I've Got That Burning Feeling
It’s 12:30 a.m. Saturday and I am driving north on the 405 toward the Valley, away from the 90048. She persuaded me to traverse the hills with a certain logic based on nothing more than the fact that we were fuck friends.
Fuck friends. The title itself is an interesting statement on the devaluation of the term friend.
“All you have to do is come over and you get to have sex with me,” she said during the all too familiar should-I-stay-or-should-I-go routine Valley and City people partake in frequently.
The freeway is quiet. It’s perfect. Eighteen-wheeled behemoths cast a long shadow underneath the fluorescent lights to the speeding cars that change lanes in traffic-free delight.
I show up and she looks good: Tight, black sweats; a black tank top that hugs her 32C+ tits and a see-through black top that gives me the slightest hint of what her bra holds.
Bottle of white wine in my right hand, I reach for her with my left and feel how tight those sweats really are. I go for a handful of ass and a face full of her. She kisses back and moans the slightest purr. It gets me going something nice, with no hint of the strangeness the night holds.