by David Cain

Desperation had set in.

I had stopped thinking about sex. I breathed sex.

I only survived a normal day by brutally pushing back my libido, forcing myself moment by moment to engage in the passage of time, a long walk on ice in a hard wind. I kept my eyes down. I calculated baseball statistics.

I was not thinking clearly. I knew I wasn’t thinking clearly and I could do nothing to restore my intellectual processes. My mind was a muddle. My imagination pushed forcefully into the erotic. I lived in a dream state, an extended psychedelic trip of boobs and butts and sweet sweet cunts. I dreamed on. I had none.

Minutes turned into hours became days begat months. Everything spun. I staggered. Time collapsed.

“Hello,” we said, our fires igniting.

A friend had set us up as perfect for each other, a perceptive and officious friend but soon forgotten as we stared into each other’s fiery eyes. The years I spent without female companionship were perfectly matched to the years she had spent without male companionship. Our hunger was balanced. A spark was all it took.

I don’t think we left the bar that night. We were evicted, the waitress, bartender and manager finally having had enough of our public display of affection. I kissed her and she kissed me, our hands kneading and fondling and squeezing and caressing every inch of our too clothed flesh. We stumbled into the street, barely letting go of each other, consuming each other the way the starving eat. We fell into a taxi and rode until the cabbie threw us out of the cab, disgusted by our immodest ride.

Cast back out onto the street, I stole a peek between kisses and realized we had ended up a few yards from my apartment. Still lost in the throes of desire, we worked our way to the door, struggled past some tenants on their way out, slowly climbed the stairs and fumbled with the key to paradise. Still dressed, technically, the fabric pushed and turn and otherwise disheveled barely covered our bodies. Once inside, they fell away and we lay down on the floor of the foyer. Pillows and chairs and sofas and beds stood a few sparse feet away but we couldn’t be bothered to move away from the door, content to get down to business, uninterested in wasting moments finding a comfortable place to screw.

She was beautiful as all women are beautiful in the throes of desperation.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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