Upon sitting at one of the bar stools at the island, leaning over a cup of black coffee that he had already (and kindly) poured for me, I couldn’t prevent my stinging eyes from straying to his molded thighs and bulged package between his stern legs; medicine for my stinging headache. Tacoma stood with his cotton-covered cock almost pressed against the countertop, thighs slightly hairy and firm, and the thin patch of treasure hair only inches away from a sliced and toasted onion bagel next to a bowl of whipped cream cheese that he had fetched from the refrigerator. I watched his hands in motion: using a silver butter knife to spread cream cheese on the bagel as the other held it. Thereafter, he poured orange juice into two tiny glasses and placed one in front me.
I sat rubbing fingertips against temples, trying to push away the morning headache. “For you, Robert,” he said in a whisper, walking away to fetch his bagel. “Would you like one?”