Music Mann

           Since I left Bear Valley in January, an impromptu visit to see Baylor on stage, it has been tour date after tour date date to finish the last month of my Reclamation tour. And now we are finally headed back to my home in the California hills. 

            I let my thoughts go where they want.  Back to Baylor, to our relationship caught in a patchwork of lyrics he has written and I have voiced for over a decade.  For me at least. I’m the heartbreak king of the music scene, according to GQ. All those lost love songs, I sing them about him, but I don’t know who he writes about. I haven’t for over that same decade. 

            A fucking successful decade, though. 

            It is too early for this jumble in my head, and what I need to do is jack-off and go back to sleep like a sane person.

            My favorite scene replays in my head.  Our last time.  Baylor and I knew we were ending, but it wasn’t dramatic or even sad. Not back then. The memory is not my go-to, necessarily, but I never think of anyone other than Baylor in these moments. 

            Baylor is the embodiment of tall, dark and handsome.  I can remember the feel of him beside me, exactly what his weight would be like on the other side of the bed.  

            I wait until its so real I want to reach over and see if he is there.

            He kisses me first, in this scene.  I remember how he tastes, and dive hard into that memory until it manifests in my mouth.                   That goddamn cinnamon gum.  I can feel it tingle across my tongue. 

            In my mind, his hand comes to my hip, his heavier weight settling against me, dipping the bed and rolling me close. Only in my fantasies does anyone ever get on top of me like that, weighing me down. 

            Only Baylor.

            My hand dives into the thin pajama pants I’m wearing.  Baylor would smile into the kiss now, his hand in my pants being a visual that always turned him on.  He would look down, then his cheeks would flush at being caught watching, his eyes hooded and dark under thick lashes. 

            I stroke myself, only a bit of lube needed because my cock leaks at this memory.  Somewhere over the years I have forgotten whether I touch myself the way I like to, or the way Baylor did to me, or maybe it’s all just the same.  As my hand strokes rough and slow, my body is on high alert, recognizing the memory it has played so many times.  I’ll come harder to jacking myself to the memory of Baylor than I have with any warm-body lover, and my own body knows that.  Fucking craves it. 

            Baylor would surround me.  His dark stubble that was almost always present, his dark hair, long enough to brush his face as he became disheveled and sweaty.  He would still be kissing me, still stroking, wanting me to come in his hand with my mouth against his.  

            His thick thighs, muscular and damn near furry with hair would press against me, his hand would find its way to my hair. But, Baylor’s lips and other hand wouldn’t stop.  We never got to too much edging; we were too eager with too quick refractory periods to care about that. 

           Ah, youth.

           No, Baylor would keep going, relentless with his kisses - a press of lips I can still feel - with his hands, stroking my dick and cupping my balls until I was panting against him.  He would make me come first, like this, then fuck me into the mattress until I came again. 

            Even now a whine escapes my lips.

            I fucking miss that.  Miss it being his hands, his lips.  

            I miss him.

            I miss the quiet man who has the words I don’t for how I feel about him.

            I miss the feel of his body against mine, of waking up in his arms.

            I miss the tug of the emotional anchor that is Baylor Mann.