I rarely write after midnight.
Or close to it.
But it’s 12:22 in the morning and writing feels better than sleeping. That’s unexpected, but I’ll take it. Writing hasn’t felt better than anything recently.
Tonight I want to talk about Esteban. I’ve written about him before. He was there for my first real threesome when I called up my ex-girlfriend and we tied her to my mother’s couch. I’ve written about it a dozen times with more or less honesty. We tied her up, we sucked each other off in front of her as she drooled and begged, and then we tried to fuck her with some success.
Who got hard doesn’t really matter.
I met him in college. He lived across the hall from me my first year, and if you’ve read Bisexual Men Are More Likely To Be Murderers you might recognize him. It’s not him, but you understand. It’s close. And close is what writers do when we need inspiration.
I remember one night I went to his room for no reason. We sat and talked and didn’t drink or smoke or otherwise interfere with our brain chemistry. But as we let the conversation run on while sitting on his bed, he asked me to bite him. Hard. On the shoulder.
I shrugged, and said what the fuck? Why the hell not? I leaned in. I smiled. I bit.