Sometimes it feels like I'm extraordinarily sensitive to stimuli. My mind wanders often. Something perceived triggers a memory that pinballs to the next and gets battered around five other memories until I've lost the original launch. No worries as I've racked enough points for a few extra plays and something pulls the trigger to propel a ball to start the cycle anew.
I'm watching Bombshell, totally along for the ride the writer creates in this disdain for the culture at Fox News when I suddenly realize that I've fucked a TV executive in his office while office drones went about their day around us. I wasn't his employee so there wasn't any quid pro quo elements of abuse in powers, no icky use of leverage to subjugate another aside from the profane obscenities in hushed tones that came out of my mouth as I face-fucked the guy. I was trying my hardest to coat my cock with that deep throat slime so I can ease up his fuck chute with raw cock to deliver a pent up load. We were fuck buds that happened to work right across the street from each other so we met up at his office when the mood struck us and the work was light.
Then there was that time I fucked the movie exec in his private office during the Christmas lull. Oh and that time I fucked the fireman in the living quarters of the station in the middle of the day. And the time I lured my fuck bud cop to my apartment while he was still working the beat so that I could suck a load out of him while he was still in uniform. I still remember how I was on my knees getting my face pounded and then reaching out to steady myself only to have my hand land on his holster. My hand recoiled quickly as if I touched hot iron. Oh and then there was the time that "straight" investment banker and I met in the stairwell to blow each other...
What started this chain of thoughts? That's right. Sexual harassment. No, never wielded corporate status to gain sexual favors though I obviously skirted propriety in terms of fucking on the job and at job sites. Honestly, it wasn't even sport fucking, wasn't even trying to get more spaces on the sexual bingo card. Just me connecting with men I liked wherever it may have been.
And that's when the rollercoaster of emotions wash over me as I go from fondly remembering the encounters to reflecting on why they're just distant a memory in my life. One guy took a promotion in New York, one retired, one I lost touch because I had to move, the other withdrew to try to be more "straight". Such great connections now just a fond memory, a memory that is never mentioned aloud but is locked up in the vaults of my mind. That's where it all ends up. It always flows to that negative space between the two flippers of the pinball machine as a ball rolls through, trapped in the inner thought ramps of storage.
That is, until some external stimulus drops a credit to free up and launch the ball. But the game is still self-contained in a controlled space off in the corner that nobody really sees.
