Bridgycat
Your sensitive mouth

You go to one of those places maybe once or twice quite shortly after you've broken it off and it's full of these little somethings that can't be more than half your age but at least one of them looks like he knows what to do with a cock in his mouth so you take him home and fuck him on the sheets you've barely even changed since the last time. Suppose he's sexy, you don't really give a fuck what he looks like once you're back in that dark bedroom of yours and you get him to kneel like you always do, not even hard yet but that's his job to deal with. You don't even know his God damn name. Don't know if he knows who you are or if he even speaks English at all, you don't give a shit, you just want release but his lips around you do nothing until you trail your fingers through his hair and realize it's all curly and it immediately trails into thinking about this one time when you were both fairly wasted and in some city you can't remember the country of and he practically started to give you a God damn handjob on the subway and you got into this tiny little bathroom at the next stop and he gave you this amazing blowjob which this is absolutely nothing like but the mere memory makes it better the moment you start to think about it in the first place. Picture his pretty little mouth taking it so brilliantly somehow, you can practically hear his moans, catch yourself breathing these words into the air and feel the realization carve in your gut but you don't wanna care about that, it's starting to feel good, for fuck's sake, so you just push it all away and let yourself focus on the things you're supposed to ignore. You're allowed to in times like this, it's not like you're some God damn school girl day dreaming about her teacher or anything.
Imagine his delicate hands around your throbbingly hard cock, making it look bigger than it really is, picture the little noises he made when you fucked him, when he begged for more, he was such a good beggar, wasn't he, when he laid there trembling and you were so far inside of him it should've been physically impossible but it wasn't or maybe it just felt that way, you don't care, when you had his thin wrists pinned to the mattress and he breathlessly came with the syllables of your name beating so marvelously loudly against your skin like that over and over and over again and it made all the little hairs on the back of your neck rise as you fucked him and fucked him and fucked his little tight ass 'til he screamed he couldn't take it anymore and your whole God damn precense burst into his writhes in your grip as you came and everything was exactly the way you wanted it to be and you trace those memories again and again and again 'til you find yourself back in the reality you forgot even existed for a few moments there as you hear yourself exclaim these ramblings to insanity and you actually, finally come in what's-his-name's warm, wet mouth.
The images immediately disappear with the leftovers of one of the briefest orgasms you've ever experienced and when you open up your eyes again, pulse beating in your fingers as you clutch his head so tightly you can feel his skull ache against your skin, you've forgotten all about them. There's just this darkness encompassing you, you never really bother with lights, your breaths the only sound in the room and his hands still on your hips and it annoys you the moment you realize he's still here. Oh, fuck, now he's gonna wanna spend the night or something. Why couldn't you just've fucked him in some alley outside the club like normal people?
He looks nothing like Martin, just those curls. They're black. Like the filth on the soles of your shoes.
He's just filth on your God damn shoes.
You fuck him again, though, get him on his stomach on your bed without really knowing why you don't just throw him out and jerk off instead. It's horrible. Girls are easier, at least you can look at them when you fuck their brains out, this is just fucking ridiculous and you hate yourself for even going there in the first place, like you'd find someone as good as him, like it'd prove you don't need him to feel good or whatever, just whatever.
You do it again after a couple of days, maybe a week, just to make sure it's the worst kind of sex you've ever had and it is, that you can remember anyway, it's just that you want to make it perfectly clear so you'll never wanna do it again and it's over after that, it's all over. Until you see him again on telly, on stage, outside your God damn dressing room and it's there, carving, itching, fragments of his taste on your tongue and you go right back and do it again only to hate yourself just a little bit more because you weren't gonna do that and then there you are and you do it and do it and do it again and the greatest thing about it is that you still can't even admit to yourself that you want him.
That's just how some people are, their mouths get smaller with dreaming.

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