Silent Revolution

This is how it happens.

Roof of the Arclight parking lot on Sunset Boulevard, front seat, reclined, on your back.

1030PM.

Foggy skies, the man next to you leaning over the center console, blue eyes, (dyed) black hair, pale skin.

Soft skin, desk jockey.
Soft lips, thin mouth.

Your hips rock empty against the air, slight rhythmic motions that are neither desperate or contrived... in appearance, anyway. An aching, wild calling, a signal that your body is doing things that your mind is not paying attention to.

But you know very well what you are doing.

Lips, tongue, he's decent, but you're already bored.

Tattoos all over his skin, faded with the years, gone soft as he lost muscle tone.

What a waste.

"God, those squirming hips," he groans against your mouth, "You're going to make me lose control."

A quick grin, "Hardly. You're fine and you know it."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

And you know it wouldn't matter even if he did lose control. He's too soft. He's experienced, but he's also been out of the true game a little too long. Edges have lost their refinement.

You could eat him alive.

He drives you back to your lover's apartment, though he doesn't know that.

Door to door service.

Keys dangle from your hand, outer gate, apartment, and loft entryway. You use all three, dropping your purse on the bed and finding your partner.

Step through the gate, the metal barriers, wait for him to let you in to the loft itself.

Body contact.

He has lost nothing through the years. Hard and warm, lips are strong and brutal.

His mouth possesses you until all traces of the other man are gone.

From hunter to prey in three minutes.


Tilt your head back and breathe.