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Last month my work required me to spend a few days in London and I thought of visiting Selene. It was easily arranged and on the second night I was in London we had dinner at Tamarind in Mayfair. Tuesday was her night off. She was now a professional jazz lounge singer, working in a few different residencies in west end joints. It was good to see her again. She looked as sexy as ever and I was reminded of our torrid encounters when in college, a memory that gave me a slight rush of blood to my cock, which felt chubby and congested in the most pleasant way as we chatted over after dinner drinks in the dimly-lit basement restaurant. The conversation was flirtaceous as if we had been seeing each other every week uninterrupted, rather than after a gap of two years. We knew where it would lead but it was a delicious dance of the seven veils to get there. They say life is about the journey, not the desination, and this is true in sexual conquest too. I asked Selene if it turned her on that. And when she tries to withdraw and ran away from her problems and/or me, I run along side her until she gets tired so we can talk it out. I’m not afraid to hurt her feelings and fight with her. It’s her that I want to fight with, nobody else. I have and will always be brutally honest with her, no matter the personal consequences I might endure and/or whether I could avoid it with a ‘little white lie’. It’s just too painful dreaming of her every day of my life. I dream that I am her hero, always capable of rescuing and easing her every pain, and that she is my Queen and that I make her feel so alive and happy that she sings silly songs and tells me made up stories about fruit. But yet, when I wake up, I’m always alone, she’s constantly pushing me away. She keeps telling me that she’s leaving it in god’s hands. Why doesn’t she understand that my heart is in her hands, for I’m hers for the taking, that I’m ripe and ready to be harvested? Why does she play with my heart, doesn’t she.
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