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Our eyes met again. Against the muted hum of the lift lobby air conditioning on a quiet late pre Chinese New Year afternoon, we continued to lock on to each other, quietly, as you continued your walk from the washroom back to your desk at the left wing, and me, in my stationary state waiting for the elevator to arrive.
Each second seemed to last the longest of time, every blink of the eye, every breath, every anxious tap of fingertips against the side of my pants, every slight quiver on the lips were frozen and broken down into frames before being played back in sequence, like a painfully long-winded yet vibrantly stunning Wong Kar-Wai movie. Greedily, we fed our brains with images of each other, praying that they would last another long weekend before and extend their survival beyond the festive season.
As you advanced to within an arm’s length from me, our lips curled upwards, almost breaking into a smile, and our throats cleared, almost breaking into a ‘Hi’. But then my olfactory sensors drowned in your perfume, and I lost my bearings. Our eyes struggled to lock on as you continued on your path. Any extended contact would mean an unnatural twist to the neck, and so reluctantly, we let go of each other, and retreated back into our little worlds.
Yet another futile contact, so close yet helplessly far. While I would normally celebrate a quiet personal victory of having demanded your attention for even just a few seconds, this time there was a new surge of panic. The days of our delirious encounters are numbered. Just another month and I’ll be moving on to another location. Will fate take a twist if you were to know this?
The elevator door held open briefly, before closing shut again in front of me. I adjusted the strap of my laptop, took in one final breath of the remains of your lingering perfume, and imagined that I had wished you:
“Happy Chinese New Year, Uncle.”
BRAVEHEART [96]
He sat on the bench in the Safari Room, quiet, redrawn and oblivious to the busy Saturday traffic, which was just now reaching another peak as they made their way to the foam shower. The floor, a sea of carelessly placed pebbles, seemed to swim in and out of focus under the subtle hum of candle lights. For a very long time, his head continued to hang low, hands interlocked in a tight embrace with each other, as if in the deepest of thoughts.
Perhaps our session just now was too intense he needed time to quietly savour every moment and track every piece of action and emotion that had transpired, right from the anxious shiver of our first contact to the pleasant shudder of the climax at the end. Perhaps not.
Perhaps he knew I was watching him from the bench on the other side of this tiny room that stood between the hangout area and the action area of Kakiku, and was busy contemplating if it would break the standard arrangement if he were to maintain contact after the session was over. He could be fighting an internal war, one between pride and pleasure, and was rendered helplessly motionless as it ran its entire course. Perhaps not.
Perhaps then, the lingering smell of our cum on the towel wrapped around his body was too disarming. Intertwined in a giant mess of cotton fibers were the sinful, potent deposits evident of breathtaking moments on the bed in the common dark room moments ago. And he could not overcome the pity of having all these washed off his body just yet, for he was the one who had so diligently collected them, every last drop of it, with his towel. Perhaps not.
Perhaps he was afraid that the mere raising of an eyebrow, or the slight curl of his lips, or the most subtle twitch of his finger tips would send enough courage and motivation on me to immediately rush over to him and be once again, drown in a sea of lustful desires afforded by a very accomplished physique. And so, he killed all actions and shut off all reactions, to everyone in general, and to the one single guy he had given his undivided attention for, in particular, so that he would not have to face the fear of defeat. Perhaps not.
Skirting the edges between yes’s and no’s, could’s and could not’s, maybe yes’s and maybe not’s are perhaps what made life so worth living. I could never have the answers, but I would be perpetually happy knowing that it could be a YES.
Perhaps love? Perhaps not.BRAVEHEART [95]
The friendly Indian carpark operator misses your parking fee.
The hungry stray dog misses you tidbits.
The ignorant housewives living a few doors away misses your laughter.
The seven sins of Mirage misses your indulgences.
The lonely private rooms misses your moans.The 198 flights of stairs miss your adrenalin.The tiny steam room and sauna miss your sweat glands.The plywood cubicle walls miss your cum.
The new owner welcomes you.
The new coat of paint welcomes you.The new collection of plastic plants welcome you.
Mirage is history,M Club welcomes you.
Click on image for larger viewIn nervous anticipation of an increasingly heated competition with the new player in the sauna scene and the impending reopening of Mirage, Kakiku recently speeded up its improvement frenzy to savage customers’ loyalty, with a few pleasant changes to its offerings, including free dinner and double sessions of its famed foam parties during special nights, a third dark room, and the extension of its steam room area.
More grounds to cover, but momentum is picking up. Bravo! *clap* *clap*
