I want someone to snuggle up in blankets with me, and bring me a heating pad for my lower abdomen. I want someone to hold me down and speak sweet words to me in a soothing voice while they force orgasms from my body. I want someone to read me a story out loud and stroke my hair. I want someone to smile at me while we put the blood-streaked sheets in the washing machine. I want someone who doesn’t mind if the tea gets cold, and who gets tangled up with me while we fall asleep.
It’s funny, I was never the kind of girl who got celebrity crushes, but I find now that I’m grown I get maddeningly infatuated with people online. Whether those depictions and profiles are representative of the Real Life individuals behind them is nigh impossible to know. But it doesn’t matter. They are realer and closer than any celebrity ever was, or will be.
Sometimes I let myself believe their personas fantasize about mine. I let myself imagine our fingers and teeth finding skin.
You see, I can be a very good girl. I want to earn my reward.
I am a cocksucker. I love the feeling of a dick in my mouth. I love wrapping my lips around a soft penis, drawing it into my mouth, and sucking and licking it as it stiffens inside me. I love nuzzling my face up against a pubic mound or scrotum with my mouth full of cock. I love gently licking and kissing the head with my hand wrapped around the shaft. I love steadying a dick by one hand forming an impromptu cockring, while the other hand cradles balls and tugs gently at skin. I love sucking cock. Love it.
A couple years ago I discovered, to my great delight, that I also love having my cock sucked. One guy I dated gifted me a cock early in our relationship, on the condition that I consider fucking him with it. Somehow that cock never made it into his ass with me wielding it, but I am pleased to say it definitely made it into his mouth. And damn it felt good.
Lying back on the bed, stroking myself as he got down on his knees in front of me. Our eye contact as he lowered his mouth and began to lick and suck my dick. My hand in his hair, guiding him, as my other hand steadied and stroked the base of my cock…
The sensation was fantastic, and the turn on was physical in addition to visual. That dick became my dick, an extension of my body, and I very much enjoyed putting it in that boy’s pretty mouth.
Since that time I have had a number of other cocks in my mouth. Happily I’ve also had other cocks to put in other mouths too.
I love a cocksucker almost as much as I love being one myself. Almost, but not quite.
There’s something about bearded men. I don’t know precisely what it is, and we could spend our time analyzing and searching for daddy issues, but instead, let’s just say this: facial hair gets me hot.
Now, as with most things, I’m picky. Unattractive facial hair is still unappealing, and can even put me off someone I might otherwise be into. But if a man has a nice beard, or mustache, or chops, or 5 o’clock shadow, or several days growth I get butterflies. Even someone who’s currently perfectly clean shaven is generally more attractive to me if I’ve seen evidence that they can grow a beard.
When I’m alone with a bearded man—hell, even when we’re not alone—I want to stroke his face, gently. I want to kiss him as we run our hands over each other, fingers toying with hair. I want to push his head down my body, and watch him bury his face between my thighs. I want to feel his hair rubbing up against me. I want to see it glistening when we lock eyes as he comes up for a breath.
If I’m walking down the street, or riding the bus, or waiting in line at the coffee shop, and I see a cute guy with a beard, I almost immediately imagine him under me. I find myself wondering what his chest looks like. What it would feel like under my ass as I teased him, bringing my slick pussy close but not close enough. I think about his arms pinned under my calves as I sit on his face. I picture watching him, buried up to the nose in my cunt, my little bush framing him like another beard. I imagine our bodies, slick with sweat, and his tongue on me and in me, and the way I’ll grunt and groan and whimper, my hands gripping what they can find as my drips turn into an unmistakable gush.
Beards soaked with cum are even more attractive than regular beards. Waking up after dozing off in post-coital satisfaction and nuzzling in to a beard still scented from the night before can turn me on like a faucet. After you’ve showered and washed each other clean and said your goodbyes, when you find your mind drifting at work mid-afternoon, it’s always nice to get a sweet, simple text.
On the bus ride home from work I could feel a tightness growing in my chest. I glanced around, wondering if anyone else could see the words on the screen. Knowing as I did that they couldn’t, and they weren’t interested in looking, and the heat rising to my cheeks was probably not nearly as visible as it felt. But still. But still.
When I got home I found it hard to keep my pants on. And my hands out of them.
I want to be one of these stories. I want to be all of these stories.
I’ve been a very good, obedient girl, and so you’ve bought me a present. A new toy. One of those double balls meant to help with Kegels. You watch me take it out of the box, and tell me to put it in my pussy.
I’m not really wet yet, so I put the balls in my mouth to lubricate them, and then spit into my hand and rub that on my pussy to help slide them in. You tell my to put on a pair of panties, and then my jeans. You pick out a t-shirt for me, but don’t let me wear a bra. You tell me we’re going to the mall.
You declare that I need to buy new jeans, and you take me to every clothing store in the mall, and force me to try on everything they have in my size. All the time I’m getting wetter and wetter from the balls in my pussy, and there’s a bigger and bigger slick spot seeping through my panties, getting every pair of jeans I try on damp.
After we’ve been in the mall for at least two hours you finally decide on a pair you like. They are super tight, and the seam creeps in between my ass cheeks, and is starting to give me a bit of a camel toe in front. You tell the clerk I’d like to wear them home, and as I’m walking back to the change room you hand me your jacket along with the bag with the jeans inside, and tell me when I come back I should have taken off everything I’m wearing, and only put on the things you’ve given me.
I come back out wearing the super tight new jeans, and your jacket, with my old jeans, my t-shirt, and my soaking wet panties in the shopping bag. You can smell them really strongly, and if you look closely you can already begin to see the jeans getting darker where they are digging into my slippery cunt.
You take me back home, and immediately tie me spread eagle to the bed, and work my new, and newly soaked, jeans partway down my thighs. You reach in and pull out the balls that I’ve been wearing for you, make me lick them clean, and then you stuff my soiled panties into my mouth.
And there you leave me: tied up on the bed, gagged, and half dressed.
When do these things shift I wonder? The pursuit of youth, the fear of death.
We meet at your office and start to walk to the diner to have our first date. I look over at you mid-conversation and the summer evening light catches those first grey hairs sprinkled in your honey brown. When you’re under me in bed, after all the gin and tonics are gone, I see the lines, faint, starting to creep in near your eyes. None of us are children anymore. Fuck me again, beautiful man.
I find myself less contained now. I’ve worked to wrap myself up, make myself tidy and presentable, but it’s all coming unwound.
I can feel it in the empty yearning of my mouth, fingers straying to slip inside. I can feel it in the squish and slip in the crotch of my jeans. I feel it in public, where it’s becoming harder to stay still. Harder not to twitch and lean and pulse and undulate on the bus ride home from work. In the way my thoughts drift from even the most innocent things.
It’s been two years since you let me touch you. Two years is too long.
I’m tired of this kind of pretending. The kind where we take complex feelings and squash them down into one dimension.
I think I’m ready to not hold on to things so tightly, and to let things grow and move and fade as they do. But it’s the monotony of pretending that gets to me.
I like things complex, multifaceted. I taught myself to embrance the uncertainty and confusion of potential contradictions. I have had great relationship with people, some of the closest people in my life, that have been almost undefinable. And they have been wonderful.
Then they fall in love with someone, which doesn’t make my feelings for and about them go away. It makes them stronger. And though it likely changes their feeling towards and about me in some ways, I don’t believe they disappear. Suddenly, however, we have to fade certain aspects of our relationship out. We have to pretend that things are very straightforward and simple. but they’re not. At least not for me.
I keep having complex feelings, but now only some of them are allowed out. Only some of them can be acknowledged and expressed. Suddenly my closest friends and I are lying to each other via omission. We know we’re doing it. We can tell when we look in each other’s eyes, or by our tone, or by the little things that are said or unsaid. And that’s a sad feeling.
No person is one-dimensional, yet it is something special and rare to find those certain blends of complexity that keep you on your toes, keep you coming back, keep you engaged and excited.
I like humans more than anything else, in their glorious complexity. When you try to straighten things out, to simplify them, I lose interest.
Maybe I don’t write because I have nothing to say. Or maybe I don’t write because I have too much inside me, and I don’t know how to get it out. I don’t know how to tell you about the parts of me that I worry aren’t sexy, or lurid, or what you expect.
So often I go to write and stop short, unsure of my words and my intent. There’s sex in me, that’s certain. Sex I’m having and sex I’m thinking and sex I’m wanting. But somehow that isn’t enough.
I want to tell you about my fears, and my fantasies. My flings. My flirtations.
I want to tell you about my hopes and my bitter disappointments. I want to tell you about the things I’ve turned down, and the things I’ve been too afraid to ask for.
I want to type things out to you with one hand, sometimes because the other’s slick with come, sometimes because I’m lying in the dark crying and two hands is too hard.
I guess I’m worried that you won’t know what to make of it. That you won’t understand.
Maybe I just don’t know what to make of it. I don’t really understand myself.
I want you to climb inside me. Here, in this lonely aching place. It’s not a sad place really. No. It’s a wanting place. A place where I am. Where my flesh is. Where everything about me being here reinforces that you are not.
Sometimes I lull myself into forgetting that I want you. That I need you in my ears and in my hands and in my eyes and in my cunt and in my heart. That I long for you. Sometimes I trick myself with distractions, and through silence, and with other men. But then I see you again, and I feel peeled open, blooming, bursting with wanting you. With needing you.
The embers of my desire lie hidden, buried, but they burn on, and the slightest hint of air, the smallest crack, sends them licking forth again. Building slowly. Consuming me. Not a raging fire, but a slow, hot, smoldering one. Warming me. Making me too warm.
When your eyes are on me I become suddenly shy. Suddenly quiet. Suddenly self-conscious yet calculating.
Those feelings that I thought had died down grow stronger. They build until my thighs are slick against each other as we talk.
Every time I allow myself to want you I want you more than I ever have before.
sometimes it's nice to have really straightforward friends
me:If/when you are in town let me know if there's a time we could meet up. I have that book to return. :)
him:Hey ----, I'm in town: come by! I would love your company: we could have sex and you could spend the night if you wish. I broke up with ---- recently and it would be nice to connect with someone who isn't a client.
My nails are very long at the moment. Long and strong and shapely. They make a satisfying racket when I tap them against the counter or the keyboard or the door frame or the pole on the bus. What I really want is not to trill them or clickity-clack them. What I really want is to drag them and graze them and dig them. I want to raise welts, and to tease, and to make someone cry out, whether in pleasure or in pain. Perhaps both. Little white crescents in the skin. Red lines running down from ribs to hip. Grabbing on hard or trailing ever-so-lightly, raising hairs as I go. I want someone to share these nails with. I want to find some flesh to sink my claws into.
We have a deal him and I. I tell him my dirty secrets and he tells me his. When I’m having a dry spell I’ll tell him old stories, or dreams. Sometimes I’ll get myself off while imagining telling him about it, which of course I later will, in detail.
When I’m having lots of adventures there’s sometimes scarcely time to tell him about everything. We’ll chat in between his meetings at work, or relay info through texts, or sometimes I’ll send him long and complicated emails, with pictures attached, that he’ll read on his phone during his lunch break.
In some ways he might know more about me than anyone else. He knows my ecstasy and my dark places. He’s seen them and he’s felt them and I’ve described them over again. On the odd occasion that sex has been boring I’ve daydreamed, with him on my mind. When it’s good I’ll sometimes suddenly imagine relaying it to him and it can push me over the top. I’m always looking to create more situations to tell him about.
But I suppose in a way all my stories are about him, because they are for him in the end.
We snuck down into the basement, drunk and giggling. When she turned around and smiled at me I couldn’t wait any longer. I grabbed her hand and drew her close. Our eyes met and we kissed, gently, hesitantly. Soon though all hesitation was gone, and our clothes were rapidly disappearing; our bras and my dress and her shirt and those ridiculous gold pants. We ended up on the floor all skin and hands and tangled hair. Kissed my way down to her breasts as she watched me. Ran my hands down her thighs and gently eased them apart.
When I get to his building I press his buzzer and he lets me in without saying a word. He never asks who it is, and I never say anything. He knows.
I enter the building and walk down the hallway. Sometimes I hear him unlocking the door as I get there. He hardly ever opens it himself. I usually wait a moment or two and then knock. He’ll say it’s unlocked and tell me to come in. I do. My stuff inevitably ends up in a pile just inside his apartment door. Bag, then jacket, shoes, socks, shirt, pants, bra, panties.
I don’t think I’ve made it past that foyer dressed more than five times.
I’d been trying hard not to squirt all over my bed, but it had been hard with his hands and his head between my legs, and his eyes on me. I’d come a couple times I think, or at least been close, though none had been the messy kind. The dog had started scratching at my bedroom door, wanting to be let in, and we ignored her, although we caught each other’s eyes and smiled about it.
——, I kinda want to… What? I want to put on a skirt and go and make out in your truck. I sat up and promised not to put too much on. I found my knit shirt with the deep vee on the floor where I’d dropped it earlier, the one he had been working off of me since we got into the house. I went over to my pile of laundry and dug through it a bit, until I found the skirt I was looking for. A tight black denim pencil skirt making the most of my big ass, with a slit up the back just shy of my crotch.
We left my room, and my dog was happy to see us. I tried to let her out in the backyard for a pee but she was too excited by all the coming and going. I went out with her and stood there watching him down the hallway as he put on his shoes and coat, the only items he’d removed. I stood on the deck and he came down the hallway and watched me. It was a bit cold outside in just a shirt and skirt, with nothing underneath either of them, but I lifted up my shirt to show him my tits. Nipples hardening, and not just from the cool air on that winter night.
After the dog and I came back inside I threw on my coat and we walked out to where he’d parked his truck just down the street from my house. He opened the door for me, and I took off my coat as he walked around and got in himself. I don’t remember the small talk word-for-word, but I know I told him how wet I was. He ran his hand up my thigh and I spread my knees and inched up the denim of my skirt.
His fingers found me again and slipped inside immediately. Do you like it better when I rub your clit or when I stroke you inside? Do I have to choose one? I mean I— they’re both good, I— Well I guess I could do this. And he was rubbing my clit with his thumb as his other fingers (two, three of them?) plunged in and out. I squirmed on the seat and kissed him and pulled my skirt higher, careful to keep a bit of fabric between myself and the bench. Sliding my hips forward so I wouldn’t drip on the seat. We kissed and he fucked me there and I came once or twice or a few times, moaning and whimpering and fogging up the windows. Keeping an eye out for headlights turning onto the street towards us.
We joked about how his truck was going to smell like pussy. (His mouth still did, and I savoured it when I kissed him.) He had the truck to himself for a couple days, so it would be okay he said. We kissed some more and I ran my hand up his leg.
He reached down and I watched him start to undo his belt. I kissed him and heard him unzip his jeans and ease aside the fabric of his boxers. I looked back down and he had his cock out, and it looked amazing. Thick but not too thick, a bit above average length, skin smooth and oh I just wanted to touch it. And so I did, wrapping my fingers around the warm shaft as I kissed him. Stroking him in the fogged-up cab of his little red pick-up.
Do you want to taste it? I nodded. He knew how much I liked sucking cock. I glanced up through the windshield to the street and the houses and then I looked back down at his erect dick, so inviting.
I leaned over his lap and swept my hair to the side, out of my face. I wrapped my fingers around his cock and licked the head before pulling it into my mouth. His cock felt lovely between my lips, my tongue running over the underside and my fingers squeezing him ever so slightly. I lost track of time a bit, and just focused on his dick in my mouth. He ran his hand up my back and into my hair. You like when I pull your hair a bit when you suck my cock? Mhmm. So you know you’re doing a good job? Yeah. Fuck, I was getting ever-wetter. He tugged on my hair as I sucked him off, directing my head from time to time. You are really good at this you know. I knew.
It’s really hard for me to tell you I have to go when you are doing this you know. He had to be home by nine. I gave him a last lick and sat back a bit. Go home, ——. I’m telling you so you don’t have to tell me. Can I have one last lick? Fine, but just one. I bent over him again and drew him into my mouth slowly, lingering as I pulled away again. There that’s all you get. Hey, I’m not being greedy, I’m being smart. We both looked at his cock a little longingly as he tucked it back into his jeans as best he could. It was going to be a distracted drive home.
We kissed a final goodbye, and he offered to drive me home. What, back up the street? Sure. But we’re facing the wrong way. That’s ok, I’ll just reverse. Fine, but I’m not putting on my seat belt. He put the truck in reverse and backed into my driveway. I kissed him again. He was hard to say goodbye to, but I did. I picked up my coat and closed the passenger door behind me. He watched me walk to the front door before driving away, and then I went back into the empty house, my pussy still dripping wet.
We’d been sending messages back and forth since the late afternoon. He’d gotten me hot and bothered and he knew it. He was teasing me about it a bit, asking whether he should let me get to my school work. He knew I was distracted but he wanted me to tell him. To ask him to see me and do something about it. He only had a couple hours before he was expected home, and I couldn’t have him over, but he said he’d drive and pick me up from my parent’s place and we could hang out for a bit. I warned him that if I saw him tonight it wouldn’t be very platonic, I was sure of that.
He called me when he was outside, and as I was headed for the door I yelled at my brother to remember to let the dog out. But no answer. Oh well, I was slick and he was outside, the engine of his little red pickup grumbling in the night. But as I started down the stairs I saw my brother pulling out of the driveway and heading down the street… So he was heading out, and likely wouldn’t be in ‘til late, if he came back home tonight at all. And my mom had called earlier to make sure someone was home for the dog because she had a reception to go to straight from work. The house was mine.
I strolled up to the door on the driver’s side and he rolled down the window. I leaned in and told him he could come over for a visit after all. He parked the pickup down the street and I stood at the end of my driveway waiting. He came up to hug me there on the street and we started kissing almost immediately. I had a partially dissolved Halls still in my mouth. It was late winter, almost spring.
I led him to the front door, and when it closed behind us his hands and mouth were on me. We made out the way teenagers do, and his hands teased the bottom edge of my shirt, urging it up, palms and fingers grazing my soft belly. My parents had been in a slow but constant state of renovation and redecoration for a couple years, and so there were no window coverings anywhere on the first floor. Taken off while painting, months or years ago, and never replaced. Still my shirt went higher, and his other hand pulled me closer, pressing against my lower back.
My room is a terrible mess. I’m sure it’s fine. No, really, it’s atrocious. I don’t care. I mean, maybe I would care if I were planning to stay for a while but… Yes. Time. Time and the wetness between my thighs. I warned him some more as I led him upstairs. I opened the door and apologized again. It’s not so bad. Yeah it is, don’t lie. Fine, it is. And he was kissing me again. I cleared the mess I’d dumped out of my purse off of my bed and into my school bag.
We kissed some more and then, unable to wait any longer, I reached down and undid the top of my jeans. His hand eased past mine, and down under the Old Navy mesh of blue and green, teasing gently while I kissed him and shimmied my jeans off, stepping on each leg to pull out my foot. He pulled my shirt up over my bra before I finished getting my pants off, and then I pulled it over my head and off while he reached around to unclasp my bra. I shrugged off my clothes, dropping them around me, and climbed onto the bed, panty-clad.
All his clothes were still on, except for the jacket and shoes that he’d left in the entryway. I was inching back along my comforter, a brown and orange monstrosity covered with Eastern European Disney rip-offs. His hand came back, pushing my panties aside this time and slipping his fingers right inside me. I was so fucking wet. You like it like this right? As he slid two fingers in and out of me, real slow. Yeah, I… I pressed my shoulders back into the cold wall behind me. He watched my face while I made little whimpering noises, afraid to be too loud. And he watched his fingers disappearing into me over and over.
I reached down and grabbed at my panties. Take them off. And I did, lifting up my ass, then kneeling, and sitting again as I tossed them over the edge of the bed. I leaned back length-ways along the bed and he climbed up between my legs, looking at me intently through his glasses as he pushed fingers back into my slippery cunt. This time he sunk them deep and pulled them almost all the way out before shoving them back in forcefully, picking up speed till his hand was making slapping noises against my wet pussy. I grabbed at his hair, moaning, trying not to come everywhere. He leaned down over me, our bodies close to touching, and kissed me while he fucked me with his fingers, like his dick might have done.
He pushed my knees up and out, spreading me, and sunk his head between my legs. Sucking and licking me as I squirmed. I held his head to me by the hair and watched as he kissed and teased me, looking up at me from time to time. Sometimes I clasped my thighs to his head, and sometimes I stayed on edge, always listening for the sound of a garage door rumbling open.
I figured out what the internet was for from the get go. Trying to hide the high-pitched whirring of the modem calling in to the message boards. Typing out things I had never done and wouldn’t do for a long time yet. Playing into fantasies.
I would try to figure them out. I would use rich detail. I would pick up hints from their responses, and craft a story, or at least a compelling snapshot. I wrote things in the way I would want to read them. But I rarely if ever got that back.
Cybersex was for me then, and has continued to be with few exceptions, a disappointingly one-sided affair. I mean sure, many people will give little responses, or tell you if things are good, but they don’t play. It’s not a give and take the way physical sex more often is.
Honestly I don’t always trust other people to take the reins of our story. Because worse than having to do it all myself is having it poorly done. Crudely. Nary an adjective in sight. Bringing nothing of erotic value to me.
So I realized that if I would continually be disappointed by interactive sex online, I shouldn’t try for it. Broadcast smut works better that way.
All day it’s been growing inside me. A small uneasy place. An empty thing. A craving. Needing sex, or fucking, or touching, or someone to hold me. I’m not sure.
I’m finding this feeling hard to pin down, hard to name, hard to define, hard to explain and address. I know it’s about sex though. About me missing it and wanting it. About bodies and sounds and scents and eyes. A nagging feeling, uncomfortable.
Perhaps I should just take it upon myself to remedy it. Eroticize my flesh, call someone up, go out looking, take action of some sort. But I haven’t. Not in any of the usual ways. Instead I have let it swell and tug and fester.
Days like this I just keep it all in, in some uneasy stasis. Staying with that discomfort, resting in that uncertain place that I am teaching myself to love. No fingers, no toys, no pissing, no touching, no clenching, no rubbing, no stroking, no tracing. I will wait hours even to urinate, observing my bodily sensations, my physical reactions and cognitive processes.
There is no end goal. There is no lover I am waiting for. There is no release. Only anticipation.
We were on the bed making a mess out of the pile of coats. I told him my friends were expecting me and I had to go. He said I should just come home with him instead. With you, or with both of you? Do you have executive powers here or should you check with her first? He admitted that we should check with her, but he said she liked dominant girls and that if I really wanted to come home with them I should just ask her, straight up. So when she got back from her car ride, and came into the back bedroom, and sat on my lap, I leaned forward to her ear and said it. So… I’d really like to come home with the two of you. And I did.
When I’m sad, and I’m ready not to be sad any more, I take my laptop and lock myself in the bathroom. Then I take pictures of myself feeling sad. Watching myself. Conscious of my movements as I pose each shot. And gradually the photos become a little less sad, or at least a little more something else.
I always look into my own eyes in the monitor, as I unbutton my sweater, taking a picture every button or two, sliding it off and over my shoulders. Looking back and making eye-contact with myself over my shoulder.
When it’s all off I turn the music up. And I dance, watching myself. Dancing for myself. After a few songs, sometimes more, sometimes less, I stop looking lost and start catching my own eye in the mirror. I writhe and bump and reach and arch with that longing look in my eyes. That knowing face. Then a few songs later some bit of music brings a smile to my lips, and I smile back at myself. Dancing happy now. Dancing joy.
Then under the water I go, washing the salt off my face. Soapy hands all over my skin. Music still guiding me. Smiling up from the inside.
When I turn the water off and rub the towel over my body I’m back inside my skin. I wrap the towel around my hair, and gather my clothes, hugging them to me with one arm, and picking up my computer with the other hand. And I emerge from my bathroom cocoon, alive again.
Sometimes sex is confusing, but often I realize sex is simple, and it’s everything surrounding that confuses me.
The sex with this boy was always great, incredible even, from the first day we met. But everything else, well, confusing. When we could keep it to sex our relationship, as limited as it was, was good. When other things crept in they tainted it, polluted it, sapped the pure joy.
We ended in a funny, abrupt way. Intense but detached. I contacted him recently, after a long period of mutual radio silence, to pick some things up that were left behind in the abandonment. I don’t dislike him, but the sex was always the best thing we had, and I think we both knew that. I think we’ve ended things, laid them quietly to rest, and tonight will be a meeting of old acquaintances. Catching up and finding closure.
But. But… I haven’t fucked like that since him. I’m struggling inside to decide on whether this is a can of worms I should reopen. Should I be all business, friendly but not really flirty or sexual? Or should I try to fuck this man, that I don’t want to have a “relationship” with beyond the great sex?
I suppose that’s me making it complicated. And imagining power over things that are not mine only to decide (though sometimes I feel I could decide them.) Instead I will make it simple. We have dinner, beyond that I will not permit myself to worry or to wonder.
I glanced back at the shower-head as I stepped out on to the mat. I caught my reflection in the foggy mirror and knew the flush across my breasts and chest hadn’t come from the hot water alone. Hot water but also my body crouched and squatting, knees splayed. My forehead pressing and leaning into tile. My back quivering and hips squirming ever so slightly, shower-head in one hand. Head forward and down; now looking over to the side and picturing you. Your eyes on me and my watched body twitching, eyes wide and pleading—for what I don’t know. Stifling my sounds in the sleeping house. Looking over at tile, imagining you, eyes on me still. Teeth on lips and noises in my throat. Water pulsing and me wanting. Writhing under your gaze. Big eyes and parted lips. Pressing everything together and then rising again to find myself in the mirror.
He was a chameleon. No. No, that’s not what he was. Because he didn’t change to suit the situation. He was himself, and always himself. He was like a mountain or the sea or the stars that way. But he was not those things. Of course he wasn’t, and he never would be. He was a human man, but the kind who is also many things. Like every human man I suppose.
We were like each other that way, him and I, though our multifaceted natures were unremarkable when you examine them. He had his public face. His clean-as-a-whistle face. His who-me-officer presentation, realer and more convincing than that of many pure and law abiding men. And he had his notorious ladies-man reputation. A reputation that if anything actually downplayed his philandering and his sway and his numerous and outrageous previous escapades.
He was the kind of boy, the kind of man, whom your father loved instantly, and who asked your parents permission to take you out, and called your mother ma’am. He was the kind of man who committed crimes almost daily, and a felony at least every month. He was the kind of man that is not really a kind of man. He was himself and only himself and always himself.
I wanted to be better than I was with him. To behave. To be a good girl. To live up to him. I wanted to be so much worse than I’d ever been, too. To shake off my anxiety and let it all go, really go, and just live and do and be.
I wanted him. I wanted to be like him. I still do.
He told me he was leaving and asked if I wanted to walk him to the door. Damn right I want to walk you to the door. He was tall and kind and mischievous looking. His hands were strong and rough and I wondered what he did that kept them that way.
We went up the stairs to the entrance, made some small talk with people in the hallway, stopped and chatted with the door-girl. They were talking and all my mind was on the door in my peripheral vision. That’s where I’m walking him. Finally he excused himself from the conversation and we strolled to the door, and through it.
It was cold on the street, and there was a small knot of people standing by the edge of the road. He pulled me to the side of the door, and I rose up on my tip toes, his strong hands helping guide my lower back. Arms round his neck, he bent down to meet me.
His face was close now. And I had the kiss I’d been waiting for all night. We kissed there in the cold for a little while, the balls of my feet pressing urgently into the ground, willing my lips higher. Then we smiled and let our hands slip from one another. He went out into the darkness, and I went back in through the door.
strangers and noise and kissing and dimly lit rooms
I didn’t really think he was hot. Wouldn’t have chosen him to chase that night, or maybe any night. Plus I was sure that the two of them were getting up to something, or working up to something, since he’d been sitting with her for a good hour or so while she watched the door.
Then she decided it was late enough to stop charging cover. She’d been itching to go down and dance all night, and her working hours were over. So she left, not with him but with the guy who’d been hitting on her and I all night. Her and I and I’m assuming every other potentially available female he came across. The self-styled-playboy dragged her down to the dance floor and I was upstairs with the one who’d been keeping her company.
There were still a few others in the hallway-cum-lobby, including one guy going on to my companion about how he still got ID’d even though he was 39. The man was high, or a little crazy, or maybe both. We tried to distract him, shake his conversational fixation on us, all the while the boy’s leg was warm, pressed up against my arm and side as I sat on the stool and he on the ledge against the wall. Eventually we got our 39 year old friend to make his exit. The other folks had filtered downstairs again or out onto the street.
He said I should come sit up on the ledge with him. A counter-top of wood over what looked like a cabinet, but was really just a cutout for the stairs going down beneath. My dress was very short, and I jokingly protested, but he smiled and persisted. I hoisted myself up with very little effort after all. And there we were, alone in a little corner, no eyes on us but our own.
I don’t remember just when or why but I leaned in a little closer and kissed him. And it was good. We kept going, a little hesitantly at first, and then with more purpose. When we heard people about to open the door or come around the corner we’d break it off, pull away from each other just a bit, perhaps smile sheepishly at the strangers, and answer their questions about the bands or their attempts to place us somewhere in their memory or engage in small talk.
Sometimes we heard them but didn’t stop. Just let them walk by as we pulled our bodies closer together, hands in hair and at necks and gripping arms and sliding up under the hem of my dress. At one point I realized I didn’t know his name and mentioned this to him, introducing myself. He said it was nice to meet me and kissed me again.
Eventually he suggested that we find somewhere less exposed. Perhaps less well-lit/visible through the curtain from the street/in the middle of the entrance-way/part of the hallway to the only exit… but we stayed there for a bit. Our kissing getting a little rougher but softer at the same time. More intimate. More seeing each others faces. More of his hands on my breasts and sneaking down under my tights.
When the line up for the lone bathroom cleared up we made our move. Almost as soon as I closed the door he had me up against it. The kind of kissing where your body hits the wall hard and presses back into the wall and up against the other person and your hands are grabbing them and stroking them and scratching them too. We heard voices in the hallway and thought perhaps a line had formed again, so we made our exit.
Back to the counter in the entrance hall. Kissing and touching and climbing on top of each other and heavy breathing. Downstairs into an abandoned room ringed with Christmas lights. Up against one wall, then another, his hand down my tights and underwear. Making noises that other people couldn’t hear with the sound system going. Out into the main room to dance as he watched me. Drinking. Losing him and then spotting him in the crowd. Following him upstairs and into the bathroom again. Back to the counter. Back downstairs to another room, this one all the way dark. Our feet stumbling on lumber as we writhed up against the concrete walls.
Then the music went off. And the voices were talking about clearing out. And I was cumming against his hand. And we decided to make our graceful exit before we were locked in. I walked out first and went to get my jacket, and that was the last I saw of him. He was gone.
My life has been exceedingly busy as of late. Among other things, I’m making my burlesque debut tomorrow. I’m kinda nervous.
Last night I was on a video call online with a long-distance friend, and showed him elements of a couple of my costumes. Most of the thongs I own are fairly translucent or mesh or lacy at the front, and I figured if I’m going with pasties I might as well go for slightly more bush camouflage. So I found something at a department store with lovely ivory flat lace sides, and a solid black body. Very soft. I thought I’d try it on, and show him, check the fit and the appearance.
But the thing is that I’d forgotten, somehow, how much I enjoy him watching me. His facial expressions, his eyes following my body, carrying on a conversation with me as if I weren’t taking my clothes off for him to see. I became totally aware of my movements. Watching both his image and the smaller inset image of myself. Performing for both of us. Pretending I wasn’t. Feigning nonchalance while I moved on to show him other pieces of lingerie.
Which resulted in a sizable, glistening, wet spot on my brand new underwear. Which I had to wash and dry today.
I just have to refrain from showing them to him again before I use them for modesty tomorrow.
why were we made so weak so frail humanity inscribed on bone and flesh we bruise when roughly handled though sometimes we can withstand the smacks and jolts that come with love that come along with living
it’s not smooth going and, as we both know, sometimes I like it rough but not like this to be reminded of mortality of body mind and soul
my flesh can take a lot though sometimes I bruise easily
my heart my heart is like my body it is sometimes tough but tender and it bruises when it’s hit too hard or dropped or crushed under a mighty weight
sometimes I curse this casing my corporeal form made of this flesh whose vessels break and leave dark colours blooming just underneath the surface of my blemished skin and scars all white and pink where wounds once bled reminders of sensations past
the heart is not so visible although it too can bruise and bleed and scar it has sensations the hot flushes, beating fast oh the emotional rush the high the ecstasy sometimes alongside pain that’s pleasure too
I feel for that I’m grateful though sometimes it hurts for that I’m grateful too this time the pain’s unwanted the bruising of my heart unsettling and empty raw not remnants of sensation craved but still I’d rather feel it
bodies flawed and ready-ripe vulnerable to close contact bumping up against my heart bruised but not spoilt imperfect feeling rough embodied flesh
I think maybe I’m lonely. It’s a suspicion I have.
When I am on the bus and someone cute sits down beside me, often a boy with dark-framed glasses, my mind takes off. I start fantasizing about them, about me with them. I want to look at them, to catch their eye, but I’m scared to look too long, not sure of what I’ll really do if they catch me looking.
And I study them. The way they move, their clothes, the things they do with their hands and feet while they sit, whether or not they lean into corners, what they’re reading, their haircut, and where their eyes go. Do they have a boyfriend? or a girlfriend? What would they do if I leaned into them a little more than necessary? Maybe I will touch them somehow and watch their reaction.
I think of more things than this. Perhaps less innocent things. About pushing back their hair and kissing them. Of their body under those clothes, and our bodies getting out of these clothes, and our skin and our smells and our noises.
But maybe I’m just horny. Because these days I start a mini fantasy about every attractive person I see. Passing each other in a crosswalk. Sitting the next row over in class. Walking a block ahead of me, looking just like a modern Red Riding Hood. Waiting in the other cashier line. Waiting for orders outside the falafel place.
On the bus it’s a little different. They don’t flit past so quickly. And their body is so real and so solid and so close to mine. I find myself not just thinking but doing. Prolonging incidental contact. Hoping that they’ll look my way so I can catch their eye and smile. Trying to negotiate nonverbal bus-appropriate flirtation with oblivious strangers.
Yet my fantasies don’t centre on fucking, or on sex of any kind. No, I want to nestle into them. Feel our bodies close and warm. Rest my head on their shoulder and smile with contentment.
Which is what makes me wonder. Yeah, I think perhaps I am.
I’d only met her once, briefly, several months ago. Her fist is much smaller than his, and he has gotten close several times. The two of them topped me, and did some mean things before her fingers ever went inside of me. When her fist went in I honestly wasn’t even sure what had happened, I might not have clued in if it hadn’t been for them talking to one another.
I don’t know how long it lasted, but it seemed like a very long time, and I made more noise than I ever have before. I’ve never screamed like that. I was crying, tears running down my face, struggling to keep somewhat still without the advantage of being tied up. She checked with me a few times to see if I wanted or needed things to stop, worried perhaps that I’d be unable to toss a safe word into the ring. But each time I assured her that it was fine, and then went back to breathing.
Breathing was my job. Hers was the fist in my cunt. His was the vibrator on my clit and then also the fingers in my ass, and maybe other things too… I can’t really be sure.