Riding The Rapture

by James

Gilly brought him over to me, this man beautiful man she said was called @The_Rapture. When I asked what was its meaning he shrugged – just what people called him. The way he smiled, the look on his face like he was doing me a favour by not walking away – of course he bloody knew.

Gilly grinned at me, and she leaned in to whisper how he more than lived up to the name. She pecked me on the cheek and melted into the crowd.

Clearly our little feud was over, because, well, just look at @The_Rapture.

He perched himself on a bar stool, both elbows tucked on the bar. He was looking at anything but me. He was not a conversationalist, but to be fair – those cheekbones.

What about the music in this place? God, it sucks.

That made him look. That made him slyly grin again.

What about hobbies? No, course not, a guy who looked like he did with hobbies? But one thing I knew for sure: woodworking. He’s into woodworking, right?

Once more he drew his sly grin slowly across his face and I decided to hell with being both sides of the conversation.

How about you let me ride @The_Rapture?

It’s not a good sign, a guy who’s not pissed nearly falls off his bar stool, but my God: he did look good naked. All over tanned and all over toned, and all over the hotel room strutting his stuff without a moment’s hesitation when I asked him to give me a show.

Did I want star jumps? How about a little hula hooping?

When he started with the helicopter that’s when I decided I was going to bloody kill Gilly.

Thirty minutes later I finally get the dude into bed. Thirty seconds later and foreplay is done, and the only reason I notice is because he’s talking again.

Oh yeah, baby. You are about to Ride @The_Rapture.

Oh yeah, baby. Spoiling you for any other man.

Did your mum ever have a sewing machine, or your gran?

Well, that.

I become a piece of cloth being run through a sewing machine, and that time Nana ran the needle through her own thumb? At least she felt something.

What does that make me, a sex Scrooge? Not his fault, is it, not his choice. But his choice with the commentary. His choice to inform me that he was the greatest, his choice to pull out a little black notebook with a Ferrari sticker on the front and tell me he was going to put me down as his Thursday second backup.

I thought he was going to cry when I told him I counted four hundred and eighty three potato waffle shapes in the hotel room ceiling.

And though Gilly’s dead to me, she was right about one thing – this feeling I’m left with now he’s pissed off.