I was there, against the wall, half naked, pinned down by a hot and sweaty gorgeous man, when I got to the city and had to stop writing to get to work.

It didn’t help that the first person I saw was ‘him’, the man himself, the one I was using.

I don’t believe in the concept of ‘using’ people anymore, at least not among consenting adults in a free society. But in this case, I was using this man’s body and if I’m lucky he will never know.

For either many or no reasons at all, we will probably never have any real thing and his personality is very different from my fiction. My erotica.

On my pages he is adventurous, daring and ends up having sex with this woman. The problem with me is that it took me three days to write it.

Early mornings, lunch times and evenings and yet, at each needed break it was as if I was there, in a movie, being pleasured and paused. I was working and shopping and sleeping with half my soul, the other half stuck in the scene I was creating.

That morning, seeing the inspiration in real life, made me swallow with difficulty, my heart racing, my mouth dry.  My desire was to say ‘excuse me’, reach out, pull his shirt out of his trousers unbutton it from the bottom up but only until it reached his chest, open the shirt passing both hands around his chest reaching for the back, then lifting the left side and looking at his back, seeing for the first time his tattoo without the layer of a t-shirt. Then bending, touching my lips to the tattoo, leaking it and planting a kiss on the inked skin.

After that, just coming back up, looking inside his eyes, buttoning it all up and putting it to right, inside his trousers, preferably brushing against his (hopefully) hard member. Turning around and going back to work as if nothing had happened.

But that was just another fantasy, luckily this one only lasted a split second.

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