I thought of Girl on the Net while fucking.

It’s true.

She strutted into my thoughts all English and lovely and long-legged and stupidly smart late yesterday afternoon while a 6′ tall Australian man was doing his best to kill me with his giant cock.

I lay beneath him with my eyes tightly shut and thrashed about – as per normal – and thought about a tweet I’d seen of hers a few days before.

I’m not much of a Twitter user – it overwhelms me – but I caught one of her tweets last week about a post she’d written.  I hadn’t even read it when she came bursting into my thoughts, but the title and her comments in the tweet were more than enough: Eye contact challenge: can you keep your eyes open for an entire fuck?

Well, my answer is a resounding NO and it has always been NO.  I could probably count on one hand – 2/5 of my hand actually -the number of times I’ve gazed into a lover’s eyes longer than .75 seconds at a time from beneath passion fluttered lids.  It makes me want to die.

Like the kind of cringey, never show your face again, humiliating, you can’t look at that it’s too much information about me kind of dying.

So imagine my surprise when GotN’s challenge creeped into my grunts of More!, Deeper, Yes, I love that huge Aussie cock!

I looked up and he was staring at me grinning from ear to ear.  “I love your smile when I’m inside of you.  Just love it.”  His pale blue eyes were crinkled, his face red and brows furrowed.  He was devouring me.  I shut my eyes.  Was I supposed to look back at him like I was going to conquer him, too??  wouldn’t I look ridiculous?

We fucked like animals for a good 20 minutes, deep and punishingly.  He folded me up and turned me this way and that and I was relieved when he turned me around for a spell.  I could finally NOT look at him in peace.

But the final move was with me half hanging off the mattress with him on his knees.  I’d suggested he put on his bright blue sneakers for traction on the wooden floors and laughed at the preposterous image.  A Nike ad, but with sex.

I was going to really do it this time.  I was going to look longer than it took for him to complete a sentence.  “Do you want me to keep fucking you or do you want me to cum all inside of you?”

It was an easy choice.

“Fill me up,” I panted.

I watched him look down at me as his orgasm passed across his features like a wave.  He looked so lost in himself but still with me, comfortable with it all.  I thought, I kinda did that. 

I still failed miserably at GotN’s challenge, but I am now wondering why the fuck I have this aversion to allow someone to look into my eyes.  I know he’s already staring at me – the joy of being male with his sex organ placed on the front of his body, I suppose – so why can’t I look back?

I avoided looking at TN, too, so it’s not just FWBs.  I couldn’t bear to look in my exhusband’s eyes, either, though I may have tried a time or two.  I don’t deny wanting to keep people away from me even while they’re buried balls deep between my legs.  My body, my rules. It’s just odd that even after all these years I continue to employ these little tricks to not connect with people.

So, ok, challenge accepted, GotN.  I’ll look into his fucking eyes next time whoever it is.  I hope you’re happy.

 


This life has a price.

For the last 3 weeks there have been no men in my life, but “no men” for me means something drastically different from what it does for the average woman.  It means I don’t see anyone in person, a distancing from my online pots, and my Instagram and Snapchat accounts – the ever-present, looming, wet-tipped hardon of my life – also take a backseat.

Men are everywhere for me, inescapable, a pleasant white noise at best and nails on a chalkboard at worst.  I’m under no misconceptions that my lifestyle and my choices exact a toll on me.  Nothing in life is free and that includes love, sex, and even the magic found in each.

A few weeks ago I fell beneath several grunting, thrusting bodies.  I collected spooge in my ass and pussy, kissed hot, fat tongues and puckered assholes.  I drank sparkling alcoholic things, highlighted my cheekbones, and tenderly cared for the lips between my thighs with the diligence of a working girl.

I was ravenous, high from one hot tryst to the next hotter tryst.

The Aussie’s gorgeous giant slab of meat split me in two as his furry chest tickled my heaving breasts.  His pale skin and eyes and dark dusting of hair across his muscled body reminded me of The Neighbor.  We spent the afternoon holding hands and making out on a busy tourist-trap street and fucked like animals under the curtain of night.  He tasted of booze and the Ben and Jerry’s he insisted we buy him; his cock tasted like an A+ feels.

He’s a temporary resident, a long-term visitor, busy at the local university doing nerdy things.  I love that a science-y foreigner managed to bury 9″ of fleshy steel in my ass.  Our second date included a quickie in his dingy co-op bedroom.  A bottle of wine split between us and with little formalities.  I was there for a reason.

He set down one of his two wine glasses, climbed on the bed and straddled my hips with his feet.  I unwrapped him like a present and let him disappear into my face.  We tore off our own clothing and I backed up to him like a mare in heat.  He slid in long and hot and came deep and rolling while holding my waist from behind. I wished I’d won the argument to pull his curtains back to view any foot traffic outside.  I do love to give a good show.

We spent another 10 hours together doing uniquely university things, drinking beer and befriending strangers.  I awoke on his bed to him reminding me I had to get home to take care of the dog.  That dog is my savior.

The Universe decided to send me another well-endowed foreigner a week later.  The Doctor was in town for a convention of brilliance and as a European he and his wife had a different kind of sensibility about monogamy.  His hall pass was also a direct pass to my ass.  Twice.

After dinner we tore the bed apart in his upgraded hotel room.  A night of teasing and talking made us sizzle and the origin of his accent eluded and enticed me.  He delighted in mystifying me, but once I’d wrapped my lips around his cock he’d whispered its Baltic origins with a chuckle.

We lay entwined on the couch after our first round and drank the bubbly we’d gotten.  Deep thoughts, deep words with a stranger passing through [me].  He asked if he could fuck me in my ass bareback.  I said Yes and he bent me over, spit in his hand and slowly pushed in.

I froze from the intensity, clung to the couch like a drowning woman as orgasm seized my body.  He moved gingerly, then with longer strokes as he felt my ejaculate splatter on his bare toes.  I came again as he filled me up in my dirty place.  A first for me.

We showered and kissed, his skin slick and as ever such a novelty to me.  I never get to taste these intimate moments with my lovers.  The tender moment of wiping away bubbles or caressing the smooth curve of a wet buttock, the little hanging pouch between his legs.  A place where a man is as vulnerable feeling as a woman: bathing and relaxed.

On the bed atop a blanket of towels he took my ass while I lay on my back.  I thrashed and moaned, cried from the unbearable ecstasy of the impaling of my body.  He cried out, dumped more jizz up my ass, and crumpled on me panting.

I set my alarm and fell asleep in his arms and he walked me to the door at dawn.  I grabbed some coffee and a croissant from the continental breakfast downstairs on my way out and smirked at the two young men staring at me from behind the front desk.  Thanks, Hilton.  I’ll be around.

The next week was a man from Seattle and he wanted a date for Friday night rather than having to hang out with his colleagues.  We met at a hotel with comfortable couches and ate truffle fries and drank wine.  The music pulsed and the floor began to fill.  I took him by the hand and led him to the hall with the single-use restrooms, pulled him into one and locked the door.

I unbuckled him, turned around and lifted my skirt.  He pressed his little dick in me and pulled my hair as I came on my shoes.  He followed suit inside of me.  I splattered water on the water my body had dumped to dilute any scent.  We scurried out, still holding hands, and canoodled on the couch.  We agreed shortly after that it was time to say goodbye.  Goodbye, Seattle.

Those were encounters which energized me.  They were on my terms, the men were fun and open and listened to every word I said.  I was done when we were done; there was none of the mismatched energy after an encounter.  No, “Why the fuck hasn’t he texted???”  The last week before I took a break, though, I had too much.  Not sex, but too many men in my space and on my energy.

I made dinner for my friend who cat-sat for me while I was in London, had a date with an Asian American man with the whitest name ever who made jokes about it and helped me with two bottles of sparkling rosé.  I met with a long-time pen pal about being my sub, and topped it off with the man from Seattle.

Four dates in 5 days, constant fire and bubbles in my belly.  Seduction becomes as second nature as saying Hello for it all starts at Hello.  And all the texts, the emails grooming the men for meeting me and falling in love with me for 12 hours or less to get what I want.  It costs me something, this dazzling nature of mine.

And before that there were all the men from what can only be called a March Madness.  Michele, and Jean Luc, JJ, Garrett.

It’s at once a fun game and an exercise.  I’ve needed the rest and reflection for in it I have recovered from my gorging.  I must have needed the reminder that I could go hard if I wanted.  It’s impossible to maintain.  I want something intense and sexy, I want there to be an actual future with someone.  I guess I should stop saying Yes to all the sexy visitors.

Nah, who are we kidding??  I’ll always say Yes to a passerby.  They’re the very best kind of man who leaves because I already know they will.  That’s a price I can live with.