②My Human Flesh Diet Meals—The Story of Mr. H

Soon, H pinned me to the bed.
He was a bit heavy, but I didn't want to pull away.
His skin wasn't loose like a middle-aged man's; it felt firm to the touch, and his warm chest was broader than it looked.
He easily lifted my skirt, pulled it off, and kissed me from top to bottom…
His lips were the temperature and thickness I liked.

"The first time usually doesn't last long," he said apologetically, hinting that he wasn't young anymore.
I hummed softly, indicating my understanding.
As his fingers moved away, he thrust his hips forward, and he entered me.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, then suddenly stopped: "Why are you so tight?"
I was a little stunned, confused, and then said shyly, "Maybe I haven't done it often enough?"

"Did any previous people tell you you were tight?"
"Yes," I answered honestly.
"But I think they were just saying that to be polite."

H laughed, but quickly became serious, and then came wave after wave of slapping and thrusting, accompanied by his strong body.

Like the exhilarating feeling of drifting down a stream on a small bamboo raft under the warm sun, requiring little thought, an invisible hand guiding the direction, leaping up at a sharp bend, seemingly about to crash into a rock, yet landing steadily in the water, the steaming, sun-kissed mist obscuring vision, not needing to see clearly, just half-closing your eyes and holding on tightly, allowing your body to sway freely in the flowing desire.

The destination wasn't far, but the mood was just right.
Our bodies stopped, panting, but he didn't immediately let go, his warm breath tickling my neck.
I pushed him away, gesturing for him to clean up, he got up, quickly wiped himself, and went to the bathroom, soon the sound of running water could be heard.
The hotel bathroom was large, with a wide washbasin outside and a glass shower stall inside.
I got out of bed, pushed open the sliding door, and went in, naked, standing in front of the mirror looking at my "post-coital" body, and his reflection in the mirror.

I went over and pushed open the shower door; I don't recall us speaking.
My hands slowly caressed his chest, I hugged him, my arms slid down his sides, and I knelt down, gently supporting his hips with my hands. I brought my lips to his, taking his slightly softened but still substantial member into my mouth, instantly filling it completely.
The person standing didn't move much, and I could hear soft, unsuppressed moans above me.
He didn't let me "serve" him for too long, pulling me up, drying me off, and putting me back on the bed. Afterwards, he told me it was the first time a woman had done this to him in the bathroom, and it moved him deeply, which surprised me a little…

Later, we went out for barbecue and skewers, and I recommended he try his first ever grilled pig brain. We walked along the huge lake near the hotel for a long time afterward, talking a lot.

But regarding the sex, I don't really remember many of the details afterward. This might be why I've been dragging my feet on writing about H's story. Partly because I was busy, but more importantly, we met several more times afterward. Each meeting felt like a spring date, breathtaking at the first flower, but then the whole garden unfolded before me. I vaguely remembered the beauty of the first flower, but it had already faded, only becoming blurred as the flowers bloomed in full glory.

Our second meeting was on a dark, pouring afternoon. We made love in a room with the curtains half-drawn, losing all sense of time. I clearly remember him on my back, his heavy breathing like bellows inflating our desires, from noon until evening, until my stomach started growling in protest. I jokingly called him my "human diet meal"—I could eat him when I was hungry, and it burned calories too.

Waking up from our pleasure in the morning, I asked him for a glass of whiskey. He didn't say anything about not drinking too much in the morning, but instead handed me a glass of whiskey diluted with green tea, making me chuckle to myself.

In a city that didn't belong to either of us, H insisted on taking me to a bar he'd stumbled upon while jogging. However, a sudden downpour left us stranded, unable to hail a taxi. H apologized, jokingly saying, "What kind of person did you invite? You don't even have a car!" His slightly awkward middle-aged manhood made me chuckle to myself… At the bar, he explained the characteristics of each craft beer, but what I tasted was a flavor he hadn't mentioned much, yet as rich as the hops themselves—a taste of the past.

The next day, H saw me off on the bus home. Having not slept well the night before, I drifted off to sleep amidst the swaying. When I woke, I was shocked to find a man sitting next to me wearing the exact same clothes as him. A sense of unease about time and space welled up inside me.

In *Soul*, Joey, who dreams of becoming a pianist, finally gets his long-awaited opportunity to perform on stage, but on his way home, an accident takes him to another world. Meeting H always reminds me of this scene.

The second time we met, H stammered that he was being transferred back. His eyes held both joy and disappointment. I turned my head away, and, uncontrollably, burst into tears, completely bewildered.

After H's transfer, we went our separate ways, meeting again in Z city. That night, I leaned on H's lap, drinking and chatting, and surprisingly fell asleep before we even made love. He didn't wake me, only quickly making up for it with our bodies the next morning.

The pandemic, coupled with the time difference, meant our conversations became more of routine greetings. I often wondered how to describe H. He lacked the deliberate exaggeration behind his online persona; in fact, he seemed more genuine and real, his sincerity perfectly balanced, like a strong liquor in the morning and evening, with different proportions, yet always leaving one pleasantly tipsy in the spring breeze.

In this journey of life, it's fortunate to meet someone who walks with you for a while, but if you can also share a drink, that's even better… just like Mr. H, whom I met.

Perhaps one day, you'll still see the words "Human Flesh Diet Meal - H" that I wrote on the bar counter in J City!
(The End)

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②My Human Flesh Diet Meals—The Story of Mr. H

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