Ballin'

Had a post-work supplement to help alleviate the prolonged strain of service. It could only be justified, at that hour and contrary to my otherwise being completely shattered, by the convenient proximity of this gentleman's apartment. Which turned out to be fucking beautiful. There've been a few 'dates' recently where my host has made me feel comparatively impoverished, this being an especial case, casting a shadow of self-doubt over my recently cheerful pennilessness. Oh well. 

Despite the relative affluence of this guys accommodation, it was an instant-brew we revived with the following morning. 

Its weirdly common, and I'm getting used to it, to the point where I drink it at home with runny cream (out of some kind of nostalgia? povo does nouveau riche. Coffee snobbery is dire vice).

Anyway this guy took 'hosting' literally. There was a little bedside bottle of still water ready for me, an identical one on his side. 

So we're clear this was a really nice guy, and I've preached endlessly on the necessity of a workable connection for a satisfying hookup, which at the very least can be a great sexual compatibility. Sometimes a persons body can phrase things the best, like when your needs align uncannily with a strangers, it's like some profound statement about your oblivious coexistence. Like astrology or something, underlying desire lines like luminous webbing, channels of sexual inevitability flinging you into the open arms/legs of a cosmically ordained counterpart. 

So yeah, it was a good hookup as they go .

Smells make certain memories more distinct than others, and this one had a smell and a taste that reminded me of some of my earliest experiences. I think it was the banana flavoured lube, but there were other hints I can't place, like a blandness that was also sweet. Maybe vanilla. Or white chocolate (I'm not being 'racial', though he was a white boy. A recent trend of mine).

The view from his balcony was pretty fantastic. Maybe I should join a corporate ladder and climb my way into similar affluence, though life without the culinary perks of working in a restaurant is inconceivable. And why is a muted pallet the decor preference of expensive inner-city living? Is there something about colour that's incongruous with the career-attentive urbanite?

Also; my current grindr frequency has me treating people like mirrors instead of entities valuable in/of themselves, I'm gauging myself through their sexual interest in sick games of validation. Not always, but I can pick when I've been guilty of it over the last few months. It feels different, I'm less connected. I hope I can fuck my way back to a more wholesome angle.