The barista

7am the bus pulls up at the stop on time to the second. I look over to the main entrance, Starbucks is open, I can get my daily dose of a ‘pick me up’. I step inside and slowly look around. It’s too early and there’s barely anyone inside.

I see the barista, our eyes meet and as usual, I smile, his nearly black eyes looking at mine. “How are you?” I ask him, like every morning and he responds as usual. “I’m ready, to take your order.” He’s tall, his eyes so deeply dark, his smile cute, his hair a bit too short. Why does he not let it grow a little longer, use a little more gel?

Yes, some other men are looking at me as longing at I look at him. But I don’t care about them. All I care about is this dark-haired, tall and handsome barista. I would not be here if it was not for him.

Does he know that I will bite my lips not to say his name later tonight as I push my vibe up between my legs? Does he know that I think of him when I take a sliver of toothpaste and spread it in my wetness to increase the sensitivity of my skin when I dream of him?

I steel dozens of looks of him, place them carefully in my memory, I want to remember his sexy aura in every possible way. The time it takes to sip my drink is perfect to ensure I create this image of him in my mind.

When I eventually leave I drop the tissue he has given me in the bin, alongside hs phone number.

He is my Mr Perfect. He is the dream I wake up from, soaked between my legs. There is no way he is as incredible as the image of him that I have curated in my mind of him. He cannot become a reality and destroy the fantasy that he has become.

As I walk off I take my phone and call my boyfriend, still at home, asleep. He’s not a fantasy, nowhere near as good, but my expectations of him get met and when I need more, my mind can always turn to the barista.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/hn55m8/the_barista