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The last thing up my pussy was your hot, delicious, uncircumcised cock wrapped in a non-latex condom, and the next thing up my pussy will be 5.5g of the cleanest, most powerful cannabis concentrates wrapped in a non-latex condom.

I know it’s stupid, that we met on OKCupid. Proof the algorithms still work for those who play them.

And you played me, that piano, my body, my heart, those algorithms. And I loved it and you.

Photo of Barcelona street at dusk

I’m in the old city, Barcelona, kissing you, in the square, in the street, in the… just kissing you. You unveil your fascination with pieces of the city and you kiss me, and your hands are in my hair. And we are dancing to your inner rhythms, and the movement soothes me. I want to kiss you forever through every corner of the city, dripping thighs pulling your body against mine, hard cock and sweet moans. 

Photo of wall made from Hebrew gravestones in Barcelona

Hard as steel extraction machinery. Downloaded into me like two years of the latest hacker information.

It’s the day after the day after and I’m sitting in a “shop” somewhere in Sants. I’m surrounded by steel and weed and electronics and concentrates and chips and toys. He’s talking at me non-stop, but the information is valuable so I listen with no cues for him to pause.

The e-nail is on and I just had a dab of some whistle-clean indica BHO made from 5 different varieties and it’s the middle of the day, later the correfoc. 

Then the drums will drive me and as everyone runs away all fear and instinct I will run into the fire, into the noise, into the depths of hell because it’s burn night and if I don’t have your body against mine what’s the fucking point of it all. Bruises on my arms as the Mediterranean machos fail to pull me away from pyrotechnics, sparks speckling and skidding across my skin. Wailing as they sputtter out on me. Like everything does.

Your silken Anglo-Irish poured into me like cream, eddying and swirling through my insterstices.

Perfection in form and function. Blending and disappearing. Hitting replay a thousand times on hot chunky torrents of tears. 

He brags, in that “I don’t give a shit about being understood” German accent and vocabulary, that it’s what *he* uses as he pulls out a two pound slab and scrapes me off a piece. The shop he says was fully stocked with equipment and choice before the break-in. Hausbreakin. I ask if he was there when it happened. He says he was. I nod, knowingly.

It started in Vienna, I was sucked into to you.

Could already feel the heat of your breath on my neck and see the pleading in your eyes. Ignoring everything, in a daze for days. My whole world: you. 

And how abruptly you said goodbye, knowing I couldn’t get enough, jerking against the shortness of your rope. You the adult in the room, ripping the bandage off, sweet sorrowful bliss. You back to your family. Me walking away covered in your sweat. That’s what we created?

Explosion of mind, heart, chemistry, of empathy, humanity, of vulnerability, of comprehension. Nothing to do about it but fuck and we knew it. But oh in my world it is the dough of life.

And to bake nothing from it that has you in it…

Agony. The vacuum you left. Spinning. Screaming. 

The city itchy, irritating, grisly and unlit. Heat lightning, pressure. Tiles harder than ever. Corners longer.

And I, to pirate banks and cybersquats and drug manufacture. MacGyver over here, sharing designs of multi-million dollar grow systems and the new dark web and stories of thwarting facial recognition and almost getting caught with a vanful of dirty labs and innovations and conferences with heads of banking and airplane security acting the same way my teen geek buddies did so long ago, toys, and boys, and mischief, and using overpowered robots for mild hazing. And through all of it the ruthless intellectual mocking of the younger, stupider players has me laughing as hard as I was crying yesterday. And I suspect you know one another, the world of anarchists is small. Exarchia busted the day before.

And now on my request they pat me down at security and I think of your hands. The airport is on strike and I think of your politics. The heaviness in my holiness reminding me with subtle, thudding pressure of how kindly you entered me.

And again so much at stake. Our lives. Our freedom.

I flew across Europe to buy drugs not to fall in love, but oh the love.

To discover you. You as Europe. Now I am full of drugs and empty of you.

Your voice in my ear for a day, stripping both our worlds of responsibility. You with more to lose. You with child. Me more reticent. Knowing this de(com)pression will follow I’m unable to let go entirely, clawing at nothing. I know that the game will end and my heart will break. 

Photo of Barcelona lamppost

And so it does. And now I pace Barcelona restlessly. My eyes pick out smaller details. And I look for you around every corner. And now there is piano music everywhere. And now I step on the plane.

Tis better to have….

Photo of street art, with cans arranged to say "Si me das aelegir me quedo tigo"

For more about my Favorite Lover:

The first time: The European Lovers: Barcelona

Favorite Lover as Muse:

1: Whoring for Lifetimes

2: Cheater

3: Stop. Falling. In. Love. With. Monogamous Men.

4: Speaking of the Future

The first of our cybersex duet series: Halloween Lover

More stories about monogamy, polyamory, and cheating:

1: Cheater

2: His first discretion? The European Lovers: Hookup

3: In more detail: The European Lovers: Barcelona

4: Will He Or Won’t He?

5:  Stop. Falling. In. Love. With. Monogamous Men.

6: Agenda

7: Naked in the Dark

8: Use a Condom

9: Stuck

10: Rapid City


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