He's a leather guy. A switch, maybe, but usually the dom role as, according to him, they're in short supply in San Francisco. Just a quickie nooner, but he was still profusely spewing accolades afterwards of my talents in such a way that made me kinda swagger for the next few hours until he replenished my pumped ego with further compliments over text, contributing to my little strut for a few hours more. It wasn't me. It was just good sexual chemistry. The kind that echoes over and over in your mind to the point where you're not sure if it was real anymore. Did that really just happen or did time feather the rough edges into fantasy? So you reach out to the other guy that was there to confirm.
And for me, I recall that one moment where I was mid-stride in an animalistic frenzy ripping off his clothes, pawing and pinching and grabbing when I got to his shoes and tried to undo the laces. I couldn't. Grunting in frustration, I took a closer look and paused. The laces of his beat-up red hightop Chucks didn't crisscross in a regular pattern but instead were a chaos of knots pulling and straining against each other as you work your way up the ladder of grommet holes, viscerally beautiful and completely appropriate for him. But the moment passed and I grabbed him by the neck and growled, "Get your shoes off, boy." And the look of complete adoration in his eyes as he croaked out a "Yes, sir" in turn made me rock hard. The crisscross of a simple exchange that worked my stomach to knots.