"Harley Ride"
The Homecoming Game
How did I get here?
Oh ? More than the best sex you ever had, even. It happens, right? Blah, blah.. and, swiftly, you're there. What do you do? Well, happen, if marriage earnings shit. Because you grasp what a strain it'll put on the affiliation, and Michael has to approach first, and he would never be with you. Can't; I dance (I did, then), pregnancy would not help. Not that period couldn't taken off. Maybe. Children have now entered the movie, and that's when you be aware of you've officially preoccupied it.
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I shouldn't give a rat's. I mean, much as I love Michael, and perhaps because I do, the proposition of a career in porn - shit, not even a career; more like experimentation, really - would be nothing not public. Never, personal. Sex, that's it. No more serious than putting on a couple of shoes: your feet have their protection; now, you've fucked. No large deal. You could.. maybe even... keep, it, from. him. Be improve if he didn't find out, anyway. The piece of work is not faithlessness, by any stretch of the mind. One week equals three projects: that's two scenes per gig, at four record per scene. Two-hundred fourty seconds, time a couple.
And then, you've conviced yourself.
Lisa, the dancer I occasionally piece with at Passions, comes over, ten to five. Plenty of period to prepare her for what I aspire us - all of us - to do. When I see her, I be aware of it's not obtainable to take much credible, and she more than liable was expecting the three of us to get together, anyway, when she gave me her quantity, because she's dressed rather revealingly. That won't last.
I've been smoking, so I do not want to initiate a kiss, or anything out of etiquette. But, Lisa walks in, and kisses me exact off; a inform, cordial one, not enough to taste the nicotine but perhaps it was. She does not seem put off, though, so my consequence is incidental.
Lisa has a digital hand-held camcorder with her. What the torment is that for, I pose in my controller and, as it turns out, aloud.
"Doesn't overawe you, does it?"
Good question. "No," I solve, without a splendid deal of conviction, "on the contrary, what's it for?"
"You'll see." She looks back over her shoulder and grins, under your own steam into our alive room. "This where you wanna do it, or the bedroom?" she asks, and then, "Kind place."
"Do what." We're before a live audience a game. I deem.
"You know. "Where do you wanna fit up?"
"I didn't know we'd be backdrop up." She gives me a gaze. "Bedroom."
"Show me the manner," she says, investment out her hand, 'corder strapped to the other. I take the limitless one, lead her back. "So, where's the one-time man?"
"He won't be mother country till seven."
"Hmm.. wonder what we can do until then," she says, flirtatiously. I've been with women, but not like Lisa intends for us to be, these days, and tell you the truth I'm nervous; scatterbrained nervous. What will Michael reflect, is anyone's suppose, but I am ready.
She sets the camera on the cupboard, making sure it is keen directly at the twin bed, and then takes a seat there in front of it. I saunter on over, and be seated next to her, on the foundation. Then, at each other, and laugh. This seems a speck preposterous, but not unworkable, which makes it kinda cool. Her grin/smile has not passed away away, yet, and I weigh up she must be tipsy if not drunk. Plus, her eyes are kind of dull, philanthropic her a sexy, anything-goes conduct, ready and prepared. S'pose I am, too.
Lisa puts a furnish on my shoulder, then my open neck, and runs her fingers through my mane over the back of my cranium. "Do you dye this?"
I thumbs up, to the difficult. "Naturally me."
She pulls me toward her countenance, and plants a kiss on my lips, full and commence mouth. I can live through the alcohol - mmm... Amaretto tart; some Mal-Gre-Co in there, too - as our tongues engage. The kiss goes on nearby a minute, before our lips part. Not sure if she's being teasing, or what, but I'm intrigued."
"Like, what?" is my rhetorical question.
"Like, fuck you."
I grin, bite my lip. "Why the camera?"
She choses her language, and says, unhurriedly, "mmm.. keepsake."
I give her a peek, not of dislike, necessarily, but... well, I'm in use aback. I don't do that, stress-free. "Not going to curl up on Stupid-sluts-who-never-thought-they'd-wind-up-on-the-computer- of-every-dorm-in-America-but-should'a-known-better, dot com, am I?"
She puts a supply on my knee, gets her look close to mine, again. "No _we_ won't."
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