I finally got around to meeting Roksi a couple of years back, on one of her many trips to Winnipeg. It was winter, and it was the usual cold and frigid ordeal that we've all come to know and so well if not quite love. But in that hotel room that evening, it was verdant, lush, and welcoming as the Emerald Isle herself. Roksi was a delight and a very memorable time indeed.
I'd tried to review her back then. It was an ambitious piece of work. In it, I made many references to her native Ireland and I peppered it with quotes from Yeats, another one of Ireland's very successful exports. I never really got anywhere with that review. It came across as contrived and pretentious and I was never quite able to make it right. It was a hot mess, and sadly much more of the mess than the hot. But even though I never finished that review, I'd had very fond memories of her, and I knew that we would meet again. Someday.
Fast forward to summer 2016. I've been out of the game mostly these days, with my work draining me of energy, inspiration, and most remarkably and sadly, desire. But I'd recently hit a lull in my work, I was rested, and as it just so happened, my plans for an evening engagement unraveled. I wondered what else I could do to fill my time and I quickly found out that Roksi was in town. I emailed her, hoping against hope that she would be available at short notice and miracle of miracles, she was.
So that is how I came to be standing in front of an unassuming hotel room door recently. I knocked, the door swung open, and I stepped in. She appeared from behind the door and I got a flash of a bright red bra and panty set (or as she later referred to them, her knickers) topped by her grinning face, before she wrapped me up in a tight embrace. We kissed, sensually, passionately, greedily. Like we were thirsting and the last liquid sustenance in existence was each other's mouths. We slaked that thirst, my hands stroked her back, her hair, her pert and firm bottom. I didn't want that moment to end. She smelled great and felt great.
Wow. It was already fantastic and I hadn't even made it past her entrance hallway yet.
But we finally broke away and walked into the room. We stood at the foot of the bed. I often have a little small talk about this time, to put us both at ease. But she wrapped herself around me again, probing my mouth with that remarkable studded tongue, dispensing with small talk as if I was a longtime regular. She was already fondling my lap, feeling the hardness within. As if there would be any doubt that things, or rather, my thing, would be otherwise. Somehow I managed to get undressed, and we tumbled onto the bed.
There is a W. B. Yeats quote that was in my earlier review attempt that is quite apt here. “The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” And our time together really was magical. She's deliciously slim and has bountiful breasts. She has a very pretty face, and silky long brown hair. I think that for many, those things alone would be enough. But she also had boundless energy and enthusiasm. She never let up for a moment, in one of the best displays of a solid work ethic I've seen in recent memory. She made me feel like she was thirsting, and I would be her only chance to slake that thirst today. I don't wonder that she has such a solid cadre of admirers, and what I presume is a small army of regulars.
“Everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy kind of delight.”
Yeats was right again, and I know that particular tale all too well. Our time just zoomed past. There had been barely a moment when she wasn't using her hand, her mouth, and parts below very effectively and satisfactorily on me. I looked at the clock and I was shocked to see that we were actually a few minutes past my time. I got up to say my goodbyes. I asked about when she would be in town again and sadly, it's not likely to be for some time. But I'll remember. And I'll yearn. Because “Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.” I know what I've been missing now. I'll reserve a few embers for her, to burst into flame when next we meet. It'll happen again. I know it.
I'd tried to review her back then. It was an ambitious piece of work. In it, I made many references to her native Ireland and I peppered it with quotes from Yeats, another one of Ireland's very successful exports. I never really got anywhere with that review. It came across as contrived and pretentious and I was never quite able to make it right. It was a hot mess, and sadly much more of the mess than the hot. But even though I never finished that review, I'd had very fond memories of her, and I knew that we would meet again. Someday.
Fast forward to summer 2016. I've been out of the game mostly these days, with my work draining me of energy, inspiration, and most remarkably and sadly, desire. But I'd recently hit a lull in my work, I was rested, and as it just so happened, my plans for an evening engagement unraveled. I wondered what else I could do to fill my time and I quickly found out that Roksi was in town. I emailed her, hoping against hope that she would be available at short notice and miracle of miracles, she was.
So that is how I came to be standing in front of an unassuming hotel room door recently. I knocked, the door swung open, and I stepped in. She appeared from behind the door and I got a flash of a bright red bra and panty set (or as she later referred to them, her knickers) topped by her grinning face, before she wrapped me up in a tight embrace. We kissed, sensually, passionately, greedily. Like we were thirsting and the last liquid sustenance in existence was each other's mouths. We slaked that thirst, my hands stroked her back, her hair, her pert and firm bottom. I didn't want that moment to end. She smelled great and felt great.
Wow. It was already fantastic and I hadn't even made it past her entrance hallway yet.
But we finally broke away and walked into the room. We stood at the foot of the bed. I often have a little small talk about this time, to put us both at ease. But she wrapped herself around me again, probing my mouth with that remarkable studded tongue, dispensing with small talk as if I was a longtime regular. She was already fondling my lap, feeling the hardness within. As if there would be any doubt that things, or rather, my thing, would be otherwise. Somehow I managed to get undressed, and we tumbled onto the bed.
There is a W. B. Yeats quote that was in my earlier review attempt that is quite apt here. “The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” And our time together really was magical. She's deliciously slim and has bountiful breasts. She has a very pretty face, and silky long brown hair. I think that for many, those things alone would be enough. But she also had boundless energy and enthusiasm. She never let up for a moment, in one of the best displays of a solid work ethic I've seen in recent memory. She made me feel like she was thirsting, and I would be her only chance to slake that thirst today. I don't wonder that she has such a solid cadre of admirers, and what I presume is a small army of regulars.
“Everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy kind of delight.”
Yeats was right again, and I know that particular tale all too well. Our time just zoomed past. There had been barely a moment when she wasn't using her hand, her mouth, and parts below very effectively and satisfactorily on me. I looked at the clock and I was shocked to see that we were actually a few minutes past my time. I got up to say my goodbyes. I asked about when she would be in town again and sadly, it's not likely to be for some time. But I'll remember. And I'll yearn. Because “Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.” I know what I've been missing now. I'll reserve a few embers for her, to burst into flame when next we meet. It'll happen again. I know it.
