A Lust Letter for Tomorrow from Yesterday

Laurence J. Jones
8 min readJul 21, 2020

“Can you remember,

last September,

when we kissed and said goodbye?”

September in general is that time of the year when we release and let go of the warmth we’ve developed in the rich, sun-drenched times in the northern hemisphere. That easy lust that becomes so juicy that it squirts delightfully in your mouth each lick, slurp or nibble you take needs a little more effort to preserve. You prepare for fall, in anticipation of winter.

It is great to get back together with a love and the lingering looks you crave the most. The winter is so cold in so many places.

Frozen in stasis.

You might get rigid focusing on just trying to survive and make it through the darkest days unscatheed. You pile layers upon yourself to feel the kind of warmth only another person can bring. Coats and Scarves and gloves and hugs from friends can provide surface warmth….

…It would be a lie to say that surface contact gives you that internal fire that’ll see you into Spring, to the return of seeds budding into flowers that paint the world in vibrant colors. I’d be lying to you that having a set of tree trunks of legs intertwined with my own limbs doesn’t root me on the darkest, quietest nights as I wait for leaves to blossom and provide protection once again.

Time and place took me and Miguel to various parts of the globe.



Family is work. These holidays that eat up so much attention.

Commitments in this mad mobile world can test and strengthen the ties of love, loyalty and lust all at once. When it is fleeting, ships gliding and colliding on random nights when you can get a moment, it’s potentially more potent. The desire for richer, deeper, fuller memories. What is living for unless it makes a crashing impact on your soul so you can sing the virtues of existence to others.

As fast as this world moves, it can suddenly thrust you into stasis and sensory deprivation. For all of the winks, woofs and swipes that might satisfy the temporary twinge of the loins, it’s oddly not as easy as we might believe to carry through, to trust when we thrust.

“Have I taken the right pill?”

“Am I gonna argue with a stranger over condoms?”

Stranger Danger is still very real, and this world really doesn’t leave me time to tend to a penicillin prescription for an ordinary dick out on the road. There’s too many people out there with nuts unworthy of me storing and squirreling away for the winter.

It’s more fulfilling to dream of how someone’s patch of hair at the base of their back just above their ass looks like a meadow to enjoy a picnic in during the afternoon light. It’s wonderful to make plans, to strategically think of a time to plan a meal in that meadow and the lovely, downy hills that surround that secret path very few seem to know about.

Muscle memory strikes you.

Absence and anticipation.

All of those magic A words when you have a special piece of ass in your life. I get why we’ve been sold that it’s a danger. The absolute joy of kissing someone end to end would take away all of the other ways we falsely try to connect.

You fondly can’t wait for the moments of keeping your face young, opening your mouth to smile around the most beautiful wrinkle that folds back as you lavish flesh with attention. You love devoting yourself to giving the simple joy of cherishing and reveling in the flesh of this existence. You reveal a helmet willing to fight wars for you, with you, to break down your own walls, to get you to accept that as a species we can accomplish so much more opening doors than keeping them closed.

Once muscle rises and firms up the more you work it, the delicate flower out back relaxes and blooms if you’re a gentle bee not aggressively pursuing pollination. In anticipation of spring, it’s a beautiful practice to tend to the gardens you care the most about. If you bury the seeds in soil at the right time, you’ll have food that’ll feed you forever.

We sustain our diets mostly on eating what’s convenient. What we swallow isn’t always the greatest of protein. I love making sure Miguel eats his fair share of fruits and veggies so I can get my sweets directly from the fountain of his body.

Near or far

“Did you eat some pineapple?

A Kiwi?

There’s a Trader Joe’s or Aldi’s wherever you go hun.”

It’s not selfish to want him to have tasty cum is it? Hey, if I can find fruit in a Publix in Albany, Georgia. to make sure I’m providing my busy bee with some sweet nectar that he refines out of satisfaction into the sweet honey he gives the rest of the world, there’s no reason he can’t too.

This winter has been cold indeed.

For both of us. Other relations we try to keep so we don’t shift the burden of being in this flesh have flowed out to the ocean.

It’s hard to be easy.

Carefree comes with plenty of concerns. Maintaining relationships of all sorts is the biggest work we have as people. Not everyone knows to sneak up behind you and run an index finger up and down your spine to get your nerves in the mood to relax and open up, to be filled completely with the throbbing heartbeat that reminds you how beautiful and vibrant this life is. Not everyone comes to sit on your lap to playfully look over the world, reminding you there’s always a warm place for you to anchor into no matter how wild the ride is outside the door.

Sometimes those other relationships come with resources and reverence for what you have in your core connections tho. People are happy to see you together with what feeds you enough to feed them too. They throw you the keys to their old Rabbit Cabrio so you can skip out of town and book a small hotel near SLO so you can connect with the fact that all over the world it’s somehow always Spring, and the well of water to flood the fields is always within you.

Miguel had checked in first. Knowing that I love the smell of eucalyptus, hippie Californian that I am to his Expat Spaniard, he just finished showering with a bundle of leaves in the bath. A body is a beautiful thing to see freshly glistening from the shower, water lingering on already hard nipples and drizzling like honey off of scattered patches of hair. It’s absolutely wild when we combine the richness of our own odors with the sturdy, strong and erect fragrances of wood.

Realistically I don’t know where to glide my tongue or hands first.

Traditional romance says I should head for a traditional French kiss first.

The absolute perv in me says to get on my knees and give him the French kiss his ass loves the most.

All tongue, deep.

It is me pledging my love to the most intimate zone of his body.

It’s not like he has a Prostate at the back of his throat.

I know he’s lazy, and doesn’t play with the toys I buy him. He is spoiled. He knows I can’t get enough of the contact sport. But he’s not just a piece of ass, you know?

I’m also a big romantic. In front or behind the doors, the tradition greeting of meeting mouth to mouth values what we’re able to carve out due to the sacrifice of those that came before us. It’s not like I can’t multitask and gently rub his still wet asshole while we make out.He knows although I crave and protest versatility and equality, I’m always gonna wanna be served my share of ass first. It’s a shame he has more of a one track mind and gets lost in getting worked over from both ends.

It’s not really a time for words really.

It’s a time for observing and participating in paradoxes.

Feeling a man’s body relax, fold, relent happily from the roles we’ve been forced to live

Yet feeling the firmness, the essentiality of his happiness poking you in the stomach

As we both buckle into each others arms

As I fumble with taking off my own armor that I’ve stenched up through traveling

Feeling more alive in my own skin feeling his beat and sync in breath and pulse with mine

He hadn’t told me how stressful the last few days were, but given that my index finger slipped in so easily because he pre-lubed himself with coconut oil says more in action that words could ever say.

It’s not really a time for words really.

He’s been so closed off that he wants to be opened up and filled with vibrancy again. I’d be a fool to admit that it doesn’t feel like the height of life to enter someone that truly wants to invite you in, again and again.

Sometimes it doesn’t need to be drawn out, sometimes I only need to make a momentary tribute to the tunnel that goes from the beginning to the end of what sustains his life. I’m lucky that I get to dive deep and find safety time and time again in such a warm and inviting place. I’m always happy to add a coat of paint to keep the walls pretty.

It’s a pleasure to continue to build this house together. There’s another set of seeds planted in the fertile grounds of his back garden. A little later it’ll be my turn. I’m hoping this year the rest of the world takes us further away from being home in each others arms (and each other’s asses) far less often.

I sing to him a song that taught me about love, longing and lust long ago. That bittersweet is my favorite flavor be it Lemon Meringue Pie or a load in my eye.

When I’m away from you, boy

All I seem to do is cry

And then when I see you, boy

My, how the time does fly

I don’t know if you need and love me

The way I love and need you

I hope that we can be together soon

For now I forget that check out time is 11 am on Sunday. I forget that frolicking in the sand and sucking and fucking the nights away isn’t what’s normal or consistent. I thank the moment of now feeling the slow steady beat of his heart on my chest, as I stare into his eyes, gives the possibility that it’s endless.



Laurence J. Jones

Mid late 30’s CIS Queer inhabiting the liminal space between race, class, gender, The Bay Area and the Pacific Northwest.