Room 803

In two weeks time, our text thread grew. It could have reached the moon and back—we were constant throughout the day, as if right next to one another. Comfortably connected. Sharing childhood stories, and exchanging photos—sexy photos, photos of me where I’m flat and where I’m round, in all the right places...photos of me in new strappy black lingerie, photos of me anchored on all fours with my back arched and ass sitting high in the air for him, smooth skin, firm muscles, hair flaxen and willowy. Photos from high school, photos of close friends, photos of him wearing glasses, photos of him not wearing glasses, photos of his new Ducati, photos of childhood relics found in old storage boxes, photos of where we’ve been, and photos of our lives now, with our children. 

We shared fantasies, and videos of me fingering myself, videos of him attempting what he called “press ups”, videos of me doing fitness and track workouts, videos of making pancakes, and videos of our family dogs. We swapped confidential affairs, and created secrets of our own together, too. We talked dirty to each other. Intimately dirty. We’d make each other cum then send photos of cum-laced fingers and licking them clean. 

Together, we traveled through a 90’s time warp holding hands and, eventually, a Spotify playlist was originated in honor of us, titled: 90’s Rewind Commute: Shoulda’ Been Us and it would include Sabotage and Intergalactic by the Beastie Boys and Little L by Jamiroquai. We became bonded. Over text we would kiss, fuck, grip, press and hold. We would grind, writhe, sweat, slink and suck. I’d hold my breath and cry out, “Baby, please?!” begging him to let me cum until he granted me permission. He would cum inside me—deep, holding, rasping, pressing harder, pelvic bones bruising and grinding harder still. 

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