Eric lives upstairs from me. My after, after, after party, with braided jute, paddles, and a suspension frame, my life has never been the same. We’ve been friends for a while, Eric and I; He encourages me to explore my sexuality. With him, freely and effortlessly, I can share my desires.
I’m in a rush to get home from Crystal Palace, a West End club. My girlfriends get it. As we walk to the car, they throw knowing glances, and I return giggles. Michael, the latest vanilla guy, is hanging onto me lovingly – we’ve been dating for over a year. I keep him around for appearance’s sake because he is safe, employed, and well-paid. My mother adores him – the son she wishes she had.
Michael, never Mike, is strait-laced, a traditionalist conservative with no vices. He loves me because I am fun, playful and exciting. In a word, I find him … soporific; In two … missionary. I dare not divulge any of my erotic cravings; they do not fit his personality. It took a year to convince him to come dancing with me. And the last time, with my ex, I was harshly judged, but Eric was there to pick me up and brush off the shame. Dry my tears. Eric! My constant.
“Babe, let’s grab a bite to eat!” Michael suggests as we approach Fran’s, pausing to pull me in and kiss my cheek. Forcing a smile, I squeeze his hand and reply, “Sorry, Hon, I need to sleep.”
Ignoring the empty fast food containers and the mild scent of rot through the building. I remove my heels and run down the hall to my apartment door. It’s so late, I pray Eric is still awake. I strip on my way to the bathroom.
Shower fresh, slightly wet and citrus-scented. I slip on Eric’s favourite reddish-purple sangria chemise – as comforting and titillating as his touch. At the push of each button, I swell with excitement.
“Hello!” Mmmm, that familiar bass-baritone. I imagine his lips.
A gasp escapes, and my heart races. I don’t remember the phone ringing. Finding my voice, in a whisper, I say, “Can I come up?”
“Of course you can.”
“Ok, see you in a few.”
I grab my keys and matching cover-up. With a final glance, I notice well-manicured toes lookin’ sexy in my velvet slippers with the French bow. On the way up, I encounter tired revellers. Are they reading my mind? Is it the anticipatory glow? Maybe that’s how they know. I simper and squeeze into a corner, then stare at the floor. Eric is on my mind, just a few seconds more.
Before I knock, he opens the door. We smile. Gazing. Feasting. Then, I walk in.
Photo by Ali Moradi on Unsplash
© 2024 Samantha Williams. All Rights Reserved.
