Chemistry is non-negotiable.

Hy in a striped dress 2

Friday night stripes.

I’m 30,000 feet in the air on my way home from Ann’s and I’m fairly certain of three things: 1) vacation dick is pretty great; 2) cheese and more wine, while pleasurable, does not cure a hangover; and 3) I can’t remember a third thing because numbers 1 and 2 have pretty much taken all my brain power and life force.  I’m sure I’ll think of it at some point.  [Ed. note: It doesn’t happen.]

I could give you a blow-by-blow of my weekend with the ever gracious Ann, but if I jumped into that I’d be missing a bigger, more important theme of my time with her: chemistry — between friends and lovers — and how it’s actually non-negotiable.  You can’t turn it up or down, it just is or isn’t.

Ann and I have good chemistry as women, as friends.  Apparently, I had pretty great chemistry with the man she calls “Shenanigans.”  I also got to see first hand the effortless chemistry between her and a man she can’t explain, Tony.  And last night she invited two of her friends over for a night of drinks and chatting and those women also clicked seamlessly into the tapestry of our weekend.  Again, more good rapport.

Being so charged with chemistry this weekend has made me contemplate who and what I am as a person.  How am I perceived?  What is my impact on those around me?  Should I be more careful?  How do any of us ever find one another?

I arrived Friday afternoon still covered in the sweat and bodily fluids of The Soldier.  He’d come over Thursday when I discovered a free hour in my day.  He’d plunged into me and dripped sweat down on me as he rode us both punishingly over the edge.  We rested, talked easily, and as he was getting up to leave I put him in my mouth and let him bury himself into my skull.  When he came, I felt his semen hit the back of my throat and relished the feel of his hands on my head holding me to him.

I didn’t want to wash him off of me and so I didn’t.

Driving home to Ann’s she laid out our plans for the night: we had tickets to an art show of some kind, a little free time to grab a drink somewhere, then we were hitting a club.  Tony, her on/off again amour wanted to meet us for the drink portion.  I realized then the evening would require I wash The Soldier off of me if I were to be in polite society.

As the night wore on and the purple, pulsing lights cast eerie shadows on the club walls Shenanigans, an old lover of Ann’s, continued to text her from an earlier chat they’d had in the week.  She wasn’t the least bit interested, I imagine still on the high from holding Tony’s hand in the fancy hotel bar we’d met him in coupled with just a basic disinterest, but I insisted that he come over and hang out with us.  I had no ulterior motives other than just wanting to meet as many people in Ann’s world as possible.  And so he did.

By the time he arrived, however, Ann was worshiping the porcelain Gods.  I went to let him in and was surprised by how good-looking he was.  Tall as all fuck, scruffy looking in a boy-next-door kind of way.  I knew virtually nothing about him, despite her writing about him over the past two years; he seemed like such a peripheral character, I never bothered to give him my full attention.  Plus, shenanigans.  I don’t have to read about a fella to know if he’s earned that moniker.

He followed me up to the living room and I went to pour him some wine while Ann continued to die somewhere around the corner behind a closed door.  She soon went upstairs to rest.

We followed her and lay in her bed congenially until I playfully convinced him to take his pants off in front of us at which point his strip of Magnum condoms were revealed.  I’m fairly certain that secured the evening for me.  And for him.

I took his hand and led him out of Ann’s room, down the stairs and — he told me later — pulled out a great big cock and did what I love to do.

Sometimes I forget that this isn’t what normal people do.  

Most people don’t travel thousands of miles to visit their girlfriend and then end up sleeping with an old lover of theirs.  They don’t fuck on purple leather couches in the open.  They don’t fuck in their friend’s son’s beds.  But, I guess that’s the kind of person I am.

Shenanigans peeled off my dress and fondled my breasts.  He pulled me up to standing and reached for the condoms while I rolled down my stockings.  We kissed again and I felt his erection bob between us, its hard heat far above my bellybutton as he towered over me.  He roughly turned me around and pushed in.  I held onto the back of the couch and marveled at how we somehow fit even with more than a foot’s difference in height between us.

My breasts swung and I felt an orgasm come up and over me, juices trickled down to disappear at the bones of my ankles.  I briefly thought I was glad I wasn’t soiling Ann’s pretty rug or couch.  At least I wasn’t that impolite.

Time and space stood still.  I wasn’t far from home, I wasn’t in someone else’s living room, this wasn’t someone else’s man.  I was just this seething mass of nerves and drive desperate for release and he was the conduit.

He sat on the couch and I climbed up on his lap and sunk down.  His pale skin was illuminated against the dark purple leather, his cock buried up to my sternum.  He latched onto my breasts and squeezed them.  I faced the staircase behind him and saw Ann’s feet, then legs, then drawn, tired face.  She smiled and paused next to us.  I continued to move on Shenanigans, just a little, as she and I exchanged pleasantries the equivalent of which would be “Hey, girl.  You good?  Good.  Later.”

She padded past us to the kitchen then back up the stairs.  We didn’t see her again until morning.

Alone again we laughed at having just been interrupted and turned back into each other.  He picked me up and I kept my legs wrapped around his waist as he fucked me while standing in the middle of the living room.   An odd sight we must have been, I thought.  My long hair draped across us both and he seemed not to exert himself at all as he pumped against me.

I felt like a kid in a candy shop, frankly.  Free and wild to be me.  He came and let me loose and we wandered naked upstairs where I put my pajamas on and crawled into a little boy’s bed and pulled this giant stranger in after me.  I fell asleep instantly.

I don’t have a recent memory of waking up with a man.  I don’t do that.  I steal moments from busy, scheduled lives, or I run out as soon as we’re done.  It felt oddly normal to wake up next to Shenanigans and oddly normal still to let him push into me, his mouth on my neck and lips.  I couldn’t stifle a  laugh when guilt washed over him.  “Man… we’re in her kid’s bed,” he said.  I told him to close his eyes and not think about the stuffed animals.

My eyes were closed, too, thinking about the treat between my legs.  The great big athletic man rocking away into me as 8 am peered in at us.  He was getting close, he said and I told him to cum all over me, anywhere, everywhere.

He pulled out and laid ropes of pearly semen all over my belly and tits.  We marveled at his artwork and regretted not snapping a pic.  We were both too lazy to get our phones.  I was probably still drunk.

I laid there for a few minutes and blinked, reality slowly creeping in while Shenanigans was having reality crashing down hard on him.  I mean, the guy ostensibly came over to fuck Ann, but he ended up with me.  He didn’t know she couldn’t care less about what we’d done.  He was agitated and fidgety.  “I’m going to go talk to Ann.”  He pulled on his underwear and left the room.

I got up and did my morning ablutions then knocked on her door.  He was sitting on the edge of her bed looking uncomfortable.  I crawled in next to her and told him to relax.  “Tony’s bringing us lattes,” she said.  “One for Shenanigans, too.”

I took him downstairs to leave poor Ann alone until our coffees arrived.  He was nervous.

“Who am I?” he asked.  “How do I explain why I’m here?”

I told him Tony wouldn’t think twice about him, that he’d assume I’d pulled him in off the street and we’d fucked.  I couldn’t convince him, my words were useless, so instead I undid his pants and pulled him out.   He was hard again and I could taste me on him.  He was more fun with his lips sealed.

I licked his warm balls and tongued the smooth patch of skin behind them and dove down onto his shaft until he came with a deep, long guttural moan. He held me to him the exact same way The Soldier had 36 hours earlier.

He didn’t mention Tony again and when they met a few minutes later he fell over himself to explain that he was my friend.  Tony didn’t notice as I’d predicted.

I walked him downstairs, told him this might be goodbye forever, hugged him and shut the door.  I didn’t see him again.

Back upstairs, Tony had let himself up to Ann’s room and was laying under the covers beside her.  I sat at the foot of the bed while Ann rested her head on his chest and he pet the curls at her temple.  We joked like old friends and I surreptitiously watched them interact as I regaled them with my tall and sexy tale from the night before

After hearing from her for so long the somewhat torturous entanglement they’ve had I could see why she always wanted more from him.  He’s sweet, yet different, quirky; his words tumble out of his mouth with a child’s exuberance; he’s bold and bright.

He’s driven and can become hyper-focused; if she’s out of sight, she’s also out of mind, though not in a callous way.  He cares about her.  I imagine it’s much how a lot of men I’ve known have been: The Neighbor, The Soldier, countless others easily forgotten. The difference, though, between the forgettable ones and the memorable ones isn’t the effort they put in or the category of relationship that ensues, but the quality of the chemistry, the intensity.  Ann and Tony have great chemistry.  It’s natural.

All the talk about my raucous night was making Tony visibly antsy, so I left them to their own devices and went downstairs.  I sneaked back up to get some socks and could hear Ann’s cries and skin softly clapping.  I crept back downstairs to wait for pizza and thought about my chemistry with Shenanigans, all shenanigans aside.

We’d laughed and shared stories and talked like we weren’t total strangers, the mysterious atoms of chemistry doing their work.  His oddness was impossible to miss; I could see why she’d nicknamed him Shenanigans.

Later, the two spunky lovers and I ate lunch and cuddled on the couch.  My feet tucked under me and Ann’s on Tony’s lap as he watched soccer and explained his passionate love for it.  Soon, they disappeared back upstairs and I napped on the couch, desperately hungover now.

Time stood still again as I was once more reduced to my physical needs.  I climbed back upstairs and fell into Liam’s bed until Tony came in to say goodbye.  We hugged tightly and I went back to bed where Ann soon joined me.

“I asked Tony to share with me what’s in his heart and head.”  I only moaned and asked if we were really getting back on The Tony Ride.

Since meeting TN, I have greatly edited my expectations of what a relationship should look like.  Brief?  Long?  Committed?  I don’t know — or often care — what it looks like.  If it feels good, do it.  If it doesn’t, don’t.

By that afternoon I had hardly heard from The Soldier and even been told he would keep his last name private.  I could freak out about that, but why bother?  I’d rather enjoy what I have than lament about what I don’t have.  If I ever really need more from him, I’ll ask and make a decision from there.  I like the freedom of being able to fuck some guy while I’m on vacation with zero regrets.  I owe no one anything.

I urged her to seek the same kind of peace in order to enjoy the beautiful thing they share and wondered aloud if anyone had ever died from a hangover.

She left to go shopping for dinner and I buried myself under puffy down covers still wishing I were a more normal friend, one with a lower volume in general.  When she returned we readied a carpet picnic of cheeses, bread and crackers and first one, then another of her friends came over.  We laughed and talked well into the night.  After they left I lay moaning on the couch while Ann hammered out a quick post, overcome with giggles.  It still felt all very unreal.

This morning, I continued to struggle with my shame over my behavior.  Was I going to leave and in the quiet of her home would Ann suddenly realize I was actually a total shit?  I squirmed at the kitchen table as she continued to assure me she didn’t care and loved me all the same.  As a dissolute, wild woman hearing I am accepted just as I am is a remarkable gift.  I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.  Thank you, little atoms.  Thank you, Ann.

I don’t know what’s going to happen with all the chemically-charged characters from this long weekend of mine; it’s like we’re all a bunch of magnets.  Me and The Soldier and Shenanigans and Ann and her friends.  The Soldier and I will, for a lack of a better word, soldier on.  I’ll see him when I see him.  Shenanigans and I will likely be a fond memory to one another, perhaps occasional pen pals.  Ann’s friends I will long remember for their amazingly hilarious stories — I hope they remember me as fondly.  As for Ann and me, well, I just hope that when she visits me next I can return all the favors, vacation dick included.

 

Hy in a striped dress 1

This is what everyone does in a bathroom, right?

I need you, Internet Boyfriend.

I am feeling lost and sad and lonely.  The Neighbor’s birthday is this weekend and, being silly me, I offered to take him out for his birthday on Saturday, Independence Day.

“So…” I began, “I was thinking I should take you out for your birthday this weekend.  Tina and Amy are both out of town, Peyton is, too, I’d like to do something fun.  What do you think?”

He looked at me with a quizzical look.

“C’mon!  It’ll be fun!  What else would you be doing?”

“I’d go into work then go home,” he admitted. Then he added, “Lemme think about it.”

I knew that was code for “Let me check with my therapist.”  “Ok,” I said.

A couple of days later he called to say I could take him out for brunch.

As you know, Internet Boyfriend, brunch is a sore spot with me.  He never went with me, hated it, he said.  “I’m not a brunch person,” he’d assert.  No matter my protests, he never budged.  The closest I ever got were a handful of 5 am wake-up calls to go to our favorite greasy spoon. I took it, appeased, but still longed for what brunch represented: a closeness, a lazy stroll through the morning after an intimate night, a declaration of couplehood.

Last weekend I told my dates that I wanted someone to go to brunch with.  Both men got what I meant without hesitation.  Last night my date got it, too.  “It’s special,” he’d agreed.

But this offer of brunch isn’t any of those things to The Neighbor.  If I had to guess — and that’s all I can do — it’s because it’s the safest slot to put me in.  It won’t be late, there won’t be much drinking (if any) and then he can bail on the excuse of having to do some work.  I could feel the long arm of his therapist in this decision since I had clearly made my intentions known that I wanted to take him out for the evening, as friends only.  “What do you want to do?” she likely asked.  “I want to hang out with her,” he’d probably said, “but I don’t want her to get the wrong idea…”

It makes me sad because the truth is there is a deep, dark part of me that wants him to come back around to me.  Not as we were, obviously, but as I’ve jumped into the deep end of dating I realize once again how special he is, how special our connection is.

Both Tina and Amy have rekindled romances with their exes.  They look at me with surprise when I say TN and I haven’t slept together once since breaking up or even kissed.  They have both gotten reengaged with their men and — despite all the complexities and confusions it’s caused — are happy with their lots.  I want that, too, but I can’t break him down; he has a steel grip on his resolve, never drinks too much around me, runs out of the house if he does, and because my heart is still dripping with loss I rarely contact him.  The chances of us bumping into each other with lowered inhibitions are nil.

I’ve come to realize that his rejection of me is integral to my wanting him.  The fact that I can’t charm the pants off of him, literally, invigorates me.  I want to know why, I want to solve this riddle.  I can charm the pants off of 97% of the men I meet, why not him?  Hell, why not the Bad Texter?  Even he has me on the hook because he is a complete mystery to me.

As I’ve been given the bitch slot of the day on Saturday it’s caused me to wonder why I even bother, but it’s that inexplicable itch I have to scratch.  Man after man I meet as if it’s my job and one by one they fall to my wiles.  It’s so easy, too easy, IBF.

I’m ashamed to call myself charming because it might come off as arrogant, but I don’t know how else to explain that with very few exceptions I manage to make a man want more of me.  Except the men I want; they eschew me, dodge me, refuse to see me.  Those are the men that draw my attention most: the ones who don’t see me.

Last night I sat at the same dive bar as I had with Remington only 3 days earlier.  We nearly sat at the same table, but out of respect for the ghost of that first date I steered us to a different table.  He was a fine looking man, fit and wirey from climbing, self-assured, a little nerdy looking which drew me in.  We began to talk and I found myself fitting to him as I had Remington, and The Lawyer and Mr. Nerdy, and all the other men.

Remember that ridiculous date I had with the guy with the face tattoos?  Or the power-lifter aficionado?  There have been others I never even wrote about because why?  They all went nowhere.  Yet, without exception they all thought it went swimmingly and wanted more of me.  I’m exhausted being their perfect woman and I am forgetting to look for my perfect man.

I’m so busy being charming and winning them over, figuring them out and being wanted that I am completely forgetting to be discriminating.  Why would I want this guy?  Is he the right fit for me?

He loves camping (I hate it), but, I think, maybe I’m doing it wrong and he can change my mind.  He’s a little bit overweight (and that’s not really my thing), but, I think again, he could lose it, it’s not a character flaw.  He’s a recovering alcoholic (and I don’t really want to mess with that being the drinker that I am), but, again, I can’t judge him for getting his life on track.

And so I have these inner dialogues during these dates whereby I dismiss all my red flags, all the things I don’t really want in a partner, because I don’t want to judge and I want him to want me.  And, what if I’m wrong??  God forbid I make a mistake.

I have this thing about me — I’ve noticed it my entire life — that I naturally emulate whomever I’m with.  When I’m with Sharon, I get a southern drawl, when I’m with Tina my hand gestures mimic hers, when I’m with Amy I walk like her.  Studies have been shown that it’s a likeability factor, this emulation.  We are naturally drawn to those who are most like us, who become familiar.  Books have been written on how to capitalize on it.

I suppose this was something I was born with then the skill was deeply stroked as a child in an unstable home.  To survive my mercurial parents, I had to disappear, figure them out and be as likeable as possible.  It’s led me to success in my career, but loss in love.  I rarely know where I start and they end I am so impossibly contorted to be likeable.  This gift of being a chameleon comes at a price: my own voice, my own way.

At the end of my date last night he asked how I was feeling.  I was his first internet date ever (“I prefer analog,” he’d explained) and it was off of AFF.  The truth was that I didn’t find him all that attractive physically, but I had enjoyed the conversation.  So, I did what I always do and kept him on the hook.

“I’d like to see you again, but I have to be honest, I’m a little worn out.  I go out a lot and next week I have my kid again.  Are you a patient man?”

He smiled, pleased I was interested.  “I am.”

I left it at that and we walked out and had a chaste kiss across from my car where, 3 days earlier, Remington had assaulted my mouth and pussy with hidden skills.

I drove home and got texts from Mr. Nerdy.  He’s excited about our date tonight, a traditional dinner and then an activity.  He’s been amping up the sexual content of his messages and I, quite frankly, don’t know if I have it in me.

I am so tired.

David came over Wednesday — yes, the guy who had taken himself off the market was back at me — and had railed me to oblivion.  He’d picked me up and thrown me around, choked me while his hand slammed into me until I puddled around it.  He bent me over and licked my asshole while holding my hands behind my back, fingered me and slipped his fat, unprotected cock deep inside my wet hole.  I’d gagged on his massive cock.

He struck my flanks, my legs, my thighs until I was fire-engine red and fucked me until he came on my back.  We’d laid in the waning light and talked about safe things: our dogs, physiological reactions.  Then he’d pulled me back into him and rolled on top of me and kissed me passionately until I pushed him off of me and tried so hard to get that enormous dick down my throat.

Tears squeezed out as they had earlier in the night, I’d vomited a little and then he’d flipped me over and railed me again until his muscles seized up from his 60k run over the weekend.  I’d fallen back on his cock and he’d turned me around to finger my ass.

How many fingers and how far he was into me was lost as I tried to cope with his penis.  He coached me as I whimpered, mortified and turned on and determined all at once until I’d vomited completely into my mouth and pulled off, stiff and still, looking for something to spit into.  That was it for us for the night.

We found ourselves trapped in the vortex of miscommunication again and I realized it was so easy to fuck him and let him come around because though I had figured him out I didn’t actually want him in my life as an important person.

I lay there, opposite him with his leg draped over me, his hands massaging my ankle and me stroking his calf thinking how comfortable I am with a guy I would never want to date, whereas the men who want me cause me great discomfort.

Mr. Nerdy has no idea that David sucked it all out of me.  I don’t want to have sex tonight, though I’m sure I will.  I will because I’ll mold myself to him and want to win him over.  Plus, I like sex.  It will likely be good for me to be with someone who’s interested in me beyond just my willingness to put out.  And, he wants to take me to brunch.

But I will be kicking him out sometime in the night, under the summer moon, because I will have to wash up and be ready for The Neighbor’s birthday brunch and afternoon surprise (I’m taking him to the batting cages).  He says he’s excited and really looking forward to it.  Strangely, I am, too.

I’m looking forward to figuring this out, IBF.  I’m lost.  I’m sad.  I’m lonely.  And The Lawyer wants to spend time with me on Sunday which makes me feel all the more lonely.  I need you.

 

 

I doubled up.

The words “double date” tickle me because these days it means something entirely different than two couples out on the town together.  For me it’s two dates back-to-back in one evening.  Holla.  How’s that for some great double date ideas??

This past Friday was certainly not my first, but it was certainly my best double date in recent memory.  The last double date I had, I forgot about Date #1 completely and didn’t include him in my own list of who I was datingOops.

Date #1 lucked out and caught me at a time in my week where I was both available and feeling open-minded.  He messaged me on Tinder, but never acknowledged my preference for gold wrappers.  I ignored it and figured he knew what it all meant and followed his lead.  He was smart and quick and even though I’d already made a date with a tall drink of water for around 8 o’clock on Friday night I decided that I could handle a warm-up date with this nerdy surprise.

Date #2 was with a 29 year old lawyer.  An impossibly tall young man with whom I had established my golden wrapper requisite.  “I know what you’re talking about,” he’d messaged.  “I use them.”  I’d explained my preference while blushing furiously.  It never gets easy being a size queen.

I drove to meet Mr. Nerdy with a light heart.  My graphic tee was mostly see-through and my legs looked long in high-heeled wedges.  I had nothing to lose if this went badly; I couldn’t wait to meet The Lawyer at 8.

“I’m in the green shirt,” Mr. Nerdy texted.  I took a deep breath and walked out onto the patio littered with people drinking wine and eating cheese.

Our eyes locked and we both smiled.  He stood to hug me hello and he towered over me.  He was taller than I had imagined.  And more muscular.

We ordered some drinks and settled in.  I laughed and maneuvered through the date with a sense of fun I wore like perfume.  It enveloped us both.  We opened up, we flirted, we shared, we set boundaries.  He was far more attractive than his pictures let on and I couldn’t take my eyes off his broad shoulders and tapered waist.  When he moved his chair closer to my knees and casually dropped his hand on my warm skin my eyes locked with his and we laughed.  We knew we were a match.

He walked me to my car when I realized I was close to being late to my next engagement.  “Do you have another date?” he’d asked.

“No,” I’d blithely lied.

I hooked my arm through his elbow and thanked him for being tall enough to wear my heels.  He chuckled and squeezed my hand.  When we got to my car I turned to him and put my hands on his hips and pulled him towards me and his soft lips pressed into mine.  I looped my hands up to his shoulders and gently massaged him as he wrapped his arms around me.

We had hammered out every detail: we are both looking for passion, for connection, for something steady, maybe a launching off point for something more serious.  He alluded to being kinky and bold; I’d alluded to compliance and perversion.  His mouth plied mine with warmth and verve.  I moaned a little and arched into him and hoped I wasn’t getting beard burn from his 5 o’clock shadow.  That would be hard to explain to Date #2.  His kiss was nice and we vibrated against each other.  First kiss nerves never go away, it seems.

I broke us apart and thanked him again for the great date and we promised to see each other again.  He brought my attention to the large bulge in his dark jeans.  “I sure hope it pleases you,” he said smiling.

I winked at him and told him I was sure it would.

I drove to Date #2 beaming, skipping across clouds like a naughty angel.

As I walked into the restaurant I felt my heart beating more quickly.  I saw my date out back on the patio and he stood to hug me as I approached.  Jesus Christ, he was tall.  I reached up, he stooped down, we laughed nervously.  “Well, hello,” I said, “it’s nice to finally meet you.”

I could barely look at him; his long lashes curled to touch his cheeks and he looked like a kid.  I laughed and said, “Are you sure you’re 29?!  You look 12 years old!”  He blushed and lowered his chin and assured me he was an adult.  A 6’6 1/2″ adult.

“I get that a lot,” he replied in a deep, grown up voice.  “It’s the eyelashes, I think.”

“Yeah,” I laughed.  “Maybe.”

We ordered wine and soft-shell crab and blistered shishito peppers, though the chicken liver mousse was our favorite.  Turns out he, too, is looking for a steady, lovely, sexy, passionate, brunch-going type of relationship.  Too bad he lives an hour away. But then again, maybe it’s a perfectly built-in speed bump.  I don’t know.

On our way to my favorite watering hole I laughed until I cried when I realized his feet were as long as my femur.  “Can you see this?” I guffawed as I pressed a shoe of his to my leg. “You’re a giant!”  He grinned sheepishly while I teased him, but was happy to hold me close as we walked up the hill from our parking spot.  I forgot how amazing it feels to be with a gigantic man.

We ordered drinks and bummed cigarettes off our neighbors and with each drink we sat closer and closer until our lips locked and I inhaled his Old Spice and slipped my hand between his thighs.  He moaned and grabbed me and smiled into our kiss.

“Wanna come back to my place?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

He drove me back to my car and followed me home and seconds after he walked through the door we were writhing on the couch.  His sheer size pushed me down into the cushions and his mouth moved across my neck and breasts with a reckless first-date fervor.

I led him into my dark room and we found ourselves tangled in clothes, then just limbs.  His face fell to my pussy and his fingers snaked inside of me.  I coached him on what to do with what, then relied on raw begging.  His hand slammed into me and as his mouth lapped at me I felt myself gush into his mouth.  He moaned and shivered and slammed into me more.

“Please,” I panted, “please fuck me.”

He stood up and grabbed a condom, rolled it on and positioned himself between my knees.  He pressed into me, but the erection had softened some.  I clung to him as he moved me about the bed and I could tell he was becoming frustrated with his pouty cock.

I pushed him off of me and bade him to lie on his back.  I removed the condom and began to suck.  A nice size, not huge like I’d hoped, but I knew I’d be able to feel him once I got him back in business.

I sucked and lapped and stroked and opened the back of my throat and kissed his pubis with a mouth stuffed full of cock.  His hands were in my hair and on my face and when he was hard as rock again we rolled another condom on.  He scooped me up and held on as he gyrated like a jack-hammer into my wet ass pussy.

I found myself squirting again and he moaned into my neck as he felt it between us.

He began to shake his head and I knew he was at odds again.

‘I don’t think I can cum tonight,” he finally said.

‘It’s ok,” I said stroking his head resting on my shoulder.  “There’s always tomorrow morning.”

We separated and he pulled me against him and I fell asleep next to a great big bear of a man.  I woke up a few hours later and noticed his feet were stuck through the bars of the footboard.  I smiled and got up, did my morning ablutions and quietly crept back into bed.

It was the normal thing to do after sleeping with someone: stay the night and wake up together.  I remember a time when that was common practice, though it hasn’t been in recent memory.  I either tear out of his room under the auspice of a dog who needs me or a bad back and when I have company over it’s during the day or morning so he could never accidentally stay over.  This was nice though, almost normal.

I fell back asleep almost instantly.

When I woke up a couple of hours later it was to the dog scratching himself.  I called for him to stop.  The Lawyer was disturbed now, too, and rolled to his side and pulled me against him.  I felt his morning wood for a moment then drifted off back to sleep.  The dog had begun to scratch again.

The next few minutes were spent drifting in and out of a lazy morning haze and commanding the dog to stop being so disgusting.  We laughed and wiggled closer whenever we could until finally I felt his lips on my neck and his hand on my breast.

I rolled to my back and kissed him, spread my knees and handed him another condom.  He was hard as a brick this time and I was dry and tight until I was hot and wet.  He came quickly on my belly just as I had asked him too and when he handed me a towel to clean myself up I asked him to lay with me while I came one last time.

His hand gently caressed my breasts as I held the Hitachi to my clit and I wondered if he’d ever seen a woman do this before.  I didn’t ask and he didn’t say anything.  I just let the buzz do its job and came quickly myself.

“When do you have to leave?” he asked.

“Thirty minutes,” I answered.  Peyton had a birthday party to get to.

We got dressed and I openly teased him about his towering height now that I was flat-footed.  “You know, 2000 years ago you’d have been earmarked for brawny work based on your size.  But you lucked out and got to be all intellectual and shit.”  He laughed and said he supposed I was right.  I’m sure all the village girls would have wanted him in their hut.

He said he wanted to see me again, thanked me for a wonderful time, and said his next two weekends were tied up with family and friend commitments.  I assured him we’d figure something out.  I hope that we do.

 

I have a sexual brother.

Hy getting clean

I still haven’t taken one of these. Better get on it.

We sneaked little boxes of wine into the dinner theater Saturday and giggled as we passed them back and forth surreptitiously between our seats.  We laughed at how much we’d enjoyed the blockbuster and decided to walk across the street to a bar for another drink.

Standing on the back deck sipping more wine I tried to explain how I felt about our connection.  It was light, airy, easy, sexy as fuck.  “You’re like my sexual brother, but that’s an awful thing to say about someone you want to fuck.”  His face broke into a huge smile.  He knew exactly what I meant.

I met Chase 4 weeks ago off of Adult Friend Finder.  His profile read much like mine: mind is more important than form, sex is an art, passion is a pursuit, etc.  He also had a beautiful cock.

We emailed some and quickly discovered we’re neighbors and moved to text.  There was something about him that drew me in, a wording here and there, a punctuation.  We decided to meet on a Monday night and hours before the date he texted that he had more sex than he knew what to do with, wanted me to know as much, but was compelled to meet me anyway.  I appreciated his honesty and there was an underlining humor to his situation that made me smile.

That night we drank cider and talked like old friends and shared stories about our lovers, past and present.  I liked hearing how he worried his dick was going to fall off due to all the action he was getting; he liked hearing how David liked to try to kill me with his giant cock.

I slipped my bra off when he went to get our second round and he moved his chair closer when he sat back down.  There was a steady glow growing between us.

Back at his house, we surprised ourselves with a passionate embrace.  Clothes came off, cock in mouth, mouth on cunt, titty-fucking, vulva massage, fucking fucking fucking.  He spurted hot jizz all over me then got me a towel to clean up.  I laid there and began to laugh.  He began to laugh too.

“I had no idea I could cum again,” he said.  “What a nice surprise!”

I met with him two weeks later and all we did was drink wine and talk.  It confirmed what I felt that first night, that he is a brother in arms in this sexual battle-dance.  We necked a little in his car and I went home satisfied as I was.

He’s lost some lovers since we first met, things have fizzled out, but the bulk of his efforts go to a girl who is insatiable.  I suspect that some time soon I’ll lose him to her entirely as she seems much more open to a romantic coupling than me, but he’s still mine to play with for now, and as we tangled skin to skin Saturday night under a dark purple haze of wine and weed I wondered how she was handling her time away from him.

I wondered if she’d care that he wrapped the reins of my hair around his hand and pulled as he rammed into me from behind.  I wondered if she minded that he beat my flanks with his hand and bit my nipples.  I wondered if she got as wet as me as he pounded on top of me.  I wondered if she begged him to cum rivers on her face and tits.

I woke up yesterday with crusty eyebrows and a film of semen caking my chest.  I was upside down in the bed; he’d put a pillow under my head, though he was at the head of the bed.  I sat up and looked around the dark room and felt for him.

“What time is it?” I asked him.

“Six,” he replied sleepily.

“I have to go take care of my dog,” I said in answer.

I love the morning-after puzzle of Where Did My Clothes Go? and we patted around the bed for a few minutes finding bits and pieces.  At least I still wore my knee socks.

I came and sat next to him and nuzzled his neck as he pulled me closer.  “Are you ok?” he asked.  “I was really rough with you.”

“Yes, I’m perfect.  You were great.  Thank you.”  I kissed him on the lips, my sexy brother, and quietly left.  His dark curls disappeared against the dark sheets, his pale skin bright in the darkness.

I hope I know him for a while.

 

It’s better if we don’t talk.

I sit in a perfumed cloud of semen and spicy sports deodorant; my hands are mine again.

After a brutal week at work our meeting was spur of the moment, motivated by watching him in a porno gangbang with two women who didn’t look unlike me.

He picked me up in the hallway and carried me into my room.  His skin was damp from the rain.

“You just need someone to fuck you, don’t you?” he growled in my ear.  “To make no decisions, to just be taken.”  It was almost a hiss.

I only barely nodded as his mouth crushed mine and his hands gripped my breasts.

I had on boots and a blazer over my sundress; when he got up to kick the dog out I peeled off the coat and sat nervously on the edge of the bed.  He turned to me and wrapped his hand in my hair and tilted my head back.  “You don’t have to say anything,” he said and bent down and kissed me again.

David is a punishing lover, a Romanian coach of sorts.  Brutal, demanding, and then filled with pride and kindness when I comply.  I find myself wanting to comply.  A lot.

His lips were soft, his five o’clock shadow gruff, his hands hot and seeking.  He stroked and pet my pussy and bit my flesh; his clothes melted away and I reveled in the cloth that covered mine, but not his.

He jammed his fat cock down my throat and crooned to me as he went balls deep, his hand hooked into me and began to slap at me.  I suckled on a ripe testicle, arched my back, moaned, breathed in his soapy skin and filled his cupped hand with ejaculate.

He moaned and quivered above me and kept at me.  Cock swollen and banging against my cheek, my pussy throbbing, my chest heaving.

Clothes had to come off now, boots unzipped.  I must be unfettered.

He climbed up onto the bed and slid his cock between my breasts and squeezed them together, his balls on my chin and perineum soft against my nose and lips.   I felt exposed, humiliated, then empowered as he gently turned my face towards his sweet, puckered ass.

“Lick it, you dirty girl,” he panted as he stroked his cock between the mounds of my breasts.

I flicked my tongue, afraid, yet curious.  The giant man straddling my face tensed and froze as I fluttered my wet tongue around his anus.

His fingers hooked back into me and began to jerk me up to orgasm.  The pressure built and I bit his cheek as I came again and created a puddle between us.  He laughed almost maniacally and climbed off of me and rolled me over to my side and helped me up to my knees.

He told me to put my head down on the bed and to spread my cheeks for him.  I felt shame and a thrill, a duality I am not familiar with.  He grunted approval and slipped a finger into my cunt, then another, and maybe another.

My shoulders went numb and a hand dropped away as his arm pistoned into me.

He slipped a finger into my ass and my other hand dropped away as I gripped the bedding for purchase and leaned back against him.

“Please,” I panted, my face pressed into the mattress.  “Please, please fuck me.”  It was a whimper now.

There was a pause while he rolled on a condom and I felt his hands back on my hips as he gently pushed me onto my back, spread my knees and pushed into me as his mouth met mine.

I don’t know how long it’d been since we’d coupled, but as the rain pattered on the window feet from my head I thought about what a gift my body was, his body, everyone’s body.  That we are capable of such existential bliss through a physical act is nothing short of magic, a breach across divides.

He slammed into me and held my wrists.  He pinned my arms, he bit my nipples, he spanked my flanks with bruising blows.  He went wild on me and I met his crashing waves with my sea wall, unbroken, yet drowned in his needs to push me under the surface of my sanity.

When he pushed my legs together and held my wrists behind my back I began to sob as the orgasm seeped into me.  I imagined the other blonde, buxom women he’d pounded in the video and how they had become flushed and breathless.  How their hips and bellies and breasts had rippled with each passionate thrust of his hips.  How they had loved his cock — marveled over it — and here it was in me.  It was mine.

I came harder then and cried out that I was cumming and with my cries I heard him lose it.  He roared his climax, pulled out and ripped off the condom; I began to sob with release as hot ropes of his cum crisscrossed my back and landed in my hair.

I lay prostrate and jerked with sobs and laughter.  He stroked my temple and asked if I was ok.  I nodded that I was and he kissed my head.

“I hate to leave, but I was supposed to head out to the campground when you texted me an hour and a half ago, but I couldn’t miss out on this.”  I understood.  David and I aren’t so great at talking anyway.  His “no guts, no glory” approach to life is too harsh for someone as sensitive as me and I am often left scratching my head and feeling oddly defensive and misunderstood.  We do much better when all we do is fuck.

He got a towel and gently wiped my back clean and sat beside me.  I hooked an arm over his thigh and hiccupped receding sobs.  “See,” he said, “I knew this is just what you needed.  You seem much calmer now.”  He chuckled.

“You’re right.  This is just what I needed,” I agreed.

I got up and had to steady myself, my head was light, my limbs heavy, my hands numb.  I pulled on a sundress and we kissed by the front door.  I wished him a good time camping and thanked him for the good time.

“Bye,” I said as I was closing the door.

The last thing I heard him say was to chuckle and make fun of how I’d said it.

It really is better if all we do is fuck.

 

 

His cum came out my nose.

It was Monday and I was enjoying a quiet morning on the computer and Maintenance was puttering around my entryway when I got an unexpected text from David:

david text david text 2

He said he’d come over and wait for them to be gone and I all but leapt into the shower to wash off the 3-minute sex I’d had with The Ginger Viking the day before.  I told the maintenance guy I had to shower because a friend was coming over and to not be alarmed if a friend let himself in while I was in there.  He laughed and said something in broken English that I didn’t quite catch.  I laughed, too, because, whatever: I was about to get the shit fucked out of me.

With soap in my hair I heard a knock on the bathroom door then another followed by a muffled voice.  I shouted, “Ok!” to what, I don’t know, and continued washing up.  When I finished I noticed a thermometer sticking out of my bathroom vent above the door.  I laughed thinking about asking David to snag it for me.  It’d be easy for him.

I dried myself off, put on a strappy sundress and a little blush.  I skipped the mascara and the panties.

Butterflies swarmed in my belly as I patiently waited wondering what would happen between us.  Finally, I heard his knock.

He filled the doorway and I could see the bulge in his shorts.  “Good morning,” I said and stepped aside to let him in.

“Before you leave, could you do me a favor really fast?”  I showed him the thermometer in the vent.  He reached up and easily plucked it out and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I said laughing.

“You’re very welcome,” he answered back and stooped to cup my face in his hands.

We kissed and he trembled beneath my roaming hands.  We buzzed together like that, with deepening kisses, for several seconds.    I rubbed the bulge as he pressed into my hand.  He lifted my dress and began to play with me.  I stopped his hand and whispered not to finger me.

He looked at me questioningly.  “I’m on my period,” I explained, “and I have a menstrual cup in.”  He looked at me with more questions. “Trust me, it’s less messy this way.  You won’t feel a thing.”  We laughed a little at the short stop at pragmatism and continued to kiss as his hands rubbed my lips gently, carefully avoiding my insides.

I moaned and pressed closer and then the nerves were gone.  I wanted him, he wanted me.  A lock was opened and I felt a rush of heat pass through me.

Suddenly he picked me up like I was nothing, all 165 pounds of me.  Something clicked over in my brain; I haven’t been picked up in years.  This man was strong, so much stronger and bigger than me.  Thoughts of gangbangs and spankings and bright red hand marks sped through my brain.

I wrapped my legs around his waist as he walked to my bed and gently laid me down.  I watched, already glassy-eyed, as he kicked the dog out and crawled back on top of me smiling.

We kissed and fondled each other.  He was doing his best to prep me, but I was excited that he wasn’t.  I wanted his huge fat cock in a dry pussy this time, not one so wet I couldn’t feel him.

He stood up then and I knelt on the bed as he pulled my dress off.  I unbuckled his pants and he peeled off his shirt.  His cock was fat and hard and beautifully uncut.  I bent over and took it in my mouth.  Immediately he began encouraging me as I explored how far I could take him.  The harder he got, the more he filled my mouth and I struggled to take him all in.

Then it was like a gun went off and I was done.  “I want you to fuck me now,” I said, my voice filled with desire.  Without a word he bent to get a condom, rolled it on and pushed me on my back.

This time he slowly pushed in, my favorite part.  Our mouths were locked together and I breathed him in as he began to pump.  I wrapped my legs around his waist again and held him in as far as he could go.  Eyes closed, nothing but this man existed for me.  His cock, his mouth, his scent, his warm skin, his straining muscles.

We fucked and kissed and he was brutal.  He tucked me up, split me wide and unabashedly watched our porno.  Bodies slammed together, my belly scrunched up like a Sharpei, my face red and contorted with passion as he pounded into me.

He kissed my neck and suckled my ear before growling into it and telling me what a bad girl I was.  I begged him to fuck my pussy and nearly began to cry when I began to cum around him.  His tempo increased, he pinned me, hit me, kissed me some more.

Rolled up on my side in a little ball he fucked me from the side and I felt every inch scrape inside and felt lucky that our paths crossed: this man knew how to fuck.

On my hands and knees I bent over, my ass spread for him as he stood comfortably on the floor.  His height made us a perfect fit.  I bounced on him and he gripped my hips not painlessly.  Then he pulled my wrist out from under me and my right shoulder hit the bed, then he grabbed my left.  He plowed me into the mattress.

He licked his finger and pressed it against my asshole.  I squirmed on him and moaned helplessly into the bedding.

He began to wail on my flanks with short, stinging smacks.  I let the heat roll up over me like a wave.

His filthy words filled the room as he pleasured the both of us then it stopped.  

“Fuck.” He pulled out and pointed at his thick, glistening cock.  At first I didn’t see it.  “The condom is a cock ring,” he pointed out.  His penis was naked all but save a little cream-colored ring at the base.

“I just got tested on Friday.  I’m clean,” I said.

“Me, too,” he answered as he rolled on another condom and shoved himself back inside.

A true athlete, he deftly moved us across the bed.  I matched him for every thrust, every movement.  I was in goddamned motherfucking heaven.

Finally, we rested.  I on my belly, he on his back.  He tenderly drew lines on my skin.  “My hands are numb,” I observed.

“You know why that is?”

“I have no idea.  I can barely form this sentence actually.”  I laughed into the sheets unable to lift my head.

“It’s lack of CO2.  You’re breathing very hard.”  I could hear the smile as he imparted his firefighter’s wisdom.

I considered napping then, but knew we had only minutes to spare.  I hauled myself up and crawled between his thighs.  The condom was gone, the boner remained.

I sucked and slobbered, tasted a slight hint of blood and condom and kept going.  My hand stroked, my tongue lapped, my mouth sucked.  He said kind and sexy things about being a good girl and taking all of his giant, fat cock.  I thought I was doing a miserable job, but every few strokes he’d go deep.  The first deep thrust worked, but those following caused me to gag.

My heart beat faster and my legs began to tremble.  His deep thrusts increased; I gagged and began to regurgitate my coffee.  Once I stopped and clapped my hand over my mouth and ran to the bathroom.  He called after me that it was ok, but it burned and tasted awful.  I couldn’t figure this out and I was frustrated.

“It’s ok, baby,” he said.  “I don’t care about the mess.  Please, don’t stop, just spit on top of me, just let go.”  He grabbed the towel we’d used to blot his forehead earlier and tucked it under his ass to catch the mess.

I nodded wordlessly and fell back down on the shaft.  My breathing was erratic and I struggled  figure to breathe, his cock stuffed me so full it was semi terrifying.  

Gag, spit, cough, fall back on it for 10 more thrusts.  His breathing became more labored and his thrusts even deeper.  I pulled off again and again and spit up on his cock.  It ran down the barrel and swung off his balls onto the towel.

He fucked my face then and I felt a release as I gagged and he hit my brain.  I squirted on his legs and threw up into the towel.  He begged me to take him back in my mouth, I was delirious with passion.  He took his shaft in one hand and put his hand on my head with the other and began to skull fuck me.

I gagged and squirted, gagged around the hot fatness jammed in my mouth, but didn’t leave him.  Tears poured from my face, slobber coated my lips and his groin.  He grew even larger in my mouth and I heard him gasp and begin to moan.  

I squirted again, popped off of him to tell him what was happening to me, what that wetness on his legs was, and he moaned loudly with pleasure.  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he said.  I smiled and resumed my work.

I couldn’t breathe, was horrified at the mess I was making, but trusted him completely to guide me through it.  I was in love with this experience.

“I’m going to cum,” I heard him say and I squirted again.  He began to tense and fuck my face like it was a pussy.  I let it all go then: my vanity, my pride, my self-consciousness.  All I wanted was to be this man’s receptacle.

He roared as he came, God how that man roared.  He shook and arched and bucked into me with absolutely no control.

I held on as his jizz hit the back of my throat and I began to choke.  He held me there briefly then pumped some more.  I hungrily swallowed down everything I could and pulled off of him.  Semen oozed out of my nose and mixed with my tears.

I wiped my face clean with the towel and laid down beside this giant, panting man, his arm my pillow.  He kissed the top of my head.  Then kept kissing it.  I panted too, more than pleased, goddamned elated.

Wearily, I rolled over and grabbed my Hitachi.  “While this is all fresh in my mind,” I explained for no reason.  He giggled and pulled me close.

I pressed the buzzing head to my clit and listened to him recount the blowjob.  “You like that?  That fat cock fucking your sweet little mouth?”  I came hard and strong with his voice in my ear and his gigantic hand clenching my breasts.

I finally laid limply in his arms.

Just then the alarm on my phone went off.

“Time to go?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said.

We got up and got dressed, thanked each other, kissed each other deeply and tenderly.  He played with the dog while I put on my makeup.  He came back into the bathroom and kissed me again.  I raised up on my tip toes.

“You know what I did on my way over here?” he asked as we separated.  “I stopped to get gas and was so distracted about coming over here that I drove off with the gas hose in the tank.” We laughed.  “Otherwise, I would’ve been here sooner.”

I laughed and told him that had happened to me once, too.  And I smiled because I liked knowing he’d been nervous.  Apparently he’s not just a good lay, but a little human, too.

 

 

 

He was a big man who liked rough sex.

“The last couple of girlfriends I had didn’t match up sexually.”  His words filled my head as my mouth was stretched around the fattest cock I’d ever seen while a pair of smooth, cool balls pressed against the bridge of my nose.

David was tall, 6’5″, with broad shoulders and long, muscular limbs.  I lay on my back while he straddled over my face and guided his swollen cock down my throat.  This angle was better, my throat was more relaxed.

“Good, girl,” he crooned, “That’s it, you can take it.  You’re ok.”  I gagged and spit him out, tears streamed down my face.  His sheer size seemed to plug off my airway and I panicked despite my best efforts to remain calm.  “Shhhh, you’re ok,” he said again and gently forced himself back down my throat.  Not every woman would enjoy this, I thought.

On Sunday, the plan had been for him to bring me coffee as black as my heart and crawl into bed with me.  I met him at the door instead where we promptly fell on each other and I tasted the dark brew each time he kissed me.  He towered over me and in between nuzzles I apologized for not changing out of my pajamas.  It had seemed a little silly.  He didn’t mind.

He tore my tank top off — one of The Neighbor’s — and squeezed my breasts.  His feet were split wide like a giraffe at a river as he dipped to kiss my upturned face.

I chuckled when I found his waistband chest-level and breathed harder as I heard the metal clang as I undid his belt.  I moaned when I dipped my hand beneath his underwear and found an enormous mound of hot, rigid man.  The dude was fucking hung.

He was jittery and breathing as hard as me when I took his hand and led him into my room.  He said hi to the dog and locked him out saying not to worry about the sounds that might come from the room later.  We laughed.  On Friday over beers he’d had me in stitches.  The guy was a riot.

He stood up to his full height then and pulled off his shirt and kicked off the rest of his clothing.  He looked magnificent, mustache and all.

He grabbed me by the hair and turned my back to him and bent me over the footboard of the metal bed.  I had to stand on my toes to bend just right as he kissed my neck and began to snake his hands down to my pussy.  When he found the slit and the wetness that had gathered there he moaned something about me being a good little slut and laid his hand into my flank until it stung and buzzed with heat.  So this was how this was going to go down.

I appreciated that he had a plan — a distinct flavor — and let him play with my body, let him see what it would do for him.  When his fingers hooked into me I panted, “Harder, more, deeper, faster!” until I came and quivered with ejaculate running down my legs.

He laughed wickedly.  “Have you ever done that before?”

I nodded, already devoid of words.

He played me with his hands like a maestro for many minutes and then I played with him.

His cock was massive in girth, my long fingers only barely touched when wrapped around the shaft and I felt like every tooth I had was in the way.  I popped off of him and asked how many women in his life had had mouths big enough for him.  He smiled and said, “Only two.”  I knew I wasn’t one of them.

But what I lacked in mouth space I tried to make up in excitement and skill.  I licked and nibbled and suckled.  He moaned his pleasure and gently touched my face.  The fan moved slowly above us.

And then I was done with the fucking foreplay and needed that beer can cock inside of me.

Condom on, ankles on his shoulders, he steered himself into me and I was mesmerized by his porn ‘stache.  Soon it dripped with sweat as he pumped into me wildly with abandon.  I could only grab at his shoulders flexed with rock hard muscles for purchase, I had nothing but him to hold onto.  He liked that he said.

He bent and flexed me this way and that: feet on his chest, spooning me, me on top.  He ground my face into the mattress like an apprehended criminal.  He liked holding my hands behind my back.

“Fuck me!  Fuck me so hard, fuck my pussy!” I managed to murmur into the sheets.

He roared with passion and hooked his finger into my gaping mouth and gently pulled against my cheek while slamming his cock in me as deeply as he could.  I was a fish on his hook and could only whimper and raise my hips in response.

We stopped and I grabbed the Doxy.  His eyes lit up as we laid next to each other and this is how I came to find his soft scrotum upon my face and his horse cock down my throat.  I broke the Doxy as I pressed it against my mound, its speed waned, and then I gave it up and focused instead on the flesh on my face.

I was overwhelmed with a desire to take all of him and paralyzed with the inability.  I liked that he was both devil and angel and seemed to get off on my struggle.  We hadn’t talked about his particular brand of sexuality, but he had said he was a dirty bastard.  Dirty, indeed.  A dirty dominant, it seemed, but he was keeping it vanilla enough with just rough sex and I wanted to play along.

He coaxed and coached and I laughed and cried until I switched the Doxy back on and held it crookedly against my mound.  He swung off of me and laid down opposite me.

“I want to watch you stroke yourself,” I whispered.

His hand moved on his uncut shaft.  Beautifully pristine it moved like a wave with his hand.

I came hard and arched and bucked my hips as he watched intently.  Then we lay mostly still and traced shapes on each other’s thighs beneath the puffing of the fan.  I didn’t really know what to say.  The hunt was over.  We’d fucked each other’s brains out.  What next?

He had to go, he said, and I nodded lazily.  He pulled his pants on and did the buckle as I put on my pajama shorts.  He bent down and kissed my hip, then my belly, then my breast and landed on my neck.  My hands played on his broad back until he roughly flipped me over, skillfully put a knee on my shoulders to grind me back down into the mattress and spanked me while I writhed.

I could hear his breathing catch with each strike and I was brought back to the times in my past when a man lit into me like this.  I hoped with each blow it’d leave a mark for another man to see.

He released me and I drew up to my knees and felt his hardon.  “I wish I could fuck you again, but I really do have to go,” he murmured against my lips.

“I know,” I said kissing him back.  “I wish you could, too.”

I climbed off the bed and kissed him at the door.  He left then with a wave and I watched his back disappear around the corner.  He’d tasted like coffee again.

There are casual sex rules.

I don’t think I’m wrong in saying that there are casual sex rules.  I’ve written about how to fuck a neighbor and I’d say casual sex in general isn’t that different.  If anything, it’s easier because there’s no forced proximity and emotions might be more easily moderated.

Below are the rules that I live by.

Hy b&w in polkadot shortsRule #1: He doesn’t have to say everything right.  Just some things.

I don’t over-emphasize sapiosexual foreplay and keep in mind the connection that needs to be built is the physical one supported by the emotional.  Not vice versa.

The Little Marine wore shorts, a polo and flip flops.  Again, the bar stool beside him was reserved for me and I pulled it out and sat down gingerly next to him.  I ordered a cheap French red and he sipped on a beer.  We ordered some apps and settled in.

He was wound up and chatty and when I asked him a little bit about his history he launched into an overwhelming monotribe of a dozen siblings, some alluded racial stereotyping, and a passionate love for pitbulls.  I sat there for quite some time musing that he was handily opting himself out of any kind of long-term potential, but reminded myself that my personality and beliefs criteria were different here.

I needed him to be kind – check.  I needed him to be smart – check.  And I needed him to be hung – possibly check.  Where he fell on the political spectrum didn’t matter, how he handled his family didn’t matter, his seeming inability to ask me questions about me didn’t really matter either.  I was happy to listen.

When there was a break in his story, I shared some of mine, then injected some raunchy ones to lighten the mood.  It worked.  Then I nearly lost him.

“Do I look as fetching tonight as I did the other night?” I asked flirtatiously.

His face fell and became hard.  “You’re setting a trap for me.”

“What??” I shook my head.  “No, I’m not!”

Apparently, he didn’t like my hair pinned up into a loose bun and didn’t know how to tell me.  Forget that my breasts swung loose beneath my dress and I was wearing heels and I looked like I did on Monday when he thought I was the best thing since sliced bread.

Deftly, I navigated us away from a confrontation.  “Look, Marine,” I told him as I took his elbow and we headed back to his apartment.  “It’s not all or nothing.   You can still be honest about how you feel and complimentary.  You could say something like, ‘You look beautiful, but I like your hair down better,’ and I’d have laughed and not thought twice about it.  Put your mind in Date Mode, not Logic Mode.”

“I didn’t think of it like that,” he admitted.  “You’re right.”

Rule #2: He doesn’t have to be my physical ideal, he just has to work what he’s got.

I don’t overlook someone right under my nose because they’re not what I’m used to.

He looked good.  And compact.  He had the V from shoulder to hips that I like so much and his hair was cropped short.  If nothing were around him for scale, you’d have no idea he was only 5’6″.

Later, on his couch, I accidentally spilled red wine on him.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed.  He sat there mostly unbothered.  “You should take your shirt off,” I suggested laughing.

He laughed, too, and got up to throw his shirt in the wash.  I watched him as he peeled it off and his muscles flexed under the canned lighting.  He was a miniature Adonis.

He turned towards me and the tattoo on his pectoral curved outward with the muscle.  His abs were rock hard and long and his biceps were mountainous in a size-proportionate way.

He looked fucking edible.

I thought about all the women who pass him over because he’s short and thought what a goddamned shame that was for him.  He didn’t care, though.  He loved to crawl over any woman taller than him who was willing to let him.

Hy purseRule #3: The sex isn’t supposed to be mind-blowing.  It’s just supposed to be satisfying.

(However, in this case, it was pretty fucking great.)

Sitting shirtless on the couch now, he invited me to sit on his lap.  My panties were shoved down into my purse in anticipation of this moment.

I straddled him and we began the dance.  Nibbles and bites, moans and soft, wet tongues on warm, clean skin.

I slid down to the floor between his knees and released him from his shorts.  He was clean-shaven and bigger than average just as he’d promised.  I couldn’t call him hung, but I have been ruined by The Neighbor in that regard and I looked at him hungrily for a moment then fell on his shaft with my face.  Fuck The Neighbor and his giant, glorious, perfect cock.  I was going to show this one a great time.

I slurped and gagged and pulled on him while he shuddered and clung to his control.  I pushed him as far as he’d let me, then he pushed me off of him.  He stood and pointed at the bed and his eyes gleamed with passion.

I quivered inside and felt 9-stories tall.  I hadn’t seen a man filled with this much desire because of me in very long time.  He fucking glowed.

I pulled my dress off and laid down with him.  The paper light in the corner cast a soft glow on us as I mounted him and sunk down on him.  It felt so good to be penetrated by something other than a cold, 9″ silicone dildo.  His warm human-sized cock pressed into me until it completely disappeared inside.  I began to move.

It didn’t hurt like it did with The Neighbor and I bucked and rode him harder than I’ve ridden any other man in two years.  I came and I screamed and I clawed at his flexed chest.  He gripped my wrists and told me to go easy on him.

I leaned back and let him grind up into my neck.  I grabbed the backs of his knees to pull him in further.  He moaned, wild, and his hips slammed up into me and I came and gushed all over his waist.

“Where do you want me to cum?” he panted as he suddenly began to lift me off of him.

“All over me,” I panted back.  “My tits, my fucking face, anywhere, everywhere!”

His jizz spurted out and hit me in globs.  I rubbed it into my sweat and it kept coming.  It hit my chin.  I heard him exclaiming at the sheer volume.

I preened under the layer of cum on my body — a badge of goddamned honor — as he looked down on me, mouth hanging open and lids heavy.

We lay exhausted on the little full-sized mattress and I couldn’t think.  Or move.  Stars bloomed behind my eyelids and my limbs felt like anchors.  Minutes passed in quiet satisfaction until he bade me to get on my back. My hands were heavy with the lead mittens of orgasmic bliss, but I silently complied.

Hy with no filterRule #4: Don’t compromise on what I want.

My current dating criteria are: he must be kind (respectful), smart (quick), and hung (empirically large).   My body needs a larger man, my mind wants someone nice.

On my back I lifted my knees and he gently guided himself in.  Our eyes locked.  Neither of us could feel the other.  I was so wet, so opened, so soft and throbbing that he’d have to have been twice as big as he was for us to feel it.

“There’s no friction,” he whispered.

He pumped a few times and it made it worse.  He stopped and lay beside me and invited me into his nook.  I limply cuddled in and dozed on the post-coital clouds that still floated about me.

“I’m too wet,” I murmured.  “I came too much before we tried that.”

“Yeah,” he said and kissed my temple.  “I didn’t think of that before.”

Frankly, neither had I.

The Neighbor’s sheer size prevented him from becoming completely invisible to me, though I could lose him in the cavity of my body after too many orgasms.  He felt me more than I him and The Little Marine was about three-quarters the size of The Neighbor.  Not small, bigger than average, but not huge like The Neighbor was.  No wonder we couldn’t feel anything.

Fuck me…

Hy on her tummyRule #5: Know your limits.

This isn’t a relationship that requires traditional nurturing.  It’s an agreement between two sentient animals who have needs and who have an understanding between each other.  My limits are time and emotions.  I won’t give a whole lot of either.

We lay there for a while and he jokingly said I wasn’t allowed to leave for another 45 minutes when he’d be ready to go again.  Just then my phone alarm went off signaling it was time for me to go.

“Wait,” he said and pulled himself up and rolled me onto my stomach.

He spread the cheeks of my bottom and began to press at the pucker.  “I fucking love your ass,” he hissed and I felt his hardon on my cheek.

I raised my hips and let him play with my asshole.  He suddenly seemed to have 8 arms then and rolled on a condom, kept my cheeks spread, his finger on the star and pushed the head of his cock at my pussy hole.  It felt like a soccer-field’s worth of area being stimulated and I moaned and writhed and smeared mascara all over his white fucking sheets and didn’t give. a. fuck.

He pushed into me and we both felt it: tight, throbbing, scorching hot.  He pumped and slapped and poked my asshole slipping his finger inside every few strokes of his cock.

“Grab my balls,” he barked.  “Now!”

Mindlessly I reached through my legs and grabbed his soft, dangly balls and tugged.  He moaned and thrust harder.  I reached out a finger and pressed against his tight little asshole and he moaned louder and cheered me on.

I gripped the headboard with my other hand and yelled.  He shushed me and I told him to go fuck himself.  He laughed and kept at me until I had to pull my hand back to hold onto the earth.

I came and went limp.

He flopped back down next to me and began to jerk off as I whispered how fucking big he was and how tight his ass.  How many times I’d cum and how I wanted him to cum all over me again.

He leaped up onto his knees, hissed where did I want it, and came all over my offered breasts.

What seemed like 10 beats later I was dressed and he was escorting me to my car.  It didn’t even occur to me to kiss him goodbye; I was in a fog of sex and I wanted to be home.

I thanked him and robotically drove home thinking about The Neighbor the entire way and how beneficially medicinal casual sex can be.  My heart felt better in a way I couldn’t describe: I was bringing myself pleasure and that in itself was pleasurable.  I was answering my own question of Why Hyacinth? with positives and not negatives.

The thing about casual sex, especially when all the boxes get ticked, is that it feels like self-care, like meditation after a long day.  It recenters me and reminds me of my humanness.  Participating in this thing that practically every other person on the planet also participates in connects me to the essence of what it is to be alive and safe and healthy.  Forgiving myself for my preferences and my urges is one step, maintaining a healthy distance is another.

Next step, unrelated to the rules of casually fucking, is making sure I protect enough emotional energy for the real healing I need to happen lest I get sucked down the drain of 1000 cocks again.  At some point, none of these rules will apply and I’ll need something real.  I’ll want to be loved again and hopefully love in return.

 

 

I am more than my needs.

Hy in pink panties

I wish I were different…

I lost my virginity at 19 to a boy I barely knew.  He was blond and golden, had soft lips and a beard that tickled my face.  I knew him about a month before we drank smuggled wine in my bedroom and I let him go down on me.  His mouth was warm and soft and his tongue was perfect.  It was the first time I’d ever allowed a boy to do that to me.

When he climbed on top of me and tried to shove himself in me he had no idea I was a virgin.  It hurt for all of 3 seconds and was over in 4 and I laid there wondering what the fuck had just happened.  This was nothing like what I’d read about in the romance novels I devoured.

That fateful night 20 years ago marked the beginning of my lifelong pursuit of sex.  I have never stopped looking for it, needing it or wanting it.  As a young, single woman I averaged sex about once every two months.  This was pre-internet and trolling bars and parties was the quickest way to Point B.  Then the internet entered my home and it altered my universe in a molecular way.

No longer was my quest for attention and sex limited to in-person interactions, but now it was virtual and could happen round the clock.  I web-cammed with men while they jerked off in their offices, I came on screen while 4 men watched, beating themselves to climax into hands and tissues and towels.  I had phone sex with men in NY City while he lay on silk sheets and with men who lived in Salt Lake City who shyly told me their fantasies.

And then I got a smart phone.  And then divorced.

The pull for constant contact and reaffirmation was all consuming and I was sucked into a cycle of men that for a year consumed my life.  Breakfast, lunch, and dinner I had men in my head, possibly my body, in my phone, my computer, my space.  They littered my emotional landscape like garbage.

The Neighbor cleared them away with his massive cock and persistent attendance, but I never resolved the crisis within me, that feeling that if I’m not hunting I am nothing.  That if I am sexless, I am losing something.

Couple that with the fact that I believe The Neighbor is out trolling for sex [with women better than me] and I am experiencing a kind of split rejection, an internal tension that has stretched me taut and spread me thin and in order to mitigate the existential pain of his rejection and subsequent satisfaction with someone else I have to find someone, the voice hisses.

The past two weeks since I’ve been home have been a maelstrom of men.   Tinder, OK Cupid, that eHarmony guy, my old lovers.  None have ended in any kind of consummation, but I’ve orgasmed a few times, squirted, have some beautiful bruises, and seen a cock or two (none of which have come even close to measuring up to what I want).

I’ve switched gears and put my efforts into Adult Friend Finder because at least there no one bitches me out for being a size queen and I figure I’m a decent human being on an adult website, so I’m sure there are male equivalents.  On Tinder I allude to gold wrappers and hope for the best.

So not only do I crave sex, but now I have the added misfortune of wanting it attached to a huge cock and a kind man who actually wants to be with me.

My struggle today, this moment, is to chill the fuck out, remind myself to remember all the kindnesses The Neighbor gave me, believe every word he ever told me, let him go, and to move on.  I won’t do anything I don’t want to do and will be patient.  My life doesn’t actually revolve around sex, despite what I might think or how it feels.

I have a child, a career, friends, my health, this blog, my writing.  What I have to offer a man is top shelf, a high commodity.  If I rush into the arms of every horny man who thinks I’m hot I’d never get a moment’s rest.  Apparently, men like me.  A lot.

What I have always done wrong when I’ve dated is I have approached it desperately, with a churning, oily need inside of me.  Almost a sickness, my need to be desired has pulsed throughout my life and it distracted me from so many things that mattered more.  I won’t do it again.

This time around I am clamoring for balance, for that belief that what I have to offer is worth some fucking effort.  I am catnip, yes, but substantial, too.  I’m a fucking person, goddamnit.

How on earth does a woman who loves sex, big cocks, kinky sex, and general debauchery obtain it when she’s sensitive, intuitive, and sweet?  When she’s horny as fuck all the goddamned time?  When she yearns for love and commitment?  I’m a walking contradiction and my own bear trap.

It may be small-minded of me, but I only wish that The Neighbor is at least half as miserable as I am.

Hy bruises

There was a fella who knew just what to do to my ass.

 

I know how to squirt.

[A re-post from a couple of years ago because I still get a lot of questions.  Also, everything I’ve written here still stands; I’m a squirting machine!  Apparently, lots of other ladies are, too.  Both Dawn and Caitlyn have written about their experiences with it .  xx Hy]

A lot of women want to know how to squirt. Here’s what I’ve learned to do.

Making G-spot Contact

The first time it ever happened to me was roughly 14 years ago. At this point in my sexual history I had just ended a year-long relationship where I orgasmed from only sex (both while on top and bottom) and also had only ever orgasmed from oral once. I was 25.

This particular squirting night was just your average tryst. Nothing special except that this cock was significantly bigger than the one that had made me orgasm for a year. However, despite being less than 5 inches long and fairly narrow, that smaller penis had taught me to sit low and heavy on a man’s groin, to really sink into it and how to ride him with abandon.

I’d been under the wrong impression for years that making love while on top should replicate the man’s motion like when he was on top, but with a cock that was smaller that didn’t work, hence my new moves: to grind down hard and tilt my pelvic cradle against my lover’s in order to stimulate my clitoris against his pubis, to sit tall and not lean over. I came every time with a big clitoral orgasm.

So, naturally, I applied my new method with the bigger lover. I began to feel a glow in my womb and my chest felt numb and buzzing and then I felt a release similar to the sensation of urinating, but slightly higher than my urethra.  Throughout my body it felt big and blossoming all the way to my fingertips.  It was distinctly different from the orgasms I was used to.

That first time it squirted in my lover’s eye. We both stopped for a second to laugh. I didn’t know what to say. He exclaimed, “You squirted!” I had no idea what that even meant, but I felt no shame about it. He seemed really pleased. And then we kept going.

Looking back on it, that was my first experience with a g-spot orgasm.

Size Can Matter

I never felt that again until the first time I had sex with Troy (story is here) and it was because his cock was big enough to massage my g-spot no matter what position we were in; I didn’t have to be on top. He was by far the biggest man I’d ever been with (around 8.5″). He was elated by my juices and I was utterly incapable of controlling them. They just happened to me. It became the center of our fucking.

Which is what set me off in the hunt of large cocks. Honestly, that’s the only reason. I happen to have a deep well and a larger member hits me just right every time. The smaller ones simply didn’t. Until I learned some new tricks…

Head Space – What I do

Today I don’t need a large cock to squirt anymore – yay! I’ve learned to squirt on command about 4 out of every 5 times that I try, and it’s dependent on a couple of things. First, I have to be significantly turned on, and second, the more I trust my lover the easier it becomes. My head has to be in the right place if I’m the one in charge of my squirting.

When alone, I imagine gripping the shaft of a cock with my pussy like a fist, and then simultaneously I push out around it while relaxing. All my focus, all my energy, all my breath is focused on my cunt. I contract a few times, then release and push out. Repeat. It’s all I can feel. If I squirt by myself, totally alone, with nothing and no one touching me I am a quintessential pussy. I have this, I think, I am this. If I squirt with my Hitachi, which is actually fairly rare, I am typically sitting on the edge of a bed or standing, so there is pressure on my vulva.

When with a lover, tantric lovemaking elicits much wetness from me and my lover doesn’t even have to be participating in the method. Contracting my vaginal muscles as he pulls out – as if I were sucking him back in – and then pushing against him as he pushes back in – like bearing down – stimulates my g-spot. Switching back and forth like this is only possible when the pace is slower. When the pace is frantic I simply grip with all my might.

Skills – What He Does

There are two things that my lovers have done that have caused me to squirt deliberately. One is with their cock, the other with their hands and fingers.

With any size cock, he pulls out all the way or almost all the way, and if I’m doing my tantric gripping, the sensation of leaving my body makes me squirt.

With his hands and fingers, he curls his fingers inside of me with his palm on my pubis and he slams his hand against me in a small, rapid circular motion. It’s a lot of work for him, it’s not gentle. It’s rough and intense and has always, without exception, yielded results for me.

The Neighbor said that technique worked on an ex-girlfriend, as well.

Letting Go – It’s Not Pee

I don’t know how clear a picture I’m drawing here. Of course this is one woman’s experience with squirting, but I have talked to my lovers at great length about this. Troy devoured books about the female anatomy and he understood that the ejaculate traveled a similar path as urine, but was certainly not urine. He also believed that an old lover of his would have probably squirted herself, but each time she felt the sensation she ran to the toilet.

And here’s where I have to agree. The sensation prior to ejaculating is reminiscent of peeing, but that’s it. When we need to pee there’s a pressure in our bladder, unmistakable; with squirting, the sensation is lower, more concentrated around the urethra and clitoris.

We have to trust our bodies not to get wires crossed. It’s really that simple. I know I’ve had my run-ins with poo, so you’d think I’d be the last person on the planet to say TRUST YOUR BODY, but I really believe it. I know my system won’t allow me to piss all over my lover in a fit of passion. And in part my trust in my own body allows me to let go and allow the stimulation to rise and then exit my body via a squirt.

Sometimes the fluid is odorless, sometimes it’s musky, sometimes it’s less pleasant and more urine-like. And it can all come from the same woman on different days of the week. Its scent is tied up with hormones and ph levels. Some experts believe that all ejaculate has some urine mixed in, others resolutely say that’s not true. I’m of the camp that sometimes it can be mixed in with a little urine. My ejaculate, like all the anecdotal and scientific research I found, has varied from odorless to faintly musky to strongly of urine. The Neighbor has never said anything and, in fact, once lifted a soaked towel to his face — which to me smelled faintly of urine — and told me it smelled delicious. His enthusiasm helped me to not care and to truly just let go.

Go For It

And here I have to ask a bigger question in general: Even if you did piss on your lover, so what?? You’re engaged in an intimate, messy activity that is inherently complicated and involved with the bowel, bladder, anus, and vagina just to name a few. Shit might happen (as you all know it certainly has with me). So I say, even if you do fear peeing, just fucking go for it. You won’t die and your lover will have a chance to show his mettle. And that’s the worst case scenario. Best case is that you’ll feel a g-spot ejaculation/orgasm!

I hope this has shed some light on the mysteriousness of squirting. I’d love to hear from other women who do it and hear your stories. Are they similar to mine? Different? What do you do to squirt? Do you have any control over it? And to all you women who have never done it, I say to you that you have nothing to lose in trying! Most of you will have the basic building blocks (Skene’s glands are necessary, some think), but at the very least you can have a ton of fun trying!

And here are some articles I liked regarding this whole thing:

Make Her Ejaculate

Female Ejaculation

Shejaculation: Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Gush

Originally published 2/18/12.