Apparently, expiration dates can be extended if you throw food into the refrigerator…

…though I doubt that becoming frigid would have kept Transformer around even longer, especially if he really likes sleeping under a duvet during the summer. Last Thursday was possibly the last day I would be seeing him, much less waking up next to him – at least until the end of the summer. Usually, if refrigeration is not slowing the decay, you consume as much as you can, and for as long as possible. Fireworks aside (we will deal with that later), the start of our coffee date was somewhat awkward, such that we both knew of the pink elephant in the room. Somehow, that pink elephant vaporized as our conversation and caffeine-drip flowed.

I may have decided against a frigid attitude, but the weather was certainly feeling that way. So as we strolled along the street, I had somehow found myself wrapped by an arm and nestled in a nook. As if the imagery could not become even more poetic, a stroll past a towering church steeple brought on a strong blast of cold air, but all it did was pull me in closer and even earn me a secular-kiss. More wandering around town led us back to his home, to fetch his car, wherein I met Mama and the cat (yup, one-half of the ‘rents has already been checked off).

The last time we hit the sac, my Beautiful Fag-Hag had politely sexiled herself to one of her associates’ apartments. However, even though this night’s affairs were certainly expected, two sexiles within a week is much too numerous already. That said, Transformer and I are clearly somewhat exhibitionist because we still managed to climax equally, if not better and more intense than in our previous not-so-slumber party. Even more interesting to gloat (not just note) is the apparent existence of some unknown reserves for my libido, because evidently 12-hours:4-orgasms is not an upper limit – instead, I sit at 14:6. Even more impressive was that each intense climax was in-sync – two words: WRITHING BODIES. After that much attention, it is only understandable that some idle time soon followed.

The sex aside, what counted most were the calmer and candid parts in between. Yes, that statement was definitely overtly teen-drama-esque, but intimacy is harder to attain when it comes to homo-culture. Simply getting his and/or my fill is relatively easy, compared to getting the trick to stick around to look like human cutlery (see those spoons, people), much less use my cutlery for breakfast the following morning. So, it was refreshing to be having pancakes and espresso with Transformer, only to be pulled back into bed. The past 12 or so hours had felt like being on a pleasure-trip in our own private island, and we nearly stayed in that state – even if it was already 3 pm, when we finally went for one more shower.

I want to say that the walk to the parking lot felt shorter than usual, but I won’t at least, not in a direct manner. Even with dragging heels and a piggyback ride, our parting moment was inevitable. But surprise surprise… apparently, I may be seeing him again, in a little over a week. Now there are two ways to approach this news, either with optimism or cynicism. As an optimist, the news is all-good because that means we will see each other again, and more importantly, he does want to see me again. As a cynic, I would ask why he waited until the end to share this bit of news. Was he deciding whether to tell me, based on how the night went? And there I go spiraling out of control, despite the enchanting half-day spent with him.