Work To Be Done
     "Joe?"
     He turned at his name. Well, actually, his upper body turned as he pivoted from the waistline, leaning back sorta to look at me. He was gorgeous -- blond hair, chiseled face, rock-solid body -- a complete antithesis of my ideal, who would look nothing like this circuit boy archetype. I flashed back to the first time I saw him on the street in New Orleans. He was shirtless and decked with beads. I wondered if he even owned a shirt. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to make out my face in the club lighting.
     "Hey... you're..."
     "Chris, we met in New Orleans," I said, as he left his friends to face me. He nodded.
     "Yeah, I know," he smiled, sounding surprised. "What are you doing down here?" He motioned to the club, but I knew he meant Houston.
     "Partying. Having a good time." I smiled back. It was strange to think that I had never seen this man out of a party setting. I had no idea what he did for work. I had no idea how old he was. I knew he grew up in Nebraska, but that was the extent of it. Most of the time we spent in New Orleans was the non-speaking kind -- liplocked in what I remember as the most incredible makeout session of my life.
     "Yeah, right on. You look great."
     "Thanks, so do you." I placed my hand on his waist, palm on the oblique; a spot that never fails to turn me on. "From what I recall, the last time we were together, we left a certain job unfinished."
     "You're right. We certainly did." He took my hand and led me into the crowd, lights dancing across my face, bass pounding its way into my skin.

Replies: 1 Comment

I bet you got the job done, chris... hehehe.. :)

Posted by emmanuel @ 04/03/2001 12:31 AM MST

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