I can see him there, a short glass of whiskey at his hand. Ice tinkles as he lifts the liquor to his lips.
He doesn’t do shots, or mixed drinks. He doesn’t do anything as gauche as drinking quickly, or he doesn’t to my knowledge. It is against his grain, his every so cool persona. He sips, savors the taste, lets the alcohol relax him.
He doesn’t mention when he is drinking beer, beer doesn’t make him think of me.
Sipping whiskey does.
I can see him there, where he is, glass at his elbow, eyes drooping as he remembers sipping as he looked down at me.
I could hear him lift his glass, a cheap plastic motel cup, to his lips. The slight “ah” sound as the whiskey hit the back of his throat at the same moment his cock hit the back of mine. He reaches down, puts his hand in my hair, it registers somewhere in the peripheral part of my brain, like the sounds of him drinking.
Just sippin’, having a drink with a friend.
He sits, he sips, cool as a cucumber, enjoying my on my knees between his legs. Sounds come from his throat, a few words of encouragement, but mostly just hisses and moans. These are also received on the outer part of my consciousness. I am in my moment, the sensation of my mouth on his dick is all I can think.
The glass comes to his lips, he takes a sip. Later, when I kiss him, I will taste it, Jim Beam, and although I have hated the smell of whiskey since childhood, his whiskey-flavored kisses are the sexiest I have ever known. But now, I cannot taste his mouth, only his cock, there is only this, him above me, drinking while I fulfill a fantasy, sucking him while he has a drink.
The next day, he sends me pictures he took. I am surprised at the look of it, his cock in my mouth, I am surprised at how perfect it looks, I am surprised by how much it turns me on. I can almost hear him swallow, taste the amber liquid on his tongue.
And when he sends me those two words, “I’m sippin,’” I know why he sends them, I know what it means. It means he is drinking with a memory. He is having whiskey with my mouth. He is toasting my tongue.
“Here’s to you, grasshopper,” he is saying. “I’m sipping and remembering.”