That's Hot

Everyone knows that good writing is better than sex. But good writing about sex? *sigh* (Who told this fucker he could move away before I got to meet him?)

Driving an hour for sex requires rationalization, so that one's desperation becomes adequately, casually, cloaked. I have a new car, I told myself. I like to drive! What would I do with myself if I had to wait for him to drive to San Francisco? Crank out a few sets of push-ups on my bedroom carpet? Change my underwear? Floss? Much better to crack open the moon roof and count the REI outlets on Highway 101.

But the greatest rationalization was this: to fulfill my Latino Daddy fantasy.

Oh, please, like you don't have one.

Sure, call me racist. But I merely participated in a long tradition of interracial sexual fantasy complicated by power narratives. Colonization. Slavery. Mexican pool boys. If I typecast a man or two along the way, well, they're probably doing the same with me. And that's hot.

Go there for the rest. It's a good story, well-told.