I knew this would happen. It was all right for the first few days, then the weekend popped up and it culminated in a drinking spree. We won an account, and it saw us trot off to the local. I stepped in two mounds of shit.
The first mound of shit involved a little too much alcohol. This resulted in flirting with interstate account manager; heat dripped from his fucking lapels! Armond (it's what I prefer to call him on this blogger thing) has lived here for five years, and has a chocolate smooth accent. He whispered in my ear; let's go somewhere else Didi.
Try to quit smoking with a French man breathing against your ear...
We strolled to the Mariott, his temporary abode, and I'll keep it short but I bounced up and down on his bed, telling him to buy me one. "ah, mon cherie," he laughed, and it may be cliche, but it got me going, so much, that I practically fell into his limbs. Our mouths were more intrepid than Al Gore, traversing every microclimate; tongue, taste buds, and his fingers ensured that my core temperature would rise; global bodily warming.
So we did it. We fucked, and in my stupor or weakness, I relented. I don't know. Maybe I liked the way he lit two cigarettes in his mouth, offering me one with a James Dean cocked eyebrow.
"This is a mini break," he said.
There was more?
and there was. More, so much more. My head did spin with the first drag, and his hands wandered down south, and pressed the right button, and that can be a rarity.