The return of Tom

I’ve written about this before, but it’s really spooky the way men from my past come out of the woodwork within days of becoming single.

The Serbian fuck buddy who relishes my experience. The older surfer who doesn’t want a relationship but is obsessed with my butt. The married guy I never met but routinely reaches out to see if I’ll fuck him this time (three years on). Then, there is Tom.

Admittedly, I reached out to him this time. It was a weak moment between work and packing, when I still wasn’t sure enough of myself to drink the pain away of being dumped.

Now, we’ve been chatting, albeit with some delays as I’m on the other side of the world for a project.

I’ve missed him. He said he’s missed me. But that’s par for the course with us. We message, we fuck. I end it with some tears, and we go silent.

Fucking Tom is that place between asleep and awake, where there’s a consciousness to your actions but the pull of sleep is too strong to resist. It’s been more than three years since we first fucked but the tension, the desire, the passion just never bloody wanes. It would be a helluva lot easier if it did.

I still fantasise about him eating me out from behind. His tongue, his lips, my cum all over his face.

The roar of his release is toxic and oh so fucking sexy. I’m hooked on his bear growl, could fall asleep to it like a dirty version of white noise.

Fuck Tom. What are we doing?

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