At the side of Charlie’s bed is a tiny black box. Inside, he keeps everything needed at a time like this. A time where our faces are flushed. A time where our bodies are glistening with sweat, and our minds are swirling with anticipation. A time where I’m fumbling with a wrapper because I can’t stop staring at Charlie’s slick fingers as he spreads himself. A time where he’s begging me to be inside, and I oblige. The black box is there so he can feel that sought after fullness, and I can feel the pleasureful surge of being inside.