"My Matthew"
I know you're not my Matthew. You're Brian's I suppose. I'm glad you have Brian and he has you, I think. You think? I'm sure he's a gorgeous man, as you say, like his son is, I've seen. He's in his 40s, not that much older than you. Ten years? I'm much older than he is, but you like that, you say. Do you? He's your partner and I'm a friend, I guess, with "benefits".
But at times I like to think of you as "mine" and I as "yours". Your sweet puppy eyes slay me every time they turn towards me. Your, oh so soft, mouth with your sweetly kissable lips lures me on. Your strong arms and tight biceps hold me firm in your grasp. Your strong chest matches mine in oh so sweet symmetry. At the same height our mouths can find each other's perfectly. Your quasi Afro makes me try to mess up your hair although I know I can't. And your bubble butt! I'm already hard thinking about you. Thinking about your soft mouth milking my big hard white cock. And how I long to suck your big black cock, to have you thrust it in me.
I love your smooth chocolate brown athlete's body. You in your 30s. Only the softer gut relieves me and assures me you're not in your 20s. You don't work out at all. Perhaps not. I'm glad you don't.
I do some. In my late 50s I look good. But not you good.
I love your intensity. I love you singing to me, singing songs of joy. I'd love to sing back to you but don't have the songs you have. I love your sincerity. I love your helping others. We're the same in this.
You're an artist, a painter, a sculptor? I love your work. Many, many, must love your work, too.
I'm married to an alcoholic, you partnered to a carpenter who Divorced his wife, is paying for her, and for his beautiful son.
I'm holding on for three and a half years for when the boys leave home. You?
You asked if I was falling in love with you. You asked if I was falling in love with you. You asked if I was falling in love with you.
Yes. No. Maybe?
With love. Your Mike and your Dave.