How far can sadness and sexual frustration drive people?
David always had to deal with the trouble of having sleepless nights and restless days. Fueled by caffeine and the utmost dedication to make ends meet, all he knew was bore himself with overt...
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There was nothing more practical than dozing off at almost ten in the evening during Sunday, or that might've been one of my idiosyncrasies due to how boring my life at twenty-four had turned out. Nothing beats a languid, laid-back Sunday after the not so hunky-dory weekdays at the office. Since slumber could be my deficit at times and snoozing all day hurts my back, there were other alternatives valuable of my time—tidying my room, hitting the gym, or going on a stroll with Daytona. Today even entailed finishing my brother's Divine Comedy essay and him jeering at me for the entire time while at it (I enjoyed the attention from Davion, I missed him).
I was in the elevator of this twenty-five-story condo building, with my backpack and the necessities (lube, some clothes, and condoms). Could've been weird, but I asked myself why I was here because never had I visioned that drooling over a man, traveling to his place, and willfully blowing a chunk of my savings on sex, being on the list of my standard Sunday activities. This was a desperation Sunday—a day where my desire for "exploration" drove me.
When the elevator doors opened, I felt a strain in my chest, then the excitement followed, felt like something thumped the air out of me.
The situation turned me into a pile of nerves—I never knew that uncertainty and enthusiasm were such a dangerous combination. Sixteen floors above the ground, and the headiness made it feel like I was a mile high. I felt rhapsodic just from the rush alone.
I took my time on the walk, tried hard to detach the apprehension from my exhilarated mind. I peered at each door I passed by. Stan's pad was on the farthest side of the floor, which I was thankful for. It gave me just enough time to stall.
When I was only a couple of feet away from Room 1603 B, I thought, "was Stan anticipating my arrival? Was excited and scared like I was?" Probably not. I recollected myself and looked back at the elevator door. There was still enough time to turn around and scram because this shit didn't make sense. Fuck me hard for being here. What was I doing here? God, I was scared.
Good grief, it sounded too late to make sense of everything at this point. I mean, what was I thinking after coming all the way here and giving my information at the reception? I should have thought about precautions before I entered this building. If it wasn't for the sordidness that I fostered for Stan, I wouldn't bother with the venture.
All I could think about earlier today were the things Stan and I would do together, and all I had to do now was ring the doorbell to find out if what I had imagined earlier would finally become a reality.
I'd try this shit. I had to try. I was getting old, and I wanted him. He was handsome, he would make me cum, then I would leave, limbs intact, still breathing...
I rang the doorbell and thought, "he better fuck me real good because I tried." Never had twenty seconds of waiting the longest seconds of my life. I took a step back as the sounds of the lock clicking and the door opening came from behind the door, and when my point of interest appeared in front of me, I learned I had made the correct decision.
