Content warning: explicit erotica
I was on the pull that night, and I did warm a bloke’s sheets by day’s end, but it was also the evening I met him.
He is out of place, I thought. He didn’t fit the room.
The pub was crowded with Canary Wharf city-boys — and he was one of the clique too — but unlike his colleagues, his suit fit. But it wasn’t just his tailoring that set him apart, or his stature and easy charisma for that matter.
No, there was something… Arg! It’s hard to articulate.
He wasn’t the centre of attention in his group, but his friends worked for his approval — most likely without even realising it. He wielded a subtle power. And it was no accident, I knew. He was in complete control.
Everything he did was calculated and precise: how he spoke, what he said, how he moved, the way he surveyed the room…
Of course, he knew I was studying him. Those eyes (God, I’m getting wet just thinking about them), those eyes didn’t miss a thing.
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London is full of weirdos — in the best sense of the word, I mean. Freak flags fly all over this town, proudly heralding our pretty deviances, luring kindred kooks into our nutcase fold. “Join us,” we whisper. “There’s a place for you here. There’s a place for everybody…”
Even for you, Lemony Snicket man. I saw you walking down the street. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think you could get away? Looking like that? You were mistaken. I noticed — your image branded my mind. Let me tell you: brain-tattoos itch and the only relief is to scratch. I have to scratch your description while it’s raw. So here goes; here you are.
White, wide, and flat, a New York Yankee cap, a mac to match your jeans, three-quarter cut, and for some reason tight, it seems, like a teenaged girl’s, and your retired curls I did not miss, grey and marvellous and undeterred, your attire, a perfect meme, baseball themed, and boyband righteous, halfway feminine but not curvaceous, I regret I missed your shoes, confused, for breakfast you ate, a croissant as you cruised.
Ahhh, that feels so good.