It was all going so very well up unto that point.
"Do you like that boy hole?"
My instinct was to ignore it, but the question kept coming at me. Eventually the old "finger(s)-in-the-mouth-will-keep-you-quiet" technique was employed.
We met at the Cock, or outside it rather. There was this instant of stopping the conversation I was in to walk up to him and him to me. Being a proper person, my suggestion is that we go for a walk instead of just jumping into a cab.
Minutes later we've exchanged names and locations. Not just our own. It seems that everyone knows everyone in this town, at least everyone with expressive folliculation. The names of usual suspects are thrown out, the Duzzie, the Ezzie, the Azzie. "I meet a lot of people, and I'm really bad with names." Whoa. He's using lines from my own book.
After sneaking into a construction site on Bond Street to make out for a bit, my fear of incarceration eventually takes hold and we leave there. He's allergic to cats. I'm going to Bushwick.
Bushwick at sunrise is similar to Bushwick most of the time. Once inside the (really awesome) apartment some things are done, but again, another of my own tricks is employed, and it's off to sleep to allow visions of sugarbums to dance through our heads.
It's sometime during the afternoon when comes that phrase, "boy hole". Boy. Hole. "Do you like that boy hole, daddy?" The addition of "daddy" now convinces me that he wants me to leave. I want to reply, "Please don't drag me into your fantasy. It sort of troubles me." Instead I just growl louder. In retrospect a mistake as this increase in volume is taken as approval, thus increasing the phrasal frequency and necessitating the eventual digital/oral contact.
It's around four in the afternoon when all is, um, complete. Fun was had. Lessons were learned. Tea was served. And the words "boy hole" and "daddy" are haunting me, two days later.
