Call Me an Uber Home

I met you on Grindr the day I opened up my relationship. You were a bombshell French Canadian dude with an ass that made me want to stick my tongue so far inside you as to lick your prostate—and what was sure to be an uncut dick. You promised me a five-minute rebound time and an endless supply of come. You also had AC. The next day, I was at your door. You answered and I instantly regretted everything. You were significantly rounder and shorter than I thought you’d be, and you were not French Canadian. I told you to take your clothes off and lie down on the floor. “Yes, sir,” you said. And then I saw your cock. On the smaller side. Circumcised. I considered leaving. My boner was dead on arrival. But my resolve thickened. “Open your mouth,” I said. I sat on your face and asked if you’d call me an Uber home. You said something into my ass. I said, “What?” You turned your face to the side and said, “What did you say?” I asked again: “Can you call me an Uber home?” You said, “Oh. Sure.” “SCOTT”