Unwritten/Irreplaceable (Part One)

There’s just the two of us in that room. Just myself, and a very special person who holds (used to hold) a special part of my life. The room was a tad cold, lit dimly, the linens soft but crisp and clean, just perfect for a clandestine encounter. There we are in that old room I recognized to be mine’s, in my own bed, wearing nothing but the skin we’re in. Everything is just so happy.

I just gave him an earth-shattering orgasm with the action of my buccinators exerting a force below normal atmospheric pressure over the phallus composed of corpora cavernosa and spongiosum. I deglutitted a good amount of protein-rich fluid while some guttae trickled down into the frenula and into the area superior and medial to the acetabular fossa. Thence comes the refractory period where a whole lot of action of each other’s orbicularis ores are put to action. The action of hypoglossal nerve was also tested with some glossal manuevers. Exploration, with a generous amount of gustatory stimulation of each other’s territories ensue, and some nibbling of erogenous zones commence as a post-play.

Then it is now my turn. With my special person all hyped up and ready for action, a piece of barrier already worn in the mystical cylindrical pole and a copious amount of hydrophilic lubricant placed over the rock-hard anatomical masterpiece and also in the magical orifice, I was asked to be placed in a position of comfort. Sim’s position I quickly posed. Aaah, such a position of nothing but extreme comfort.

With the tip of the thing already rimming over my planet Uranus, I heard Beyonce—yes, the singer Beyonce, singing “to the left, to the left.” From the sidelying spooning position, we followed Beyonce, and we quickly assume a position of a wandering missionary, with yours truly as the dominant partner. Then another “to the left, to the left,” and we roll over like crazy madmen, with then, myself as the submissive partner. The rolling simply blows my mind out.

Already irate as the hammering pulsations and gyrating beating could not start nor commence, I immediately look and search where Beyonce was. She could not be there singing while watching us doing our thing right? We rolled over near the bedside table, and on the farther edge emanate the irritating musical coach. I reached over to find where the sound is coming and THUMP!!!

There I was, lying alone, all clad up, in my bedroom floor, holding not the hard-rock anatomical masterpiece of my special person, but a cell phone from which Beyonce’s voice was coming as an alarm, and on the other hand, a hard, round, throbbing, and swollen bump in my forehead.

I tried to sleep again but to no avail. Imagine the disappointment and the frustration I had at that time trying to continue my lovemaking session with my special person whom I remember with precise clarity as if the thing is really happening. The details, the fine points—everything is so clear to me. I basked in my bed, recalling the purported event with impeccable lucidity almost trying to ingrain everything in my indelible memory.

I stood up against my erotic will and went to the bathroom for a daylight micturition and there you have it, in my slightly drenched and moist Calvin Klein’s, the vestige, the remnant, the remembrance of a memory too good to be forgotten.

And then I uttered to myself, THIS IS DEFINITELY GOING TO BE A VERY GOOD DAY.

***

To be continued…