Back To Theirs

I mean, for a moment you consider just slathering yourself with hand lotion and getting jiggy in the bathroom, but the queue outside is already quite frenzied and long and aggro, and you really don’t need that energy pounding on a door feet away while you’re trying to cum, so you pull up a cab and quickly decide theirs (“Yours?” “Mine”) and you tell the driver to please practise discretion with your Uber rating while you make out in the back here, and he laughs and says “OK boss,” and then you both kiss in the back so much you get tangled in each other’s seatbelts, and then it’s out the door, dash across the road, fumbling at the lock, arms around each other in the hallway, tip onto the bed, underwear coiled around angles, breathless panting – OK, a thumb! Interesting move with the thumb! – brief fleeting nap after Round #1 that rolls effortlessly into Round #2, all wrapped up in a sheet with each other’s sweat on you, and then wake up and do it again and: ah, god, Christ, no you’re sober now and it’s daylight, you— fuck, what’s their name. What’s their name? What’s their name. You don’t know their name. Rut one more time before they ask you what their name is, then find your jacket and go. Quick trip to the corner shop before you get a bus home to get a whole packet of Extra to chew on the way. Big croissant and a coffee to go home to. You have a spring in your step. Yes, dickheads, you say internally to the world, and also externally to every WhatsApp group you’re in. I don’t know their name but I shagged. I did shagging. I got shaggethed.

YOU HAVE WON FRIDAY NIGHT