The Fireman's Burning Desire

Hank’s apartment was similar to mine, but better decorated. Where I had blank walls and a ratty futon, he a few framed pictures and a nice leather sofa. His bed sat in one corner and it was actually made. I never made my bed.

“I’m sorry for the mess,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

Mess. Ha! The place was nearly spotless. There was a dirty cup on the counter in the tiny kitchen, but that was it.

“It looks pretty bad. How can you live like this?” I deadpanned.

It took him a moment to realize I was joking. He shook his head and crossed to the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?”

I was already tipsy on half a bottle of wine. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was trying to get me drunk. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I wanted him to.

“Absolutely.”

I sat on the couch and waited for him to bring the glasses.

We sat. We drank. We watched a movie. By the end of the movie I was snuggled up tight against him. I don’t know who made the move first, but we both wanted it.

The next thing I knew I was on top of him, my mouth pressed to his. My tongue probed his lips and his teeth and met the wet warmth of his tongue. His strong arms wrapped around me and held me even as one of my hands circled behind his head and the other stretched for his crotch. We rocked back and forth on the couch for what felt like hours but couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. I smothered him with kisses and let go of some of the tension that the fire, the hospital and the grim reality of homelessness had instilled in me. Hank didn’t seem to mind a bit.

When I slipped both hands to his waist and unbuckled his pants, he didn’t seem to mind that either. Nor did he mind when I slipped his jeans off and tossed them to the floor.