I'm disappointed because you can't come see me as we initially planned, and I'm trying to manage my feelings. I try to let myself feel the disappointment, temper it with rational thoughts. I'm concerned because negative feelings often turn to apathy, and I want to hold onto this. I don't want to tell you I'm disappointed because I'm not sure it's appropriate for me to care, and I don't know if you, like me, get weary when someone cares too quickly. As a compromise to myself, I jokingly say that we should meet in Havana instead, a throwback to my initial message to you. You say, "make it Kingston, and we'll take a puddle hopper." So we do, and you fly the plane. I don't know where or how the arrangements were made for the plane, but it's just me and you.
I'm fixated watching you push buttons and move levers on a dashboard that looks vast to me, but your movements seem effortless, like a musician at a piano. You're wearing cargo shorts, and I'm fighting the urge to slide my hand up your thigh. I want to feel your cock in my hand. I want to learn how to move my hand precisely to make it bulge. I want to see how my hand looks wrapped around it, whether my nail polish goes well against color of your skin. I want to watch droplets of cum form around the tip; and I'm biting my lip, thinking about licking those droplets off.