Tension

As I eagerly stroked my throbbing dick I started to forget why I was so upset. My eyes began to shut as I took one last glimpse at your unmoved stare and forgot the path that brought us here.

That path started with you brushing your teeth and complaining about Stan, the idiot in accounting. For 6 months your role as the CFO for this small, but heavily bankrolled startup occupied every ounce of your presence. Stan in Accounting, Erica in IT, Fin in Design, Gennie in Operations. They all wanted a check to validate their existence and you wrote the checks.

At first I tried to follow the politics of it all, but my own world as a writer kept me on other people's puppet strings. A meeting in Dallas, a party in Berlin, an interview in Toronto. All good, but my focus was watered down.

So I'd try to visualize the bouts between Gennie & Stan so I could help wrestle the politics of the situation with you, but I'd miss too many episodes to try figure out each plot twist. Plot twist that you were always ten steps ahead of.

So I'd simply enjoy watching your chocolate ass shake as you tried to explain yesterday's near implosion over the toothpaste and running water.

And for the first few months we were okay. I'd laugh while you griped about your situation and you would raise an 'I told you so' eyebrow when I complained about my schedule.

But we always knew that the mental duress our brains were under could be eased by a tickle here, a rub there, and happy endings for both us would ease the tension enough for us to energize our batteries. We always found a way to slow down the outside world by caressing our inner one. That's just we kept each other ready for battle.

Then we moved to San Francisco.

We never thought that the change of scenery from Atlanta would bring much of a wrinkle considering we'd uprooted our lives twice before without a hitch. Yet somehow every little facet about our new life had a small crack that was quietly having an effect on the next facet. Going from two cars to one made sense, but it threw us off. Grocery shopping on the weekend threw off our meal planning. Doing our laundry in the basement instead of the top floor was somehow catastrophic. Every little alteration in our fabric was another stitch ready to unravel.

You'd think a move from DC to Barcelona or Barcelona to Atlanta would have caused us more headaches than these shifts in lifestyle. Yet we ran through those hurdles without lifting our head up.

This was different. And we knew it.

So we lost our rhythm. My meetings would run a day over in Detroit and conference would start a day early in Austin. My lunch plans would be open but your quarterly audit would be worse than expected. My revisions would get edited the night your office party would be the toast of the Bay.

So our toothpaste conversations wouldn't lead to a tickle or a rub or a happy ending. Just inaudible static that we would let pass, simply worried about our individual toils.

And so came the descent.

Without having a tactical partner to diagram success we each found trouble at work. And trouble at work meant more work. And more work meant less time to diagram success. So more trouble.

And less tickles, rubs, and happy endings.

Now when we shared time together there was tension. There was silence. Not the kind you get when you've grown apart. The kind you get when you're closer than you think.

Without our minds or bodies working together we were both in personal tailspins. For 2 months we only discussed meaningless bullshit. I stopped hearing about Stan & Erica. I didn't care. You didn't hear about Athens. You didn't care.

Your team was starting to write their own checks and my writing was stale and contrived.

Until you ate my salad.

That salad was leftover from last night's meeting at the museum and it was going to see me through that days lunch. But when I came home from my run I saw it was missing. Sure, there were a dozen other edible items that would have been more satisfying than that salad.

But I was planning on having that salad. You should have known that. You would have known that.

I send you a sarcastic text about taking my salad.

Ten minutes go by. No response.

Now I'm heated that you have taken my salad AND are too busy to given at least a half-ass apology.

So now I'm going to get my salad.

Already sweaty from my run, I add on another layer of sweat as I run to your building. The security guard passes me through and the elevator music starts to calm me. But five floors of "Don't Worry, Be Happy" must have been three stories too short.

Off the elevator I realize I'm lost. The staff has grown double and I only recognize the old receptionist who appears to be in an office.

"She's in the back, corner office," Gennise De La Ricoles, Director of Operations points out.

I may have said thanks but I'm not sure. I wanted my salad.

In that long walk down the hallway I noticed that all of the tempered glass offices were getting new treatments. The purple and blue logo was being replaced by a new shiny red one. But they weren't green so they weren't my damn salad.

When I turned the corner to your office, your assistant said you'd need a minute. He probably recognized me from the photo on your desk from us in Vegas. The one where we had too much wine and not enough sense.

I was just about to sit down when I saw the silhouette of you putting your feet up and reaching for a small box.

My fucking salad.

Without hesitation I walk in as Mitch - I assume that's his name - tries to stop me and then warn you.

"He's fine," you tell him. "What's up? Is the marathon today?"

"You took my salad," I point out, starting to realize that all of this for a salad is a bit much.

"Okay..." you pause. "I told you I was taking it this morning."

The office door clicked as Mitch

completed his 'I'm not needed here so I'll just let myself out' closing of the door.

You're sitting along the window about open the box when you notice my attitude. "Do you want this salad? That you gave me? Really?"

"Yes. Yes, I do?" I question.

"Okay. Strip!" You exclaim with a self-assured easiness that I hadn't seen in months.

"Excuse me..." I respond clearly.

"I said strip, bitch," you nod as a joke to our more relaxed days.

"Here?" I ask, forgetting about the salad altogether. "In your office?"

"Yes. Here. I've just completed the sale of this thorn in my side and my share is $28 million. So if you want any of this salad or any future salads, I suggest you get to strippin'," you explain without a smile. "Bitch."

"Wow. Congratulations!" I start.

"Maybe you didn't hear me. I've spent the last 6 months telling fools that don't listen what they should do in order to enjoy this moment. Those that listened are about to enjoy themselves. Those that didn't, won't. I just need people to fucking listen. Now strip," you finish.

Ordinarily I would have looked around for some sort of sign from the real world that this was unreasonable. I was standing in the middle of an office building being told to undress. I wanted to look out the window to the building across the parking lot to see who was watching. I wanted to look at the tempered windows of the office to make sure I couldn't see out, so no one could see in.

But I didn't take my eyes off of your eyes. You weren't smiling. You weren't budging. You just wanted someone to listen.

So I kicked off my shoes and pulled off my shorts.

You just stared at me staring at you.

Then I took off my shirt and tossed it to the floor. I could feel my dick getting stiff in my underwear.

We just stood there staring at each other for 2 minutes.

Then I pulled down my briefs, never breaking eye contact. I wasn't sure, but could here movement just outside of your office.

You sat up straight in your chair and I walked closer. You looked up at me and then placed your hand on my thigh.

Instinctively I grabbed my dick and started stroking it. I stroked it while I stared into your eyes, and you into mine.

You never broke your stare. Never smiled. Never moved.

But I could feel the light in the room dimming from the bodies lined up outside of your office.

I could feel every wrinkle in our relationship being settled with every stroke of my growing erection. I knew that every time I felt the precum on the tip my dick that I was going to find a relaxation that has avoided me for months.

Then, without breaking eye contact, you licked your lips and spit on my dick. It was raw and cleansing. And I stroked harder. Faster. I could feel the frustration begin to buckle my knees as I continued to pull all of our ills from within.

And as I began to forget about what I had made me so upset, my eyes started to lose connection with yours. Just as my eyelids began to close I saw your eyes look down and your lips begin to part.

Ten more strokes with only your hand touching my thigh and I erupted, seeing a rainbow of colors behind my eyelids. I trembled with ease with only your hand to give me a sense of physical direction.

My body was released of a tightness that I didn't know was there until it was gone. I was between some other world and your office, until you called me back. Not by calling my name, but by the unforgettable tone of a swallow.

My eyes immediately opened wider than they've ever opened before. You were still staring at my dick and I nearly collapsed.

You slowly pushed my thigh back so I could stand on my own and awaken from the trance. That's when I noticed the room get brighter from the bodies removing themselves from the perimeter of your office.

I slowly stepped back while I recovered from the physical act itself. I never recover from each swallow.

"Now get dressed while I enjoy my salad," you tell me, never breaking a smile. "I'll see you at home, babe. I have a couple of other things I need you to do after I quit."