Inside in a Flash

Winters in NYC are rough. Wind blowing icy air on your face, layers of clothing stacked on and taken off, and muscles cramping up when going from the heat of a dance club out into the tundra of Manhattan. Not uncommon.

Muscle cramps never did me well, but I suppose I can thank one  for inflating an ego large enough to continue fucking me (mostly emotionally) for a good chunk of my 17th year of life.

I was obsessed. His name was Flash. A nickname, of course, but I get giggles regularly due to the fact that I dated Flash immediately after dating Gordon.

I use the term "dating" loosely.

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I didn't know any better at the time, but apparently if you go home with him the night you meet, regardless of how great the sex is or how strong the connection feels, you are just someone he's fucking.

So one night at a club called The Palladium, I saw this beautiful man walk by me and as luck would have it, he came over to say hello. He caught me watching him earlier and confidently introduced himself to me – "Hi, I'm Flash" – with a smirk.

“Like Flash Gordon?” I asked. How clever I was.

Thank GOD I spent 1.5 hours curling my hair with an iron...one curl at a time. I was feeling pretty cute. He let me know I was looking pretty cute, and that his apartment was around the corner and up two blocks.

"Would you like to see it? It has a balcony."

L.A.ists take balconies for granted. Everyone has at least one. Three, OK that's impressive. But one is no big deal. However a balcony in an NYC apartment is as special as a unicorn with red feathers…or a Pink's hot dog with no calories or heartburn.

This balcony also meant Flash was loaded.

"Hell yeah I want to see your 5th Avenue apartment with a balcony!"

We walked three grayish-yellow snow-covered blocks with chattering teeth and I felt my muscles desperately tensing and shivering to warm me up, only to be shocked into submission by Flash's central-heated apartment. I mean, I'd heard of central heat in movies but never felt it in real life.

The coats came off and the pants soon after, and as he reached for a condom (wow, what a great guy) my mind was ready to go, but my engine hadn't quite warmed up.

He was getting really into it. Moaning and saying my name. I would have moaned back, but the rug burning my cold naked ass was distracting, and panting, “Flash, oh FLASH!” just wasn't in my repertoire. Actually I might have tried it, or said something else to the effect of passion…I don't know, anyway back on track.

So we're on the floor, ass burned by the rug, still thawing from sub-zero temperatures outside, he's having a great time, I'm sort of having a great time, and then I feel something. Not the something I WANT to feel.

Tension building in my foot, traveling down to the toe…oh no, please don't, not now, why now, ohgodit'saCRAMP. So intense I screamed at the top of my lungs.

But rather than scare him out of me, Flash lit up with delight and responded with deeper digs and a smirk.

“Yeah baby, that's it, yeah.”

And we Yeah Babied in that fancy flat until the day the toe cramps stopped cumming.

Winters in L.A. aren't rough. Sunshine tanning your face, wearing scarves for fashion NOT function, and muscles remaining limber and ready for whatever the gorgeous day brings you.

Guess where I live now?

Contact Tatiana at talktotatiana@gmail.com.

Pixomar.


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