I like the thought of you wanting me like this, dressed up in a suit and tie and my chest flattened down and a silicone cock making a soft bulge in these well-ironed pants. I like thinking about your face, straightening my tie before we go with that hint of a smirk playing at the corners of your lips and your eyes watching mine as we sip some sort of appropriately masculine drinks across the table, low light flickering shadows of smiles and desire.
I can feel their eyes. I’m hyper-aware of it, the way they watch, stealing glances toward us, disgust, intrigue, curiosity. Maybe we’re coworkers or business partners. Maybe, maybe. It’s more comfortable than imagining us kissing, fucking, your mouth on my cock, my hand in your hair. That’s what they’re trying not to think about when they see us, two men in suits watching each other intently, chemistry palpable. They watch us and create their own versions of what must be happening to make this interaction more comfortable because they can’t look away. We are, after all, quite sensational.
You don’t notice or don’t care, I’m not sure which. You reach over and touch my face, shattering their comfortable illusions; there is nothing chaste in the way your hand brushes my skin. I feel the air change like a sudden inhale, everything silent, but you, your eyes don’t leave mine, drinking it in, a slow smile and a hungry expression. I can taste your desire like the spice and burn of this scotch that I’m sipping slowly, too slowly when all I want is to take you by the tie and drag you into the bathroom where I can blow you before returning to this roomful of judgement eyes and wipe you from my lips like an elaborate fuck youto all of them.
But this dance, this slow build, this anticipation… this is what I live for. This tension. You drain your glass; I follow suit. As we walk out the door, you slip your hand around my waist and I smile, leaning into you and pulling you closer.
I like thinking of you wanting me like this, your hands running down the flattened planes of my chest and smiling as the pressure of my cock brushes your leg. I like thinking of you looking at me and smiling, liking what you see. Out the door and onto the street, slick and wet where it rained. You steer me down the sidewalk and abruptly turn into an alleyway; my back against the red brick suddenly, your hands holding me like your eyes have been threatening for hours, your lips against mine, rough and uninhibited. I wrap your tie around my hand and pull you closer, feeling the weight of your body pressing into me, holding me against the wall and kiss you back, fiercely, filling your mouth with the taste of moans and liquor.
I like thinking of you wanting me like this, clean-cut and well-dressed, with an edge of something no one can quite place. The secrets behind the hidden smirks, shirts a little more wrinkled than they were when we arrived, licking your fingers that were inside me moments ago as we stumble back to the street, the explosive chemistry crackling where we brush against one another, your tie crooked and my hair tousled and neither of us bothering to reassemble the other. I like wearing myself on your skin and along the crooked angle of your jacket and the burn behind your eyes. I like wearing you in the untucked shirttail of this fitted button down and taste of bourbon from your lips against mine. I like the ways we wear each other in movement and glances, the way your breath changes, the way my knees shake. But I like you like this, the ways we move together, your eyes in the streetlights, the ravenous taste of you shaping my smile in the shadows as we walk, hand in hand, two boys in suits, down the damp, quiet street.
Monomaniacism 