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You take another sip of the cheap beer that I’ve picked up and lean back into the couch, gazing up at the ceiling. The pleasant, cool-warm glow melded nicely with the sound of my record player, and the warmth of my arm beside yours. David Bowie’s “Fame” wafted around the small basement room, just loud enough to hear but not too loud to make it difficult to talk. We had the house to ourselves, but still confined ourselves to the basement, where we could stay cool, safe from the summer heat.

Stealing a glance at me, you see that I’m lost in the moment, eyes closed, fingers tapping lightly in time with not the music, almost erratically. I’d pick up the cadence of the lyrics, then switch to tap in time with the bass, then with the beat. I wasn’t keeping time, just letting the music wash through me. You smirk at my un-selfconscious enjoyment and attempt to emulate it, closing your eyes to bolster a temporary refuge from your own thoughts. As the song draws to its close, I jump up and move to the record player. I let it finish, smiling, and stop the player, looking up to you with a grin on my face.

“Great, right?”

“Mmm,” you murmur pleasantly, knowing bahis firmaları that I’m not looking for analysis, just a moment of shared joy.

“Okay, let’s see…” I place the record back in its sleeve and start rooting through my collection. “Oh, this one is great, let me know if you’ve heard it.”

The drum intro sounds familiar, and then you immediately recognize Paul Simon’s voice. The song doesn’t sound familiar, and you admit it.

“It’s called 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover.”

“Ha. You trying to tell me something?”

I laugh, and give you an exaggerated nod. “Oh, yeah, I thought this would be the most sensitive way to break it to you.”

You roll your eyes and sip your beer. You notice a familiar look cross my face, and I run up stairs, saying “Be right back!”

That look, the one that says I’ve come up with another joke, one that was probably more effort than the punchline was worth, makes you sigh in exasperation. I could be like a kid sometimes, you think, with the silly jokes and weird ideas I came up with on the spur of the moment. You like it, even if I don’t always think things through before rushing into the next kaçak iddaa thing. Besides, it was worth it, with how I treated you, and I was pretty good in the sack. Your mind wanders, remembering last night, the bottle of wine, and the cigarettes we’d snuck while I was the man of the house, and then making love on the living room floor. Falling asleep next to each other. The warmth in your belly deepens, and coalesces into a tiny spark. You toy with the idea of fanning it into flame, or letting it sit and see if it dies on its own, as you hear Paul Simon’s litany of abandonment methods run its course.

Slip out the back, Jack.

Make a new plan, Stan.

You don’t need to be coy, Roy,

And get yourself free.

I clatter down the basement stairs, holding a record. “It’s my parents’. I thought I’d expand on the theme.”

I lower the needle onto the right track, and sit next you again, grabbing my beer. A slow, R you’re getting a stellar fucking and that’s all you care about.

Again, my tempo rises, and while you don’t have much of a range of motion, you’re making little hunching movements back at me to meet each of my thrusts. Over and over, kaçak bahis I drive deeply into you, faster and faster. You think if you can just get your arm around… yes. You wiggle your hand beneath you, to tease your clit again, and then: magic. You’re rubbing your clit as I’m stuffing you full of cock, and you couldn’t be happier. Your moans rise, I can definitely hear them now, and my breath is coming in shorter gasps. I slow slightly, and then each thrust comes HARD, and DEEP. You can hardly breathe from the overwhelming feeling of me slamming, full length, into your pussy at its tightest. A couple… more… thrusts… and… I stay in, grinding my hips as if I can just push further, and you feel me erupt into you like a fire hydrant. Each blast of my cum, as it splashes, gives you another little thrill, and you’re working your clit, and I’m cumming, and you’re moaning, and I’m holding you, and then… You’re with me. You start cumming again, clenching my cock as it spends its last twitches, and you hear me lean my head against your back and hum contentedly. Your orgasm washes through you like a warm wave; less intense than before, but no less welcome.

You lie there a bit longer, feeling my weight on your back and my cock lose some of its hardness inside you. You turn your head to kiss me again, over your shoulder. We really need to listen to jazz more often.

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