Boy #8, and the Nutella jar

We chatted for at least three months, sending pics, face pics, body pics, xxx pics, we asked for details, positions. I simply was not sure I wanted to meet him, he was slightly evasive and his pics could be both exciting or disappointing.

It was one saturday afternoon during the Notting Hill Carnival. I had been out to do some sport, felt alive. He lived in one of the streets between Hyde Park and the Carnival, so I decided to meet him, have some sex, then enjoy some dance. His apartment was the smallest place I have ever seen. There was a bed occupying all the room, a sink, some basic kitchen furniture, a chair, shelves on the walls. Everything was shabby, gathered and a bit sad. We sat on the bed, in the lack of any other place, I asked him about the Carnival and he didn’t seem aware that it was happening under his nose. He was from a Baltic State, had lived quite an adventurous life around the world before ending in London. Most of all he seemed tired.

He undressed me and got straight to the point. He blew me deep and good, I was not even touching him. When he got naked I noticed broad shoulders from the past and belly from the present. He wanted to feel my dick on his ass and I came this way, playing with my fingers and his butts. He came afterwards. He went to the bathroom, which was somewhere out like in the hostels and I stayed naked, looking around. Dishes still to be washed, underwear hanging out and a jar of Nutella with a spoon into it. It seemed the only nice thing in the room, something that was a choice and a good one.

I left as soon as I could, I mingled with the people in the streets. The evening was glorious, the sun still high and orange, empty bottles on the ground, Italian and Spanish tourists laughing loud. I really needed a shower but I followed a chariot and danced instead.

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