He was Clark Kent, tall and built and conservative, with glasses, sweetly attentive, a combination of youthful cocky and shy insecurity. More than ten years younger, he had lied about his age, “I thought you wouldn’t be interested if you knew how young I was.”
I had taken him home some weeks before, after a formal function, a night of drinking, dancing, flirting, and later fumbling one-night sex, hot and steamy and awkward, with bodies slamming and urgent whispered instructions punctuating other wordless sounds.
I had not spoken to him since, I was not interested, but tonight, at the event, … Continue Reading
