By Sky Gilbert
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Extra info for Desire High Heels Red Wine
The ice sounded in our glasses all the way up to the second floor. He left the hallway dark. In a room near the front of the house he turned on a standing lamp. This room was more comfortable; this room was relaxed. An entertainment unit filled one wall, with a 24 inch TV, VCR, laser disc and CD player, tape deck, two turntables and rows and rows of discs, tapes and vinyl. A wide, lumpen sofa faced this. Deep scratches marked the padding of one arm, but I had yet to find other any evidence of a cat here.
I used to see him on my way to work for at least two years. Usually he'd sit in a doorway, grizzled, dirty, covered in a blanket with his palm held out. He'd mumble, "Quarter please. Quarter please," to passersby. But some days he'd be up and moving. And he didn't just walk, he lumbered recklessly. These times he'd bellow at people, "First of all you need a bag, a whole bag Timothy Archer — 61 of potatoes and you boil 'em to shit. For good measure you'll need a quart of butter, but that's just to make the mix fuckin' nice.
I readjusted the bulge in my Stanfields so the head of my cock peeked over the top of the waistband. From the direction of his eyes, I could tell my winning smile didn't interest Bill so much anymore. He shifted his hands in his pockets. One hand came up and rubbed his forehead. I kicked off my shoes: toe to heel, toe to heel. I let the weight of the belt carry my pants down. I stepped out of them. I let my shirt fall off my wrists. I eased the waistband of the underwear down my stiff cock until it rested under my balls, and I let it snuggle up tight.
Desire High Heels Red Wine by Sky Gilbert