-mindedness one can’t help but be attracted to.

People are drawn to her. There is never a moment when I pass her in the halls that I don’t see others surrounding her, whether in admiration or spite. Their safety is my responsibility. Their jealousy is rooted in her.

I glance upon her every day, multiple moments a day, yet she only sees me at home. I often wonder about her fantasy of who I am. Does she imagine me military? She’d only be partially wrong. What does she think I do? What is the story she writes each time she sees me?

Does she know about the motorcycle in the garage? Or the cars that stop by at all hours of the night? Does she ever hear their moans through their gags? Their gasps? Their whispered answers to my directives?

To me, she is the image that welcomes me home from my run each morning. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the undulation in her body as I pass by. A grin spreads across my face as I make my way towards my shower.

She is the subtle music of my evenings. The slam of her door and the clacking of her heels draw me to my peep hole. I’ve gotten the timing down to a science. I know the number of footfalls, the sound of her approach, when to be at my door for the best view. My glimpse of her ass as she leaves for her fun never disappoints. I smile each time I see that ass walk away, and my pants always get a little tighter.

Her moans are the music I fall asleep to. As she cries out, I lie on my bed, stroking myself, imagining her tight body tensing and relaxing. I fantasize her deft fingers running up and down my shaft, working with the same single-mindedness I’ve seen before.

I know she wants me. I know, should I ever just say the word, or simply gesture, I could have her. But that’s not what I want. Yes, I crave her flesh, to know the smell of her skin and feel of her, of being inside her. But there is something I crave more than her body.

I want her will. I need her to ask, to say the words, to beg for what she wants. Her taunts are tempting, I will not deny, but they do not compare with my craving for her on her knees, breath quick, voice unsure but strong.

Until the day comes when she doesn’t walk away, but instead turns around and knocks on my door. Until she finds the courage to say the words, to do more than flirt, I will simply continue to enjoy the view.

 

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Skin

~ erotica ~

 

I never see him with his shirt on. His chest is sculpted in the way that begs to be caressed, kissed, and licked. He picks up his packages, takes out his trash, and goes for runs only in his pants and sneakers. I never mind the view as I’m checking my mailbox, coming home from work, or going out for play.

I sometimes wonder what he thinks of me, always in my skimpy outfits. The low cut fronts. The short skirts. The too high heels. How does he image me behind his apartment door? Does he enjoy the brief glimpses of me, the view I purposefully give him? Does he want what I want? To feel his skin against my skin.

There are only three apartments in our brownstone. Our landlord lives in the basement, her separate entrance granting her a separate life from ours. He occupies the first floor apartment. I get the second. It was a bitch to move into my home, but the private balcony makes up for the hassle.

Mornings I get up, take my cup of coffee, slip into my silk robe, and stand outside watching the mist dry up as the Sun rises. He takes his jog the same time five days a week. I wonder if he notices me each time he comes home in the low light of the morning.

There is nothing under my robe. I enjoy the feel of the cool air seeping in against my skin. My nipples crease and rub against my robe in ways I wish his fingers would. I lean against the banister, cross my legs, and squeeze my thighs together imagining all the things I want him to do to me. My robe is short. If he dared glance up, he’d catch a peek of what could be his.

At night, when I go out to play, I purposefully take my time leaving. I close my door louder than is needed. I don the heels that clack on the old floor. I want him to hear my departure. I want him to rush to his door, peer out through the peep hole, and watch me as I go. I want him to feel a tightness in his pants as I saunter, switching my hips and moving my ass, in my temptation for his touch.

When I come home, I want, just once, for him to react. To hear the slam of the building door and the click of my heels. To peer out of his peep hole, see me, and not take the temptation anymore. I want him to open his door, rush towards me, grab my arms, look into my eyes, and kiss me with a fire burning hot inside of him.

Each time he doesn’t stop me from entering my apartment, I close my front door just as loudly as when I left, and rush to my bedroom. I wrip off my dress, throw myself onto my bed, and pull out my vibrator. I roll around in my sheets, grinding against my toy, and imagine him fucking me. I moan with pleasure. I scream as I cum. I know my bedroom is just above his. I know he can hear me. Even at 3am, when most of the world is quiet, I let my pleasure ring out for his ears to bask in.

Until he knocks on my door and tells me he’s had enough. Until he looks up at me one morning on my balcony and beckons me down to him. Until he ends this game we are playing, I’ll keep tempting him. With my walk, and my noises, and my skin.

 

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Men

This is a rant.

It is by no means what I wanted to be my first blog back since a necessary hiatus for school. It is not what I wanted to be doing right now. My finals are on Tuesday.  I need to study.  But even after I stripped off my work clothes, slipped into my comfy pj’s, and curled up on the couch in the family room, I still found myself so full of GAH!!! that I had to write this.

Privilege, to some, is a dirty word. I don’t like getting into conversations about privilege because they always get sidetracked, or people get offended, or for any number of reasons why it is a sticky subject I’d rather not get caught on.

But my day, all six hours of it thus far, has been dripping with the kind of male privilege and misogyny and oh-my-god-I-hate-the-world that life can only bring when you least expect it.

It started when I was leaning against a wall before my 8am gig. It was 7:48am, and, though I could hear the rumble of people in the truck, I had no urge to help unload before I was on the clock. I don’t work for free.

So I was dicking around on my phone, reading my Twitter timeline, trying to not be tired even though I’d only gotten 4.5hrs of sleep. Then one of the truck drivers tried to start a conversation with me. Mind you, I was ten to fifteen feet away engrossed in my smart phone. One would think body language alone would be a clue that I didn’t want anything to do with anyone for the next eleven minutes. I gave one and two word responses, never looking up from my phone, and he thankfully took the hint.

Ten minutes later, I pulled out my work gloves. The second truck driver, who did chat with the first driver, noted as I was getting ready that someone had said good morning gentlemen, so they must not have noticed me.

“Whatever. I’m usually the only woman, or maybe one of two, on a crew. I honestly don’t care.”

And I didn’t. I wanted to get the job done and go home. I was tired and annoyed and knew that if anyone else tried to talk to me I would probably snap at them. I get very bitchy when I’m tired.

So we got the gear inside and started working. As I suspected, I was in fact the only woman on my crew; no big deal.

We got about half the gear setup when I noticed two senior guys on the crew chatting. And then I heard the crux of what they were going back and forth about. And I just had to laugh.

I knew both guys from other gigs and liked both guys, but they were pretty much opposite ends of the political spectrum. My gig was in DC, so their talk had shifted into politics. One was spewing one side’s talking points, the other was countering with his side’s views, and then the two came to a moderate middle ground.

I chuckled as I caught a sentence fragment here or there because all I could think of was how ridiculous it seemed to me. Two better-off-then-most white men coming to a compromise on political views, yet I knew they would probably never get to the heart of so many economical, political, and social woes other people who don’t look like them face every day. The white male well-off privilege in that moment was so ridiculous I had to giggle, or else I’d scream. And my bank account would not have appreciated the screaming.

Later on, as we were close to finishing up, I helped some guys with a simple project. I don’t know how or why it happened, because I wasn’t paying attention to their chit-chat, but some guy offhandly said something to the effect of, “Who doesn’t like girls kissing? I love lesbians. Don’t all women love lesbians?” Thankfully his comments were not directed towards me.  I rolled my eyes and kept working.

We finished up soon after that. I was happy to be done early.

I walked to my Metro stop and took my spot on the platform, waiting for my train.

“Excuse me, Miss.” A young guy about ten feet away from me was trying to talk to me. “Hi, I…  Why did you scrinch up your face like that?”

“When I’m on the Metro, I feel like I’m in my own little bubble, so I don’t talk to people.”

“Well, I just wanted to say your beautiful, and could I have your number?”

“Thank you, that’s very sweet, and I appreciate your asking, but I have no interest right now, so I’m going to have to say no.”

“Well, how could I go about getting your number?”

“Um, I usually meet people through my friends and at social gatherings they set up, so I don’t meet people randomly in public.”

“Well how am I, oh what’s your name?”

“I don’t feel comfortable giving my name to someone I just met on the Metro.”

“Well how is someone suppose to meet you or get to know you if you put up these walls?”

“I get that, but I don’t feel comfortable right now, so thank you for the offer, but no.”

I walked about twenty feet down the platform, putting about ten people between us.

It would have been fine if he had stopped after the first try. If he had just said, “Oh, okay” after I gave my no. But he didn’t. He pushed. And kept pushing. And even though there were at least one hundred people on that platform, I did not feel safe with only ten feet between us.

I know logically he probably would not have done anything, but that made me no less rattled. I tried to study for my Bio final, but even after I’d gotten on the train on a different car than his, I found myself worried that he would reappear and try his advance again. Or maybe do something more than talk.

This is not the blog I wanted to write. I wanted to wait until Tuesday evening after finals when I knew I had time and brain space to write something sexy or fun. A girl in a dress has been dancing around my mind lately. But instead that was my half day. And now all I want to do is yell at someone, or cry while I punch a pillow, or curl up on my couch and watch Young Justice cartoons while eating Chinese delivery. That last options is probably going to happen after I hit post.

The past thousand words is a skewed perspective.  There were other guys today who were nice to me in the non-creepiest of ways.  One guy offered me a cookie during our break.  Another guy and I enjoyed chatting randomly about cars.  I actually enjoy working with the white guys from the political conversation, even as I wonder if they will ever understand what I go through every day.  It’s hard for the nice moments to stick when the shitty ones have such a strong effect.

I work in an industry and live in a country where a black female is expected to be many things. But I refuse to placate some desired male ego for “them digits” or to smile because you tell me to or to be timid and pleasing because that’s how you think I should be.

When I’m tired, I’m bitchy. Deal with it.

No, I do not enjoy seeing drunk girls kiss. In fact, it annoys me and kind of offends me.

And no, I am not going to give my phone number to some random because he asked for it, especially not when he makes me regret having put my knife in my backpack instead of in my pocket.

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His Laugh

We both laid on the hotel room bed.  I was pleasantly tipsy.  He’d been getting high for the past few minutes, vaporizing his pot and laughing as we spoke.

For part of the conversation, I laid on my stomach and looked up at him, my chest resting on a pillow as he stood tapping the small box that held his weed, and stepping back and forth lightly on his toes.

I liked his laugh. It was an unassuming kind of laugh, not quite full-throated, but with an unexpected lilt to it that indeered him to me. When he was finished with his vaporizer, he sat down on the bed.

I’d rented the room for New Year’s Eve.  I’d wanted a spot for me to drink, and had invited some folks over that I hadn’t seen for awhile, work friends who I don’t normally see unless chance puts us on a gig together.  All the rest were gone now, though.  It was just me, and him.

He’d taken his outer shirt off.  Only a gray tank top covered the small wisps of chest hair that peeked through.  I remember thinking I had the same tank top at home.

I asked if he minded if I took off my pajama pants.  He didn’t.  I snuggled down into the bed, turned to my right, and smiled at him.

He’d stopped laughing.  His face was relaxed; his speech slow and smooth.  The weed had taken hold.  I was all grins and happiness.  The wine had me in good spirits.

And that’s when I realized it.  That was the moment I knew, if I made a move, if I leaned over and kissed him, my night would end quite differently than how it had started.  I could’ve fucked him that night, if I wanted to.

I wanted to.

He wasn’t the kind of guy I’m usually attracted to. He was only a few inches taller than me. He was smallish, not skinny, but fit enough. His hair line had retreated a bit, which when I think about it was odd considering we’re the same age. Yet I was, I am, attracted to him.

In that moment, I wanted to know what it was like to have him inside of me.  The feel of his kiss on my lips.  Would he be playful?  Fun?  Funny?  Would we laugh throughout our fucking?  Giggle as we came?  Or would he be different than his normal outward appearence?  Would he be fierce?  Authoritative?  In control?

I wondered about it all in a moment.  But a breath later, I made my decision.

“I’m heading out.  Thanks again for getting the room.”

I didn’t kiss him.  I didn’t say a word.  I walked him to the door of the room, hugged him bye, and wished him a Happy New Year.

As I think back on it now, I wonder if I made the right decision.  I do work with him occasionally, which could’ve made things awkward.  But I haven’t seen him since New Year’s.  I miss his face a little.  And I still smile when I remember his laugh.

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