he murmured. “I’ve always wanted to go to Spain.” “And I’ve always wanted to be fucked by an American,” I replied. Whether it was from the shock of my bluntness or the fact that I shoved his fingers into my wetness, I got a very hard response. “I-I-I live across the street.” I could have laughed. He wasn’t the first person who I’d picked up in this bar who’d been a resident of either 215 or 217 Front Street. If things went my way for the rest of the summer, he probably wouldn’t be my last. “Let’s go.” When we got to his bedroom, I pushed him onto the bed. “Take everything off, except the tie,” I said. “You want me to leave my tie on?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied. “I want to hold on to it as I ride you.” He needed no further explanation. I climbed on to the bed and grabbed hold of his tie. Putain. Puta. Whore. Call me whatever you want, and it wouldn’t have made me feel any less about myself. When a cock is inside of me, I am taken to another plain, where all that exists is the delicious pleasure and the volcanic release.
