Will In under 30

You’re not great in bed. Not through lack of trying. It just aint big enough and it just aint there.

Nick the Foreman

Bathe in the positive calm that I put into you. The pressure of my wet lips running over your cock. Taking it into my throat. Working my hand. Bathed in the dim light of our encampment and the healing that flows from me into you. I am a warm watery embrace. A rebirth. A creature and a woman. I am transference of peace. A saint and a saviour. Im a cock sucker and a medic. Your hips lift and drop. Your breath is low and short. Your eyes are closed and focused on the pursuit of an ultimate healing. The muscles in your stomach flex and you expel into my waiting mouth. I drink from your body. 

The producer

God you talk, you talk to fucking much and when you're fucking you don't stop talking either.

You have a really thick cock but you're old and can barely keep it hard. Some sort of fallen success who over compensates with endless chat.

God you talk too much.

The young one - meat

The things you do I like - smacking my arse, reaching those long arms around me. Fingers inside me, head between my legs.

We spit at each other you call my a slut, a filthy cunt, your dirty girl. I tell you that you're my filthy little boy and a bounce on your cock until I come, and you come all over my body. Flesh on flesh. Meat inside me. Throbbing hard and juicy.

The young one - cracked eggs

I don't know why I don't write about you more, because I certainly fuck you enough, and it's great sex, desperate sex, moorish hungry sex,  with endless courses. 

You're moving away soon for work, and I'll miss you like a decent pair of shoes. I do like you and I know you do me, even though your nervous air kills my buzz at times. 

You've got a nice big cock and it's always hard. You're young and fragile, like an egg with a crack in it and I embrace you with my cunt and in my peace and warmth. 

The communicator

Sipping drinks you make me laugh and I'm indecisive on the attraction, but I go to to your hotel with you, and when we kiss there's a flutter in my groin. 

The softness of your touch and your complete and utter desire to do exactly as I wanted was neither a turn on or off. You made me orgasm several times with your hands. You didn't want to fuck. Maybe you can't? You stared at me and listened to my moans with clinical detail, my pleasure was your floor show. Your delicate operation. 

The young one - greens

"Well the thing is it's because I care about you and you're honest and I trust you, and you care about me".

I got up and went to the bathroom, to take a piss and wash my hands. 

I came back and changed the subject and I took you home and fucked you.

The young one - hunger

So young, you're just about twenty something, tall and slender with a light little body, and such a big cock. We've fucked a few times now and it's pretty good. Pretty fun. You ask me if I like taking you into my body and I tell you you're a filthy little boy. You devour my pussy with such eager hunger. Like you've never eaten before and you'll never eat again. You love to have me sit across your face, on a Monday night.

The Skater - a healing process

As I walked to you house in the rain I was breathless and uncommitted. I have been avoiding seeing you for weeks. A mixture of laziness, lack of opportunity and fear. What if I've forgotten how to feel good or be present?

I stood by your door and I messaged you whilst I watched your neighbour downstairs in her window, smoking a cigarette and looking out to sea.

You answered the door not as expected but not unattractive, and welcomed me in. We went upstairs.

"So is this your flat?"

"Yeah,  I live here alone"

"Are you friends with your neighbour, only I saw her in the window and she looked really depressed".

"I think it's because her boyfriend's not home"

"She was looking over the bay like she was missing someone at sea"

"I'm pretty sure he just drives a van..."

We laughed and you made me a coffee and I did some talking and some over talking, and you let me, and you laughed at my jokes, genuinely and kind.

You kissed me, gently, and I kissed you back and we went upstairs and took off our clothes. We fucked a few times, it wasn't perfect but it was no where near bad. You complimented me and Im glad that I still know how to suck a dick, it's been a while...

You ate me, pleasured me, made sure I climaxed several times but more than that in between the sex you held me and you stroked my body, made me laugh, and you spoke to me like a human, like an equal woman.

Part of a healing process, part of becoming again, as part of life. Remembering how to be somewhere, with someone and remembering how to enjoy it. Remembering that I am deserving, without reciprocation. You are part of a healing process, and your kindness shone from your finger tips and your eyes.

Dad

And she said that she said to you
"It's ok now, just go to sleep".
Just go.
This isn't you home, anymore.
Anymore, in this ward, in this bed. Anymore. It's not a place where you should lay your head.

And your skin was softer than any skin I've ever felt.

Your hands became so small and cold.

Covered in burns and bruises.
Your gut was as hard as a rock.
It shook me up.

With your mouth open face.
They cleaned you so well, but you were dead.

It became so easy to love you, in the week before you left.
It became so easy. To cry and kiss you on the cheek, even though we were never close, like that.

Even though that sort of tender care, probably made you sick.

You'd still make jokes and roll your eyes, but you didn't want us all to leave - You said.

I fed you and I stroked your arm and we watched shows together...and I bought you a card, on your birthday, and it sat in that beautiful window - looking out to sea.

You are barely gone, but you're already a memory.

And she said, it's time to go now.
And I said "I'll be back tomorrow. I'll see you later"
And you got sick that night, full of sadness and pain and fright, that night.

It's a way to end, it will always end that way, fear is a grim and mortal chain.

"I will see you later" I said. Dad. When she told me, it was the way I expected, and the tears don't come straight away. Not the genuine ones, not the ones that hurt your teeth. That take your breath. They come at home, alone.

I wish we could have had the kind of love that was apparent and soft. Bean bag love that would have made me feel embraced and safe but that was not meant to be, that desire does nothing but torture me, and cement this inconsistent grief.

And I said "I'll see you later", on that Monday when I left. I love you Dad, even though you were sometimes good and often bad.

I love you in all your humour, anger, fondness and sickness.

I love you in all the secrets that you kept, from us about how you felt, and in your death. Your strength in facing all this awfulness and your soft skin and open mouth and how you left...

In your red t-shirt and your red watch, in your hospital bed, and how I kissed your cheek before I went.

And how she said, "Its ok now, just go to sleep".