AFTER A BLOWJOB II

You wake up and don't know where you are.

It's not the disorientation of a hangover or the confusion of having slept poorly. It's something deeper, stranger. You open your eyes and the ceiling isn't yours. The light coming through the window has the wrong angle. The sheets smell different. They smell like you, but not like your you.

You move your hand and the sensation is correct but incorrect at the same time. Your fingers respond, your arm bends where it should bend, but there's something in the weight, in the texture of your skin against the sheets, that doesn't fit. You touch your chest and find muscle where there shouldn't be so much. Your hand goes down and your cock is there, hard with morning erection, but when you grab it the sensation is different. More sensitive. As if every nerve ending is exposed, raw.

You get up and there's a mirror on the other side of the room.

The guy who looks back at you is you but isn't you. Younger, maybe. Or different. The features are correct but the expression in his eyes is another. There's something hungry there, something desperate. You approach and see that your skin shines a little, as if you're sweating even though it's not hot. Your cock is still hard, pointing upwards, and when you look at it you notice that it visibly pulses with each heartbeat.

Then you feel it. A need that doesn't come from your head but from somewhere lower, from some primitive place where rational thought doesn't reach. It's not a desire to cum. It's something bigger, more terrible. It's hunger. Hunger for cock, for semen, for being used. But not as fantasy. As physical need, like when you've gone days without eating and your stomach twists demanding food.

Your phone is on the bedside table. You pick it up and see that you have apps you don't remember installing. You open them and there are open conversations. Guys asking if you're still available. Offering you money for an hour. Asking if you do this or that. Your body reacts to each message with a wave of excitement that scares you because you can't control it.

You respond to one without thinking. "Yes, I'm available."

The response comes in seconds. "In half an hour. My place. Door open."

You go out onto the street and everyone looks at you differently. Or maybe you're the one looking differently. Every guy who passes is a possibility. Your mind automatically evaluates: active or passive, endowed or not, clean or dirty, how much they'd pay, what they'd want to do. You can't stop. It's as if your brain has rewired to process the world only through sex.

You arrive at the building. You go up the stairs. The door is ajar as he said. You enter and the apartment smells of closed spaces, old tobacco, male loneliness. There's a dark hallway and a door at the end with light.

"Come in," a voice says.

You enter and he's sitting on the bed. Sixty-something, beer belly, yellowed ta...