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CALL OF THE DAY: day-drinking with Bilingual Papi

two shot glasses, one empty and one half drunk with salt and lime still on the glass

Shot glasses are actually a little too sophisticated for what we were doing.

Today we drank. Normally Bilingual Papi wants to eat, just chow down on fruit from my cunt or German chocolate cake from my ass, but today, he wants to drink.

Fine by me, even though his drink of choice is tequila, shots of tequila, the thought of which makes the bile rise in my throat, but since this is phone sex and the most I will have to actually deal with is the remembered smell, I enthusiastically agree to taking a shot from his mouth, and offering up my navel as a vessel for however much will fit in there. Not much, but it’s the symbolism that counts.

Bilingual Papi has always been one for symbolism and ritual. The food from my body is about more than hunger; he wants abundance, overabundance, he wants everything. I mean, he knows that I’m a “bigger girl,” although I don’t think I’ve ever given him a clothing size, but he likes to hear about me in panties and bras that are a couple sizes too small, so that my flesh is spilling up and over.

The wedding ring that he romantically places on my finger while he’s pounding my ass… in this, he gets the whole Madonna/whore thing, the lady in the streets and the freak in the sheets. That’s a shitty symbol in real life, but it’s incredibly powerful and he goes back to it again and again.

And this drinking from each other’s body, well, that’s a multi-sensory sacrament if I ever heard it, and he is into it, I can almost taste it, the loving warmth of the liquor as it passes between our lips, the chill trickles of tequila coursing down my ass crack and into my pussy. (Note to self: how much exposure to booze through anal or vaginal membranes does it take to get shit-faced?). When I ask him if I can have a sliver of lime off of his body, and tell him how much I love the salt of his sweat as I kiss my way down to his cock, he groans out loud and I can hear the accompanying shiver in his voice.

He wants to taste me too, take a tequila shooter off of my sweaty flesh, lap away at the mouth-warm booze between my lips. When I pull out of the scene enough to realize that he is not just taking from me, that he is intending this to be a shared sacrament, then I start to wonder.

Because he has been looking for me, for the past couple of weeks. He has been requesting me, and patiently calling back the next day. He does not talk with other operators, as far as I know. He remembers exactly where I say I am. He knows my birthday, just as I know his. This last time, he came after telling me “I love you” three or four times. It’s not so much wondering, as it is worrying. I’m not afraid that he’s going to do anything drastic when I go, but just that it’s gonna hurt.

I wonder how many other girls he’s fallen for over the phone. I wonder how things ended with them. I wonder how much in advance my boss is going to ask me to tell him (and my other regulars) that I’m leaving. I think Bilingual Papi knows already? No, maybe not. I can’t remember. I wonder how much he’s going to miss me.

I wonder how much I’m going to miss him.

So go ahead, papi. Gimme another drink, before you give me your palo duro. I’m not a drinker, but this time I’ll do it, because I am starting to understand your symbols. If you drink me up, you’ll still have me a little when I’m gone.

*****

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