Upscale suburbia. Heavily wooded rolling hills. Winding, tree shaded avenues. Jags, and Beamers and Bentleys, parked ostentatiously in circular driveways. Free-form pools gracing verdant, manicured grounds. Maids and pool boys and gardeners. All the requisite status symbols. All a part of “The American Dream”.
Just five years ago, Justin invited me to make my home with him. To grab a piece of that American dream. To join him at his secluded estate in the heart of upscale suburbia. They’ve been the best five years of my life.
I look over at Justin. He looks so angelic when he’s in a state of total relaxation, as he is now. To see him in repose, you would never guess that he’s one of the most cut-throat litigators in San Francisco. His choir boy appearance masks his instinct to go for the jugular. That college boy look of innocence and naivete conceals a rapier intellect and an unerring ability to blindside an adversary.
Justin and I are lying together in bed. Both naked. I fucked him a few minutes ago. And he still has the vestiges of a contented smile on his face. He told me once that these are the moments he lives for. Basking in the exquisite intimacy. The warm afterglow of sexual love. The only time he ever feels fully relaxed.