Diary of a Reformed Harlot: Part Two
https://interracialerotica.net/erotica/articles/346/1/Diary-of-a-Reformed-Harlot-Part-Two/Page1.html
By Tracy Ames
Published on August 29, 2011
Roses have inflicted more damage on more otherwise healthy relationships than the ravages of war and Oprah combined; yet, if viewed with the symbolic eye of a philosopher, roses illustrative how we measure life and love and loss.
As children, we drawn colorful pictures of roses, and our parents stuck them on the frig. We collected them from the garden and gave to others, hoping they’d praise us. As we grew older, roses measured the affection of their giver or our affection for the receiver or as tokens of repentance for naughty behavior. Time passes and they’re still there: the corsage on the lapel of the groomsmen, bouquets for all occasions, we collect them and press them into keepsake albums, and we even place them on gravestones.
They’re always there…in the background…they’re existence becomes so commonplace that we forget they’re present. The blinding irony about roses is they emanate their sweetest, most pungent perfume just as they begin to die. We don’t appreciate their true beauty until we stand the chance of losing them. Ain’t that a kick in the pants?
Yesterday I sat fingering the bouquet of yellow and white rose TI sent to my office. They were almost a week old; their scent filled the room. I re-read the affixed card “Sorry, I’ll pay for the bed” and laughed. Broken furniture and the ever-present threat of being fucked into a parallel universe are but a couple of the perils associated with dating younger men.
Since PC and I parted ways, constancy is at the top of my must-have list. TI has constancy in spade force. He doesn’t have Brit’s style or Bishop’s sophistication, and no we don’t share a past like PC and I do. But I can say with all confidence TI loves me without boundaries or pre-conditions. Pussy whipped? No, that would imply I willfully mistreat him. I don’t and never will.
So, why can’t I commit to him exclusively? Our age difference, while not a deal breaker, frightens me. I worry one day he’ll regret having loved me as he does now. If my reasons for concern lay in something under my control then I wouldn’t question it. But I don’t have control. I can’t bend the situation to my will and this give rise to weightier concerns: The chances of me at thirty-eight having children are slim, and he adores children. He’d like to move back to Oklahoma to closer to his family, and that’s the last damned thing a city girl like myself would ever consider. And then there’s the subject of our friends. The few individuals I regard as friends are around the same age, same career paths, same goals, and same mindset. On the other hand, the majority of TI’s friends are twentysomething, vocationally lost, struggling to pay college loans, and a few still live with their parents.
TI is a diamond amongst rubble. He has a sensible career which suits him creatively and financially, he’s mature beyond his years, and while he isn’t a homeowner, he has a lovely apartment and inclination to save his money instead of blowing it at the pub. He goes out with his friends from time to time; thankfully by some merciful act of providence I’m not required to tag along very often. The few occasions when I have socialized were nightmares. I sat for forty-five minutes listening to a specky faced chick ramble on about her mom’s censorship of her shower time. I wanted to shout “Move the fuck out!” then I remembered she was a broke, twenty year old college student. Age and experience count for something, right?
I’ve dated a lot of men. I just didn’t sleep with them which makes me more of a serial monogamist than a bonafided whore, I told TI as he assembled my new bed; the third in nine months.
“I don’t think you’re a serial monogamist or a whore. You just haven’t found what you’re looking for.”
“That doesn’t frighten you?”
“Not really. You can’t hurt me.” He tightened a bolt and looked up at me. “What I mean is, you don’t have the power to hurt me. All the warning signs are there. It’s my choice whether or not to heed them…it’s not up to you…you can’t make me a victim.” He stood from his crouched position and wiped his hands on the front of his jeans. “Beside, I made the quarter finals. I still have a chance, right?”
His reply left me feeling vulnerable and little flummoxed that, albeit applicable, our relationship could be boiled down in sports terminology with ease. He was right, of course. He was taking a major risk but his interest in me was great enough to overcome whatever fear he might have felt and whatever formidable walls I put up.
That night over dinner I reminded him that this wasn’t game; it’s my life. Without hesitation he retorted it was also his life and he didn’t mind waiting. If I were more sentimental his gesture would seem gallant rather than pathetic but I’m not. Unlike me, TI isn’t jaded by life’s disappointments; he’s never had his heartbroken. Maybe I’d be happier if he were a fekkless libertine. TI? A libertine? Please, I can’t even write the word with a straight face.
After dinner, we sat on the sofa with TI’s head resting in my lap. He took my hands in his and massaged my palms and my fingers with his, traced his long graceful fingers along mine, kneaded his fists in the center of my hands, and pressed his palms against my fingertips. He made more effective love to my hands with his than many men have made with their entire bodies.
Then out of the blue he asked, “How many men have you slept with?” Maybe feeling the question was too direct, he added, “You said you’ve dated men without sleeping with them. How many?”
I thought for a second. “Seven, maybe eight men. You?”
“Two. My first girlfriend and you. It wasn’t important until now.” A comfortable silence settled between us. “Do you enjoy sex?”
“I do now but I haven’t always.” I looked down at him trying to figure out where the hell the conversation going. “Sex was more about physical contact than satisfaction. I didn’t care if I had an orgasm; I just wanted to be close to someone, like a mattered. My mind raced with doubt, I couldn’t relax. I convinced myself that my pleasure wasn’t important. I’ve always been able to make myself cum, though.” I twirled his hair in my fingers. “Everything changed when I learned to appreciate my body as much as men.”
“Wait,” his eyes darted from side to side. “PC was your first. He didn’t make you cum?” I shook my head ‘no’. “Never?” Again I shook my head. “You faked it,” he looked pleased and worried. “Have you ever faked an orgasm with me?”
“Hell no.” Fucking him was like being fisted by a freight train. I was still sore from that morning’s spirited tryst in my guest bedroom. Reducing my bed to kindling forced us to change locales...again. “I have never faked an orgasm with you.” Surely, I thought, he’d ask where he fit into the lovemaking hierarchy but he didn’t. He stated rather nonchalantly that he loved ordering me to take my clothes off and touch myself. He loved watching me masturbate with his cock inside me. He loved the sense of authority when I obeyed.
“I like being your mercy.” I held his gaze, knowing what he wanted. “But not tonight. I’m sore as hell from earlier.” Damn it! His devilish smile turned me on! He knelt between my legs spread painfully wide. My shirt and bra flew one way, my yoga pants and panties the other. His clothing followed suit.
His playful pink tongue traced the outline of my breasts, then zeroed in on my areolas and teased my nipples to life while pulling me to the edge of the cushions. I was too sore to be fuck but that’s exactly what I wanted. “Do it,” I whimpered.
He raised his head from my breast, arched an eyebrow and looked into my eyes with a slight grin. “No, you’re hurting.” His tongue tickled the underside of my nipple and I damned near came out of my skin. He licked and kissed down my belly until my poor, aching slit was firmly in his crosshairs. But he evaded it; instead his lips worked down my thigh, then moved to the inside, sensually sucking my flesh and leaving his mark.
“Come on!”
“No.” His tongue tickled my thigh.
“I hate you!”
His eyes rose over my breasts. “You love me.” He put his hands under my thighs, spreading them wider. I lay gaped before him in all my shaven majesty. “You taught me everything I know,” He moved towards my pussy. “You taught me how to please you,” The sweet touch of his lips on my mound caught me off guard. “You made me what I am, Lena.” His tongue traced one lip to the top, then, working around my clit, licked the other back to the bottom. “Be careful what you ask for.” His tongue slowly massaged the inside of my swollen lips, lapping my juices. I rolled my hips against his mouth. “Shit, baby,” he leaned back a bit, admiring the thin, pearly strands of cum and spit tethered between his lips and clit. “How many times have you cum?”
“Twice,” My head swam. My skin was so sensitive that slightest move he made caused my heart to leap with excitement. I loved his tongue, but I wanted his cock something fierce! “Fuck me, please.” My inability to walk the next day didn’t factor into my request.
From between my thighs, came his muffled reply, “No.” His tongue was firmly inside me and I while I was happy for this modest amount of penetration, I craved more. He flicked the underside of my clit. That sent me over the edge! My body rocked in orgasm. My fingers dug into his hair as I convulsed and pleasured myself on his tongue. He held my thighs and furiously licked, kissed and eventually nibbled my clit just as I’d taught him. Semiconscious and delirious, another orgasm crashed through me. “Fuck me now, dammit!” I yelled, a bit pornish in hindsight.
Quickly, he stood, grinning, my juice glistening on his rosy cheeks. “Beg for it, bitch,” he growled, stroking his cock and applying a condom retrieved from his jeans. “Tell me how much you want it.”
“Please,” I whined defiantly fingering myself, watching his cock grow. “I’ll do anything you want.”
“Anything?”
"Anything.”
He grabbed my ankles and lifted my legs high overhead as he moved in. Roughly, he jammed his length up my sensitive pussy; fucking me vigorously; ramming home repeatedly. I came after a few strokes. Sweet liberation! My head spun at the sight of his chest heaving between my calves, the sensation of his hot cock diving into my depths, the sound of the sofa squeaking with each thrust. Oh shit! We’re going to break the sofa, flashed briefly in head. Who cared—it wouldn’t be the first piece of furniture we’d destroyed.
He reached his hands beneath my thighs and bent over to kiss my lips. “Put your arms around me,” he commanded. I did, and rose up in response as he straightened his back, lifting me off the cushion. We were standing; his hard cock jack-hammered up inside of me; he held one of my legs about his waist, and the other struggled to find the floor. I was up on my tippy-toes. He often forgets his height advantage over me!
“You fucking bastard!” I barked.
“You like it.” He grunted, suddenly realizing that he was bouncing my suspended torso against his loins. Something about this position did it for him. “Gonna cum!” he gripped my tiny ass, lifted me off the floor entirely until both of my legs daggled over his forearms like rags while pounded into me.
“Cum for me.”
“Aaah,” he moaned. His thrusting cock pulsed uncontrollably. Greedily, I came. Minutes later, he lowered my legs gently to the floor. “Are you okay?” he asked when he noticed my legs were trembling with the grace of a drunken three-legged lamb. He scooped me in his arms and laid me on the sofa where I lay clutching aching privates while he made the bed.
In bed, our showered bodies melded together; my back snuggled into his chest, wrapped safe in his arms. An hour or so later, my eyes flashed open. You’ve got to be kidding me, I chided myself. Racked with pain, my body was ready to go again and TI was sound asleep. No, please go to sleep, I begged my vagina. TI stirred behind me and all bets were off. I took his hand and pressed it between my legs and slowly worked my hips against it.
“Hey,” TI said sleepily a few minutes later. “I thought we’d called it a night.” His finger slid inside of me and I jumped. “I can’t fuck your ass if your pussy is too sore.”
Like the whore I am, I flopped on my stomach and shook my ass at him, calling over my shoulder, “I’m ready! You know where to find the lube!” TI is the only man to lay claim to my ass. He doesn’t do it often but where his does its fire!
Lubed up, I felt his weight on my back. He grabbed one breasts and squeezed. “Is this what you want?” he asked. He was rock hard and slowly penetrating me before I utter my affirmation. “Play with your pussy,” He growled, licking my earlobe and nibbling the nape of my neck. I dizzily fingered myself and rubbed my tender clit as he slowly took my ass.
“Faster,” I urged him.
“No, I’ll cum in your ass if I go any faster.” Thankfully his cock was doing my bidding rather than his. Faster I wanted, and faster I got despite himself. “Oh God,” he whimpered, throwing me forward. I bit into my pillow until my throat was dry and hoarse from screaming. Soon every muscle in our bodies cried in agony and relief.
He lay on my back, his cock went flaccid in my ass. Finally he sat up and went for a towel. I was too tired to move so he carefully slipped the towel beneath me. He seemed fascinated by the droplets of semen dripping between my legs.
“I can’t believe I came in your ass.”
“Yeah, that’s new.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No,” I couldn’t tease him. He was nothing if not solicitous of my wellbeing. “It doesn’t hurt. But I don’t think I’ll be able mobile tomorrow.” I smiled, lightening the mood. After much labor, we showered yet again and fell asleep in each others arms only to be woken up an hour later when the phone rang. “Answer it.” I mumbled.
TI checked the caller ID and announced dryly, “It’s PC.”
I took the phone from his hand and went into the living room just in case he wanted to go back to sleep. PC and I talked…it was the same old thing: He was coming in town and wanted to have dinner. Though reluctant I accepted and told him to ring me when he touched down. I ambled back to an empty bed. TI emerged from the bathroom fully dressed.
“I’m going home,” He kissed my lips and said he’d call.
He never called. I haven’t spoken to him since he left that night. He sent a bouquet of yellow and white rose to my office. They’re over a week old now; their scent fills the room. Funny, we don’t appreciate the beauty in someone until we stand the chance of losing them.
Ain’t that a kick in the pants?
The True and Unabridged Diary of Lena Amelia James, Reformed Harlot.
Email membership request to: [email protected]. In the subject line, enter "THC REQUEST"
Email membership request to: [email protected]. In the subject line, enter "THC REQUEST"
Diary of a Reformed Harlot: Part Two
Roses have inflicted more damage on more otherwise healthy relationships than the ravages of war and Oprah combined; yet, if viewed with the symbolic eye of a philosopher, roses illustrative how we measure life and love and loss.
As children, we drawn colorful pictures of roses, and our parents stuck them on the frig. We collected them from the garden and gave to others, hoping they’d praise us. As we grew older, roses measured the affection of their giver or our affection for the receiver or as tokens of repentance for naughty behavior. Time passes and they’re still there: the corsage on the lapel of the groomsmen, bouquets for all occasions, we collect them and press them into keepsake albums, and we even place them on gravestones.
They’re always there…in the background…they’re existence becomes so commonplace that we forget they’re present. The blinding irony about roses is they emanate their sweetest, most pungent perfume just as they begin to die. We don’t appreciate their true beauty until we stand the chance of losing them. Ain’t that a kick in the pants?
Yesterday I sat fingering the bouquet of yellow and white rose TI sent to my office. They were almost a week old; their scent filled the room. I re-read the affixed card “Sorry, I’ll pay for the bed” and laughed. Broken furniture and the ever-present threat of being fucked into a parallel universe are but a couple of the perils associated with dating younger men.
Since PC and I parted ways, constancy is at the top of my must-have list. TI has constancy in spade force. He doesn’t have Brit’s style or Bishop’s sophistication, and no we don’t share a past like PC and I do. But I can say with all confidence TI loves me without boundaries or pre-conditions. Pussy whipped? No, that would imply I willfully mistreat him. I don’t and never will.
So, why can’t I commit to him exclusively? Our age difference, while not a deal breaker, frightens me. I worry one day he’ll regret having loved me as he does now. If my reasons for concern lay in something under my control then I wouldn’t question it. But I don’t have control. I can’t bend the situation to my will and this give rise to weightier concerns: The chances of me at thirty-eight having children are slim, and he adores children. He’d like to move back to Oklahoma to closer to his family, and that’s the last damned thing a city girl like myself would ever consider. And then there’s the subject of our friends. The few individuals I regard as friends are around the same age, same career paths, same goals, and same mindset. On the other hand, the majority of TI’s friends are twentysomething, vocationally lost, struggling to pay college loans, and a few still live with their parents.
TI is a diamond amongst rubble. He has a sensible career which suits him creatively and financially, he’s mature beyond his years, and while he isn’t a homeowner, he has a lovely apartment and inclination to save his money instead of blowing it at the pub. He goes out with his friends from time to time; thankfully by some merciful act of providence I’m not required to tag along very often. The few occasions when I have socialized were nightmares. I sat for forty-five minutes listening to a specky faced chick ramble on about her mom’s censorship of her shower time. I wanted to shout “Move the fuck out!” then I remembered she was a broke, twenty year old college student. Age and experience count for something, right?
I’ve dated a lot of men. I just didn’t sleep with them which makes me more of a serial monogamist than a bonafided whore, I told TI as he assembled my new bed; the third in nine months.
“I don’t think you’re a serial monogamist or a whore. You just haven’t found what you’re looking for.”
“That doesn’t frighten you?”
“Not really. You can’t hurt me.” He tightened a bolt and looked up at me. “What I mean is, you don’t have the power to hurt me. All the warning signs are there. It’s my choice whether or not to heed them…it’s not up to you…you can’t make me a victim.” He stood from his crouched position and wiped his hands on the front of his jeans. “Beside, I made the quarter finals. I still have a chance, right?”
His reply left me feeling vulnerable and little flummoxed that, albeit applicable, our relationship could be boiled down in sports terminology with ease. He was right, of course. He was taking a major risk but his interest in me was great enough to overcome whatever fear he might have felt and whatever formidable walls I put up.
That night over dinner I reminded him that this wasn’t game; it’s my life. Without hesitation he retorted it was also his life and he didn’t mind waiting. If I were more sentimental his gesture would seem gallant rather than pathetic but I’m not. Unlike me, TI isn’t jaded by life’s disappointments; he’s never had his heartbroken. Maybe I’d be happier if he were a fekkless libertine. TI? A libertine? Please, I can’t even write the word with a straight face.
After dinner, we sat on the sofa with TI’s head resting in my lap. He took my hands in his and massaged my palms and my fingers with his, traced his long graceful fingers along mine, kneaded his fists in the center of my hands, and pressed his palms against my fingertips. He made more effective love to my hands with his than many men have made with their entire bodies.
Then out of the blue he asked, “How many men have you slept with?” Maybe feeling the question was too direct, he added, “You said you’ve dated men without sleeping with them. How many?”
I thought for a second. “Seven, maybe eight men. You?”
“Two. My first girlfriend and you. It wasn’t important until now.” A comfortable silence settled between us. “Do you enjoy sex?”
“I do now but I haven’t always.” I looked down at him trying to figure out where the hell the conversation going. “Sex was more about physical contact than satisfaction. I didn’t care if I had an orgasm; I just wanted to be close to someone, like a mattered. My mind raced with doubt, I couldn’t relax. I convinced myself that my pleasure wasn’t important. I’ve always been able to make myself cum, though.” I twirled his hair in my fingers. “Everything changed when I learned to appreciate my body as much as men.”
“Wait,” his eyes darted from side to side. “PC was your first. He didn’t make you cum?” I shook my head ‘no’. “Never?” Again I shook my head. “You faked it,” he looked pleased and worried. “Have you ever faked an orgasm with me?”
“Hell no.” Fucking him was like being fisted by a freight train. I was still sore from that morning’s spirited tryst in my guest bedroom. Reducing my bed to kindling forced us to change locales...again. “I have never faked an orgasm with you.” Surely, I thought, he’d ask where he fit into the lovemaking hierarchy but he didn’t. He stated rather nonchalantly that he loved ordering me to take my clothes off and touch myself. He loved watching me masturbate with his cock inside me. He loved the sense of authority when I obeyed.
“I like being your mercy.” I held his gaze, knowing what he wanted. “But not tonight. I’m sore as hell from earlier.” Damn it! His devilish smile turned me on! He knelt between my legs spread painfully wide. My shirt and bra flew one way, my yoga pants and panties the other. His clothing followed suit.
His playful pink tongue traced the outline of my breasts, then zeroed in on my areolas and teased my nipples to life while pulling me to the edge of the cushions. I was too sore to be fuck but that’s exactly what I wanted. “Do it,” I whimpered.
He raised his head from my breast, arched an eyebrow and looked into my eyes with a slight grin. “No, you’re hurting.” His tongue tickled the underside of my nipple and I damned near came out of my skin. He licked and kissed down my belly until my poor, aching slit was firmly in his crosshairs. But he evaded it; instead his lips worked down my thigh, then moved to the inside, sensually sucking my flesh and leaving his mark.
“Come on!”
“No.” His tongue tickled my thigh.
“I hate you!”
His eyes rose over my breasts. “You love me.” He put his hands under my thighs, spreading them wider. I lay gaped before him in all my shaven majesty. “You taught me everything I know,” He moved towards my pussy. “You taught me how to please you,” The sweet touch of his lips on my mound caught me off guard. “You made me what I am, Lena.” His tongue traced one lip to the top, then, working around my clit, licked the other back to the bottom. “Be careful what you ask for.” His tongue slowly massaged the inside of my swollen lips, lapping my juices. I rolled my hips against his mouth. “Shit, baby,” he leaned back a bit, admiring the thin, pearly strands of cum and spit tethered between his lips and clit. “How many times have you cum?”
“Twice,” My head swam. My skin was so sensitive that slightest move he made caused my heart to leap with excitement. I loved his tongue, but I wanted his cock something fierce! “Fuck me, please.” My inability to walk the next day didn’t factor into my request.
From between my thighs, came his muffled reply, “No.” His tongue was firmly inside me and I while I was happy for this modest amount of penetration, I craved more. He flicked the underside of my clit. That sent me over the edge! My body rocked in orgasm. My fingers dug into his hair as I convulsed and pleasured myself on his tongue. He held my thighs and furiously licked, kissed and eventually nibbled my clit just as I’d taught him. Semiconscious and delirious, another orgasm crashed through me. “Fuck me now, dammit!” I yelled, a bit pornish in hindsight.
Quickly, he stood, grinning, my juice glistening on his rosy cheeks. “Beg for it, bitch,” he growled, stroking his cock and applying a condom retrieved from his jeans. “Tell me how much you want it.”
“Please,” I whined defiantly fingering myself, watching his cock grow. “I’ll do anything you want.”
“Anything?”
"Anything.”
He grabbed my ankles and lifted my legs high overhead as he moved in. Roughly, he jammed his length up my sensitive pussy; fucking me vigorously; ramming home repeatedly. I came after a few strokes. Sweet liberation! My head spun at the sight of his chest heaving between my calves, the sensation of his hot cock diving into my depths, the sound of the sofa squeaking with each thrust. Oh shit! We’re going to break the sofa, flashed briefly in head. Who cared—it wouldn’t be the first piece of furniture we’d destroyed.
He reached his hands beneath my thighs and bent over to kiss my lips. “Put your arms around me,” he commanded. I did, and rose up in response as he straightened his back, lifting me off the cushion. We were standing; his hard cock jack-hammered up inside of me; he held one of my legs about his waist, and the other struggled to find the floor. I was up on my tippy-toes. He often forgets his height advantage over me!
“You fucking bastard!” I barked.
“You like it.” He grunted, suddenly realizing that he was bouncing my suspended torso against his loins. Something about this position did it for him. “Gonna cum!” he gripped my tiny ass, lifted me off the floor entirely until both of my legs daggled over his forearms like rags while pounded into me.
“Cum for me.”
“Aaah,” he moaned. His thrusting cock pulsed uncontrollably. Greedily, I came. Minutes later, he lowered my legs gently to the floor. “Are you okay?” he asked when he noticed my legs were trembling with the grace of a drunken three-legged lamb. He scooped me in his arms and laid me on the sofa where I lay clutching aching privates while he made the bed.
In bed, our showered bodies melded together; my back snuggled into his chest, wrapped safe in his arms. An hour or so later, my eyes flashed open. You’ve got to be kidding me, I chided myself. Racked with pain, my body was ready to go again and TI was sound asleep. No, please go to sleep, I begged my vagina. TI stirred behind me and all bets were off. I took his hand and pressed it between my legs and slowly worked my hips against it.
“Hey,” TI said sleepily a few minutes later. “I thought we’d called it a night.” His finger slid inside of me and I jumped. “I can’t fuck your ass if your pussy is too sore.”
Like the whore I am, I flopped on my stomach and shook my ass at him, calling over my shoulder, “I’m ready! You know where to find the lube!” TI is the only man to lay claim to my ass. He doesn’t do it often but where his does its fire!
Lubed up, I felt his weight on my back. He grabbed one breasts and squeezed. “Is this what you want?” he asked. He was rock hard and slowly penetrating me before I utter my affirmation. “Play with your pussy,” He growled, licking my earlobe and nibbling the nape of my neck. I dizzily fingered myself and rubbed my tender clit as he slowly took my ass.
“Faster,” I urged him.
“No, I’ll cum in your ass if I go any faster.” Thankfully his cock was doing my bidding rather than his. Faster I wanted, and faster I got despite himself. “Oh God,” he whimpered, throwing me forward. I bit into my pillow until my throat was dry and hoarse from screaming. Soon every muscle in our bodies cried in agony and relief.
He lay on my back, his cock went flaccid in my ass. Finally he sat up and went for a towel. I was too tired to move so he carefully slipped the towel beneath me. He seemed fascinated by the droplets of semen dripping between my legs.
“I can’t believe I came in your ass.”
“Yeah, that’s new.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No,” I couldn’t tease him. He was nothing if not solicitous of my wellbeing. “It doesn’t hurt. But I don’t think I’ll be able mobile tomorrow.” I smiled, lightening the mood. After much labor, we showered yet again and fell asleep in each others arms only to be woken up an hour later when the phone rang. “Answer it.” I mumbled.
TI checked the caller ID and announced dryly, “It’s PC.”
I took the phone from his hand and went into the living room just in case he wanted to go back to sleep. PC and I talked…it was the same old thing: He was coming in town and wanted to have dinner. Though reluctant I accepted and told him to ring me when he touched down. I ambled back to an empty bed. TI emerged from the bathroom fully dressed.
“I’m going home,” He kissed my lips and said he’d call.
He never called. I haven’t spoken to him since he left that night. He sent a bouquet of yellow and white rose to my office. They’re over a week old now; their scent fills the room. Funny, we don’t appreciate the beauty in someone until we stand the chance of losing them.
Ain’t that a kick in the pants?