A Gentlemen's Agreement

We were each lying along one edge of my bed. Between us, a narrow fault drawn roughly by the lines of our bodies quickly took shape. We both reverently respected the separation line adjusting our bodies’ boundaries from time to time only. As usual, I tried delicately to prevent the flesh of my buttocks from flooding beyond its normal confines. He puffed on his cigarette and caressed his shrinking uncut penis in a slow ritualistic movement.
We barely looked at each other. We were each fixating a point on the crimson curtain in front. I occasionally peeked at his prepuce to study how it covered vehemently the head of his penis. The scene of the aftermath was aesthetically set in a way that created perfect theatrical tension.
“I will make it up for you in the second round,” he said before sipping loudly from his whisky glass. His words provoked an annoying sensation of itching. I felt the solidified particles of sperm disintegrating as I scratched my belly. Somehow I was gained by a liberating urge to rebel against the whole status quo that had heavily established itself between us.
“Don’t be mad, there won’t be a second round. My feelings get always totally messed up after sex,” I said. He kept quiet. He was probably waiting for a more elaborate answer. “I understand,” he finally muttered.
Slowly, we were dragged into a mundane talk about his life, my life, his job, my job, his family, my family… We both showed veiled interest in each other’s stories. We were kind of determined to finish our “gentlemen’s agreement” as decently as possible.
I avoided looking at his ugly elongated face. He shunned my overly hairy legs.
Half an hour later, I found myself brushing alone the edge of my bed. It took me some time to re-seize control over its total surface. I finally managed to extend my entire body all over. One thing cut me off from regaining total serenity, the lingering smell of his cigarette… © El Matador