I take my chances. I don’t remember how we ended up in his apartment.
It’s cosy, his bed is inviting.
A water bed.
Oooooo.
He has toys.
He is more than enthusiastic about using them.
And oils. And lubricants.
And all the paraphernalia you can imagine.
He has every intention of fucking you till you beg for mercy.
Hitler’s wet dream, he is as Aryan as they come. Tall. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. The confidence, the seriousness only a German boy could have.
There is a date. Uneventful. You’re talking, normalising each other’s existence although you both know how this is going to end.
There’s a tube ride. There’s walking whilst holding hands. He’s sweet enough to drive you back to your hostel.
You’re a little bit dizzy. The language is alien, the roads seem like a maze. So you don’t say no, you don’t even feign it. You take up on his offer right away.
It’s gentlemanly. Dinner, drinks and whipping.
It’s exciting.
The freedom, the newness.
Gig’s done. You’re on a high. But tomorrow you want to see him again possibly. And relive all the tension, the excitement.
There’s no longer a tingle down your ladyparts when you think of him. You’ve never once seen the pictures the two of you took upon his insistence. A memento. The memory of his toys and his piercing eyes are enough.
Everything’s off the bucket list then (?)
