It makes me feel guilty of being hickish and a closet country-bumpkin. I strive so hard to listen to Mingus and Monk, I can really get into Brubeck an... Frank Sinatra… music of four decades ago. They play it in coffee shops now, where people don’t listen to anything but themselves. I was raised by intelligent people. White collar, college educated parents. Intellectuals? I doubt by New York or West Coast standards. They choose to live quietly as staunch republicans in a state where some crazy. Leaning into me, your hand pulling my closer, mouth on my ear “Get…Inside…Now!” You release my hand and neck. Hearing your Daddy voice I stroke you twice more, then release your dick with a tap to the underside. I stand up and walk into the sitting room. You take a beat or two to catch your breath, then heave yourself out of the chair. You come inside, already disrobed and pushing your boxers down. You eye me up against the large plush chair with winged arms. I’m lined up on the left side,. More

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