I met him three times but each time was so similar that I frequently blend them into one another. And then, there was of course, the problem of the glory hole.
Having not really seen the face that commandeered those beloved lips and that nimble, slick tongue means that facial hair, hair length and most importantly, changes in facial expression -- all signifiers that help me differentiate sessions -- aren't available to aid me.
But what I do remember is quite crystal clear, strung into what seems like one long session, separating us by his pseudo glory hole containing tarp with me standing in the hall and he, kneeling on all fours in the bathroom.
The second time I made sure to push my baby blue vintage Nike All-Star high tops underneath the space between the tarp and the hardwood floors, I do recall that. After I left from my first visit, he had admitted his sneaker fetish to me and I'd made a mental note to pull out my prized babes for the second meet up. While he expertly bobbed up and down my length, me feeling nothing but the warm, wet, inviting orifice at work, I felt what I thought was his hand thud onto my foot. In hindsight, it was likely the thick cock that I'd convinced him to shove back through the hole.