Bangladeshi Maid Peeping Tom

Such friendship is so rare, it may as well be considered impossible to find. But naturally even she disappeared from my life just as easily as the rest, especially when the love of my life told me he fantasized about her. I could never see her the same way as before, after picturing him entering her, even if it was his sick daydream. Sometimes I pick up the box, the one we all have somewhere hidden in our homes or garages or storage units. The one with the dried flowers, cards, letters, mixed tapes, stuffed animals, dirty photos, anything he or she might have left behind. I have letters that I read. Text and email transcripts. Some horrible poetry. I bring this box out when I need to cry and can’t, but now it doesn’t work for me anymore. I read the letters, wonder if their wives have ever seen some of the shit I’ve written, and try like hell to cry or feel or anything. And I can’t. I picture the sex. I picture the cocks. And I can’t feel. I can’t cry. Not until I remember that I. He groaned as his hand found his hard cock, it had been….so long, this was the first time since Sasha’s death that Michael’s normally…active…sexual desires had become present again. His hand lingered on his hardness, dualing visions of Valerie and Sasha battled in his head. In the end Michael turned into the spray, letting the water run over his body, the soap washing off of him, swirrling down the drain as he hung his head letting the heat of the water work at the stresses the past, present and future placed on his shoulders. Drying quickly and wrapping the towel around his waist he moved back down stairs and out to the balcony. During his short time in the shower clouds had covered the stars, a wind had picked up and the air was heavy, rain was coming. Lighting another cigarette he watched the gray tendrils of smoke disipate with each exhale, getting lost in the wind, ‘lost,’ he thought, been there….done that. Flicking the butt into the canal Michael went back inside and upstairs..
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