A HARD COCK

One of the many emails I drafted to Highland Park after I sent him the fantasy I wrote about us.

Dearest HP,

I was hoping to have this conversation in person, because for selfish reasons I convinced myself I needed to hold you one last time before I let you go.

But I don’t want to be a burden on you and I don’t want to hurt anymore.

It became obvious to me, writing the York fantasy, I am in way too deep. There is a moment in the story when you turn me around to kiss me in the linen closet and instead of “I want you.” What I wanted you to say was, “I love you.” I had a hard time not keeping that in there and it has haunted me ever since.

What I want is not possible, I know that.

So I am letting you go.

I feel connected to you in a way I never have to another human being and I will always cherish that and it will never go away. It is a once in a lifetime thing and I am so grateful I was able to experience it with you, however brief.

I love you.

And I wish you and your family only the highest most elevated love on the planet.

Please know that if I run into you and I am emotional, or not, either way, I will be okay.

What we had was incredibly special and I don’t think many people on the planet get to experience that. It is the kind of passion and chemistry, I believe, would have lasted us well into our 80’s. I pray to God I find it with someone else.

Me

I never sent that email.

I don’t send many of them.

I finally heard from him. I always do.

He said:

Holy Moses. You’re good. I’m serious, you are so damn good. It’s like you’ve bored directly into the deepest recesses of my mind’s desires. I want what you just described. I feel like you stole the entire narrative from me and I need to take it back. How do you know?

To which I replied:

I don’t know how to explain it. I have never had fantasies like this before and I have certainly never felt compelled to write them down.

It felt like you were with me last night, helping me write it and live through it, in my head and body.

Strange and surreal.

I feel so connected to you, and yet I rarely see you.

Totally weird.

THEN CRICKETS. He sends nothing. For days.

In desperation, I text:

By the way, your bike is so fucking sexy. I wish you could take me for a long lingering hard ride, up the coast, on it.

He eventually replies with:

Hi.  I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch much, but I sure have enjoyed your messages.  I just got my computer back, so now I can email for reals.  I started to write you a message yesterday saying there were people around all the time and even that got cut off.  The only alone time I’ve had in recent days is if I run an errand.

I so dig your York fantasy, as you know.  Maybe erotic fiction is your calling.  Maybe it doesn’t have to remain fiction. 

We should also make the motorcycle ride happen.  

Have to run now, but a few thoughts I wanted to share.  My cock is hard just writing you a regular old message, but I must leave it alone for now.

At least, I have that. The knowledge that I make his cock hard.

 

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