“Let’s get this dress off you and you on your knees.”
~
When I come to New York, my goal is to see shows, and for the first time ever I had a ticket to go see Shakespeare in the Park. This year’s production is Twelfth Night, and with a stacked cast including Lupita Nyong’o, Sandra Oh, Peter Dinklage, and Jesse Tyler Ferguson, I knew I was in for a wonderful evening.
But I can also be greedy, or optimistic depending on your perspective. Therefore I found myself on Tinder, shortly before getting ready for the show, swiping left and right, hoping for the best.
Enter HC.
HC is a walking green flag.
In his profile, he mentioned being ethically non monogamous and open to brief dalliances with visitors to the city. He was handsome, with kind eyes, curly salt and pepper hair, and a small septum piercing. Basically my catnip.
After matching, our text exchanges included my plans for the evening. HC too loved theatre, was encouraging of my plans, and offered himself as a nightcap for my evening. He had plans to be in the area near my hotel with an already set engagement with a friend with benefits. We estimated a time for our meeting, and I went about my evening with even more to look forward to.
The show was indeed hilarious; I highly recommend seeing it, if you can get a ticket.
And so it was that, around 11pm, I found myself at a small high top table in the hotel restaurant, nervous excited for what the rest of the evening bode.
“Striped dress, poofy pony tail, small table by a column,” I texted.
“White shirt, jeans, grey chucks,” he replied.
I’d asked for his drink order prior to his arrival as the bar was about to have last call; a glass of Prosecco sat on the table waiting.
“Hey.”
“Hi. Are you a hugger?”
“Of course.”
I knew within sixty seconds I wanted to fuck this man. The same kind eyes from his profile stared at me as we spoke, but this time a wink and a grin accompanied them.
I talked about the show; he talked about his evening. As the conversation meandered on, the more I realized we were well matched. The banter flowed; we talked about our respective jobs, where we were born and grew up, a tangent about D&D and Dropout TV, and eventually we came around to the topic of kink.
“I actually have my toy bag with me. I just came from a play date. No pressure, though. This is a good time to ask: what do you want tonight?”
I wanted this man to fuck me silly.
We made our way to the elevator. As we waited, a group of late teen or probably early twenty something’s also stood by, the girls adorned in head scarves. I found myself nudged up against him and his hand found its way to my ass. We stepped onto the elevator and stood against the left wall as the younger ones joked and crowded towards the right. Again his hand surreptitiously settled onto my rear end and our interaction all the more lewd and fun for it. As the group exited onto their floor, he whispered into my ear, “Hand on the neck?”
As the elevator door closed, my answer: “Yes. Press, but don’t squeeze.”
“Like this?”
His hand found my neck and his mouth found my lips. The juxtaposition of his soft lips and scratchy facial hair was intoxicating; the tone for our time together was set.
As we stepped off the elevator, I looked back at him and remarked, “Oh, you’re gonna be fun.”
After we entered my room, I asked if there was any music he hated. “Some country music. But I know where you’re from. I trust your musical taste.”
He took a moment to freshen up in the bathroom. After I started my Graduation Party playlist, I hurriedly unbuckled my sandals and tossed them aside just as he reemerged from the restroom.
“Okay, let’s get this dress off you and you on your knees.”
He knelt down and grabbed the hem of my dress, lifting it up over my head and deposited the fabric onto the bed. I descended to my knees, my focus now on his crotch. I unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his jeans, and helped ease the stiff fabric down. He took off his shirt as my hands rested on the elastic of his boxer briefs. In that quick moment, I remember thinking, hoping, praying he wasn’t small but knowing even if he was this could still be quite enjoyable.
He was not small.
I pulled off his briefs, took his dick into my mouth, my hands resting behind his thighs. My tongue swirled his tip, then my lips sunk down his shaft. I traced the veins, lapped and then sucked his balls into my mouth.
“Good girl.”
He sat on the bed, myself still on the floor, and laid back to fully enjoy himself.
“I appreciate how you are not using your hands.”
Instead, as I continued to enjoy his length with my lips, I reached back to unhook my bra. He, being happy to assist, reached down and flung off the fabric, access now granted to my nipples. He rubbed and then lightly pinched as I continued with his blow job.
“That’s it. You, up on the bed. I want to taste you.”
I stood, slipped off my own underwear, and climbed up towards the headboard.
He turned and in passing remarked, “Kushiel’s Dart?”
“Yeah, I’m rereading it for the second time.”
“Great fantasy book.”
Like I said, we were well matched.
I reclined against my pillows and let my knees fall away.
“Wow, you are already so wet.”
His finger briefly circled my clit before dipping into my wetness and then bringing it to his lips.
“Mmm…”
He bent over, his mouth finding my nipples, and nipped and sucked to the beginnings of my moans. His mouth trailed down towards my pussy. He licked and sucked my clit, starting slow and deliberate. My hands found his hair, lightly gripping his curls; my moans grew louder. I rolled my hips up, undulating in admiration of his work. I had not had such wantonly lavish cunnilingus in far too long. My first orgasm ran through me, my exhalations rather loud, and I realized I hadn’t mentioned that before to him.
He reached over, slipped on a condom, and then slid inside me. His dick was so thick, his thrusts exquisitely rough, and soon, two more orgasms shot through me.
He paused, still inside me, a smile on his face.
I took that moment to say, “Hey, I forgot to mention I’m very vocal.”
“That’s alright.”
“Good, okay. Just, you know, I like to warn people. Informed consent.”
“No, I appreciate feedback. But question for you: are you a person where there is the long build up to an orgasm or do you cum easily and just keep cuming.”
“The second one.”
“That’s what I thought. What’s your record?”
“Um, 13 I think.”
“And what are you at now?”
“Three.”
“Hmm, well we have a record to break.”
He was ambitious. Apparently, this was his specialty, fucking folks until they lost count as to how many times they came. I love rising to challenges.
“I’m going to count down from five.” His finger gently circled my clit, his dick still deep inside me, his thrusts measured, deliberate. “At one, I want you to cum.” That was orgasm number five, and the first time I’d participated in orgasm control in years.
“On your knees.”
He fucked me doggy style, wave after wave of orgasms rolling through me. I cried out as tears kissed my eyes, my hands fisting the sheets, and my hips bounced back to meet his unrelenting thrusts.
“Sir, you feel so good.”
I doubt he understood my exhalations through my moans. No matter. His dick was fucking magic, eliciting orgasms like exhales.
“I want your mouth back on me.”
He ripped off the condom and I gladly descended back down to his crotch.
“You can use as much spit as you want. I’m not washing the sheets.”
I took his dick and smacked it across my face, both cheeks, then rubbed my whole face against it. Somewhere along the way, he’d put on a cock ring on the base of his shaft and another around his balls as well. I used them, flicking my tongue near and around them, then sucking both his balls into my mouth. I ran my lips up and down his shaft, then plunged his cock into my mouth, easing as much of it into my throat as I could.
“Fuck, I love having my cock worshipped.”
“You’re letting me play. I haven’t gotten to play with a cock in a long while.”
I sucked on the tip, swirled my tongue, then eased down, down. He grabbed my hair and pressed just a little more. I gagged but held myself there, massaging his head with my throat before coming up for air and then returning, bobbing my head up and down, up and down, his hand in my hair encouraging me further.
“Oh, you messed up your makeup for me.”
I smiled; it felt so good to be appreciated for my efforts.
“On your back.”
I turned around on all fours. He smacked my ass.
“I said on your back. Dick drunk.”
“Yeah, I am.”
Again, his lips were on my nipples, mean and insistent in the best way possible. He bit, and I moaned, my hands in his hair pulling his face into my chest as I lifted my nipple towards his wanting mouth.
“Oh god, oh god. Yes. Yes. Fuck, a little lighter on the bite please.” He too took direction well.
New condom on, he asked “What number are we at?”
“Ten.”
He spat onto pussy, thumped his dick on my clit, and sunk into me again.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he said.
“I want all of you,” I begged.
He thrust as far as he could go, the mixture of pleasure and pain intoxicating.
“You can slap me.”
Three quick strikes on my left cheek, two on my right, and even more forceful thrusts followed.
Again on my knees, he fucked from behind, this time also spanking my ass.
“You can play with my asshole, but no anal until after the third fuck.”
“I’d never assume anal on the first fuck or a one night stand.”
He rubbed my ass, slid his finger along the crack, and circled my hole. One day, though, I hope to experience his dick in my ass.
Eventually he had to tap out. I was his third fuck that day. It was late, well after midnight, and he still had to get home.
Final count: 17 orgasms.
“What is your aftercare,” he asked.
“Just chatting after.”
We lounged naked in the bed, him reclined towards the headboard, me towards the foot of the bed, facing each other, our bodies skin-to-skin against each other. We talked yet more, venturing into stories about past fucks: orgies, play parties, gang bangs, birthday gifts, and his estimation versus my precise data about all the people we’d fucked.
“I could tell you are a squirter. I could feel every time you came.”
“Really? Fascinating.”
“I mean, it does fill the space well.”
We laughed.
It was after 1am when he put his clothes back on and departed with his consent to write about our time together and an open invitation to message him the next time I was back in the city.
I have masturbated every day for the last four days because I have been so horny hoping to see you. Daddy, when can you come and fuck me in my ass?
This text message was a plea that was finally fulfilled the Thursday before my vacation began. He did come over, and he did fuck me in my ass, as well as my other holes. In fact, I don’t know if I have ever been turned out so well.
But I’m not allowed to say anymore about that…
~
Friday night I found myself back at Black and Kinky, a play party I had not frequented in almost a year.
Things fell apart between me and the Boys around the holidays, and they were the reason I even went to my first B&K. But the Boys do not hold dibs on an open event. And my friends wanted to go.
Also, it is always a fun time. So few spaces are exclusively for us, and when given the opportunity to start my vacation with such fun, who am I to pass up on joy in my life.
I met up with my friend Key for dinner, and then we met Des and his partner before entering the festivities. I let them all know the drama I was accepting, but Key worded it most succinctly.
“She’s fucked half the men up in here.”
Not quite, just two. The third graciously bowed out, and I respected that.
When I saw the Boys, I said hi and gave hugs.
“Welcome back into the scene.”
“I didn’t leave the scene; I just wasn’t a part of your bubble.”
With their skewed perspective corrected, my friends and I went about our evening as my past faded into the background. Instead, a planted seed was set to flourish.
I met SP at a high tea event about nine months previously. We exchanged Instagrams and began to randomly DM one another, flirting and exchanging photos, but nothing had come of it. Nothing until this particular Friday night.
SP is very popular. He fire tops and there was a line of people wanting to talk to him.
Recognizing the moment, I said “I’m not a groupie,” to Key. I refused to sit and wait to talk to SP. Instead, I said hi, and then went about the rest of my night.
Des had asked if I was interested in playing, and he had just bought a pretty little knife I wanted to feel against my skin. We negotiated hair pulling and a bit of pressure pain. It was a fun intense delightful little scene to enrich my evening.
After we finished, I sat to watch Des and his partner play. As they connected, Key asked about SP.
“Are you going to go back to his table?”
It was getting later in the evening, but the party had some time to go.
“I’ll go later.”
I pulled out my bootblack kit and began working on my boots. They had not had a good cleaning and conditioning session since last year. Ren Faire dirt still clung to their catwalks.
“Okay, but just so that you know, he came over as you and Des were starting your scene.”
Oh.
I looked over. SP’s line had dissipated. He rested on his massage table, fatigue visible from across the room. I put down my boots and walked over.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Tired. You?”
“I’m good. Had a good scene. Yeah, you had a whole line.”
“Every time.”
I felt awkward, trying to feel him out, but in the moment I was brave because I had nothing to lose.
“So, what are your plans for the evening?” Did he hear the hope in my voice?
“What did you want to get into?”
“I want to fuck you.”
“Here or somewhere else?”
“Do they have rooms here?” I had never had sex at B&K before.
“Yeah, there are rooms. I don’t know if they are available though.”
“We can ask.”
“Sure. Also my partner, she likes to watch.”
“That’s fine.”
There were precious few scenarios where I would turn down fucking this man. I had wanted him almost the instant I laid eyes on him. He was confident and gorgeous, basically my catnip.
But there were no rooms available, so to my place we went.
SP and his partner graciously stopped for gas on their way to my place, giving me five minutes to use the restroom and throw a few things away to make my place look marginally neater.
I found a stool and set it in the bedroom for his partner just as he texted that they were in my lobby.
My nerves grew as I walked them to my apartment.
His partner needed to use the restroom, so SP and I had five minutes alone, the tension palpable between us. I fell into my nerd space, pointing out my refrigerator magnets, a plethora of musicals featured, when he kissed me. It was soft, but insistent. I wanted more, so much more.
In the bedroom, we were slow to start, both of us trying to feel out the other. We each took off our own clothes. He kissed my neck and sucked on my nipples. I rubbed his head and moaned. We got up on the bed. He started jerking himself.
“You can help him,” said his partner.
“I was waiting for permission,” I said sheepishly.
My lips slipped down his cock.
He was thick, the kind of thick I wish for in a dick, the kind I say a silent pray to see when a new cock comes into my life. As soon as his cock was in my mouth, I knew it would feel extraordinary inside me.
And it did.
He slipped on a condom and slide into me. I felt so full, almost to bursting. A long FUUUCCCKKK slipped from lips; I was gone.
“Oh, you like that?”
“Yes! Fuck yes!”
He hit every wall, slamming into me in slow beautifully tortuous strokes. I gripped my sheets and moaned, squeezing my muscles against his mass and savored every thrust. At first he had me on all fours and I was shy, sheepish to show my face to his partner. But I could not hide my mouth.
“Oh god!” “Fuck yes!” “Shit!” “You feel so good!”
He turned me onto my back and sunk into me. Looking down on me, he gripped my hips and thrust harder. And harder. And harder. His pace quickened. My orgasms ripped through my body. I couldn’t hold back any longer. I bucked up, locked my ankles behind him, and met his power with my desire. Unable to hold back, he leaned down and let go, his hips pumping into me with the ferocity I pray for. As he grunted and groaned his orgasm, I rode my last climax.
“That was fun to watch.”
“I’m glad we put on a good show,” I joked.
I was wonderfully sore as I thanked them for coming, and they left.
~
It was very late, after 3am I believe, but I was on vacation, so after SP and his partner departed, I did something stupid: I drove an hour to go see BF.
BF gave me a code to his house to allow for easy entry, but I didn’t remember it at 4:30 in the morning. He came down, let me in, and we immediately went to bed.
BF is currently broke, and therefore has no decent curtains to block the Sun, so I woke up grumpily at 7am because of the brightness. After grumbling, I rolled over and snoozed a bit more, burying my face in the sheets and pillows.
Around 10am, when the heat from his un-airconditioned bedroom could not be ignored, I was again awake.
BF and I have our pattern. As per usual, soothing physical touch led to fucking. This time he pulled out a vibrating dildo he had not used on me before. It was enough to make me squirt for the first time in years. I also had nipple clamps I bought from the market at B&K, but they were more pretty than practical. Still, I will not regret buying something related to strawberries, my favorite food. Plus, like I said, pretty.
Besides our amorous affections, we had other plans for the day. BF had tickets for us to go see Some Like It Hot at a local theatre. We swung by a nearby coffee shop first, got our food to go, and then went to see the show.
Beyond our shared history, BF and I have many interests in common, including musicals. He is often my Broadway buddy. Local theatre is no different. The show was delightful, and we had a blast together.
Afterwards, we went back to his place, but there would be no round two. He had plans with a friend that evening, and I really needed to sleep. We departed with the promise of future hangouts to come. And I went home to nap on my couch.
~
Four.
BD had only every slept with four people in his life, and that included me.
I invited BD over Saturday night into Sunday morning, as his schedule is what it is.
As we attempted to have sex, we were not quite connecting though. My nipples were sensitive from play with the new nipple clamps. And, for some reason, we just were not on the same wavelength. So I suggested we sleep and try for early morning sex.
But then BD started snoring. I politely asked him to sleep on the couch, which he graciously obliged, knowing his snores were similar to a sleeping next to a lawnmower.
He woke me up and we tried again, but again something was off. He was lingering for so long in one area. He wasn’t changing things up. He wasn’t reading my body language and I desperately wanted to scream BEIGE; I was so bored.
I tried giving him head, which did perk him up somewhat. I scampered to grab a cloth for cleanup in anticipation of his grand ending. But in the twenty seconds it took me to get back, the progress I made was gone.
In a last ditch effort, I asked if I could ride my vibrator while hunching against him and his participation through sucking my nipples. He agreed, and so I was able to rub one out. But then he lingered so long on one nipple. And was so soft with his mouth. Frustration, thy name is BD. “Please switch nipples” I found myself needing to ask. I eventually came from mere brute force instead of pleasure derived from his part.
So when I was done, I asked the question on my mind.
And I got the answer that shocked me.
BD and I had fuck two times previously, and it was good. Not great but good. So I don’t quite know why I hadn’t picked up on this before. But this instance was a disaster.
So much so, I honestly don’t know if I will try again with him.
~
When I picture my father, he is wearing a black vest, black pants, white dress shirt, bolo tie, and his slick black hair, with shocks of white at the temples, pulled back into a ponytail.
When my father died, I didn’t ask for any objects or mementos. Truth is, I didn’t know what to ask for. My younger brother had lived with him and chose a particular ring he liked. But my interactions with our father were never intimate.
So, with the Cowboy Carter tour looming, I asked my brother, “Do you have any of Dad’s bolo ties?” He did, as well as belt buckles, the leather vest, a leather jacket and a pair of leather pants. Thus I found myself at my brother’s home on his lunch break picking up items from a suitcase that looked as old as me.
The vest was repaired with duct tap. One of buckles needs a piece glued back on. And neither the jacket nor the pants are my size. But when I lean my face in and inhale, I smell my father.
So now I own things that were his, and that makes me happy.
I do, however, set intentions and use them to help guide my year. I keep them vague on purpose as a way to encourage myself without limiting what the year could bring or setting unrealistic exceptions that only lead to disappointment come December.
This year’s intention is ‘Yeah, Glo”.
I want to say yes to more things. I want to give myself permission to do the fun thing, the hard thing, or just the thing. How this has thus far manifested is in my reading for pleasure. I’ve been trying to read a little almost every day for fun. Nothing medical related, just what I have a hankering to peruse. Yes to time on the couch curled up with a story to experience. We’ll see what else I say yes to for the rest of the year.
I also want to glow, as in glow up and glow from within. I want to move more, eat a little less, and just experience the warm and fuzzy feeling of happiness throughout the year. More smiles. More laughing loudly without restraint. And putting more light into the world, too. (I am currently working on scarves for all the interns.)
Our world is so dark lately. Tragedy and hypocrisy and downright evil every fucking day. So, for the betterment of myself and those in my orbit, yes to fun and love and care projecting more warmth and glow out into the world.
So, money is tight. I had to pay a couple bills towards the house in the past week or so that were unexpected, leading me to deplete my savings and main checking account. As such, when a check magically dropped into my lap (thank you random unclaimed property payout), I was eager to get the money into my account. But for some reason, the online banking feature for my bank was not working this morning.
No worries. I live within walking distance of a small branch and happen to have the day randomly free.
Thus this lovely afternoon, I took a little stroll down the street to make a deposit. As soon as I walked into the bank, the vibes were off.
As I entered, an elderly white woman came in as well. She got in line immediately while I went to the table to fill out my deposit slip.
As I’m writing down my information and looking up my checking account number, I hear her sucking her teeth. She starts pacing around. Vibes, very off.
There is one other person in front of her at the teller window, an elderly Black lady with one of those walkers that also functions as a seat. The teller, a youngish South Asian appearing woman, is on the phone presumably with another customer. The white lady is having none of it.
“We’re waiting,” she says, presumably to the teller who’s trying to help the caller.
The Black lady ahead of her says as much to the woman behind her.
“I have my car outside. Why can’t we park outside? As much as I pay in taxes, I should call the County and complain.”
Hmm, why don’t you go do that now and leave the rest of us alone?
But of course, I didn’t say that.
The teller finished up with the caller and then began helping the Black lady.
“Merry Christmas,” chimed the Black lady to the teller, and they began their business.
The white lady still wasn’t satisfied. She huffed. She walked about with no particular destination in mind. She looked over towards the desk of who I assumed was the manager.
By now, I had finished filling out my deposit slip and stood in line behind this awful woman. I made sure to pull out my phone and kept my gaze down. I looked at funny and uplifting memes. I chuckled to myself. Once or twice, I could feel her looking at me, actively seeking out a compatriot in her outrage. I was not the one.
The Black lady finished up with the teller, again exclaiming holiday cheer, and the white woman rushed up to the teller’s window before the Black lady even had a moment to walk away.
As the Black woman was about to exit, I catch her eye and we exchange a look.
Then, of all things, the Black woman proceeded to amble towards me and spoke in a not so hushed tone about the rude White woman at the teller window.
Mind you, I just came to deposit a check so I don’t overdraft this week. I had no intention of getting in the middle of old folks business. But such is life, I guess.
The Black woman cannot believe this white woman’s behavior. Frankly, I understood her sentiment. The Black woman took her moment, said her peace to me, and ending with “And if she keeps acting up, you take care of her.”
What she expected me to do, I do not know.
Just as our brief conversation ended, another teller magically appeared, a pleasant younger appearing Asian man. I step up and slide him my deposit slip and endorsed check, intentionally ignoring the messy bitch to my left. The white lady finished up and walked away; she was followed by a Black older gentleman to her teller. With her exit, things simmered down in the bank and I strolled on home.
Why that woman was on ten in the middle of the afternoon I will never know. Why she decided having to wait at the bank was a grievous offense, I cannot even begin to guess.
Part of me is worried we’re about to get four more years of this stupid petty entitled bullshit. And I live in a Blue state.
But, thinking back on it, she was an older white woman in the middle of the afternoon making a quick stop to the bank. Holidays or not, a bitch is gonna be a bitch. Lord help us all.
I still remember being a sophomore in college, sitting on the couch at a house party, just a few days I think after my line had crossed. As I sat in the middle of all those folks, with whom I felt equal parts accepted and awkward, I tried to play it cool even though I didn’t know what to do or had anyone to talk to.
Then, randomly, this fine boy maybe a year older than me sat next to me, sidled up to me, and grabbed my belly fat hanging over my jeans. I instinctively swatted his hand away and gave him a look.
“No, you don’t understand,” he said. “I like it.”
He gripped my flesh again.
And I swatted his hand away again, stood up, and went to some other part of the party.
And that was it.
I don’t know if I have ever seen him again since. I couldn’t even begin to guess what he looks like now, what his life is like now, where he is or who he is with. I don’t even remember his name.
But I sometimes I think about that boy, now a gross ass man.
I wonder, did he ever find the thick girl of his dreams? Did she accept his affections, his adulation of her curves, the fullness of her body?
Are they still together? Married? Children? Happy?
Or did scorn after scorn turn him into just another mean, ain’t sit man?
I hope not.
In another life, in a another timeline, with more confidence and love of my curves…
What if I had accepted his advances? Let him touch my fullness, grasp and rub on my belly. Let him love on me. All of me. Every roll and stretch mark, every imperfection he found beautiful.
In another life, if I could have loved myself as much as this man wanted to, could I have been his and he mine? Who would I be if I fucked that man that night? Cause yes, he was fine. So fucking fine. And I indeed wanted to fuck that man, badly. But I didn’t know how to say that. Didn’t know how to flirt, make or accept an advance. Didn’t realize I was pretty, I was beautiful. Didn’t know I was wanted, yearned after. I didn’t know how to let him in, didn’t know how to release my fear and anxiety, and fall into the beauty of his brown eyes, or sink into to the circle of his muscled arms.
In another life, I would’ve given it up to that man. In another life, I would’ve lost my virginity that night and probably be wrecked for all men after. Because how can you truly love anyone else when the first person you fuck wants every part of you fully, joyously? His fingertips imprinting love into every inch of my body.
In another wondrous life, he is mine, and I am his, and we are stupid giddy happy.
Can you go slow? Take your time. Stay in this moment. And then the next. And the next.
Can you embrace this moment? Embrace me? See me. All of me. The beauty, the scars, the imperfections. Do you like what you see? Love it?
Tell me. Tell me what you see, How you see me.
What it is that you want to touch, kiss, lick, suck, nibble, bite. I want to, need to hear it from you.
I crave your touch, gentle and slow. Undress me. Admire me. Adore this body you are to enjoy.
I will giggle. I want to see you smile as I giggle. Let there me joy in this.
May I undress you? Admire every line and curve of you. Let this be playful.
Kiss me. Lightly brush your lips against mine As if asking permission for more. I will give it, happily. Let the kiss grow, deepen, expand. Let the hunger swell.
Allow your lips to find other parts of my body, Tracing a trail of desire along my skin Lay me down.
And now, the real question:
Can you fuck me softly? Slide in Inch by beautiful inch Until I am full of you And you are deep within me.
Can you go slow? Torturously so. Can you make me beg, plead? Make me say please. Make me whimper from want. Because I want you.
I always want you. Your teeth in my flesh. Your sweat on my skin. Deep and dark desires fulfilled, Yes.
But I also want the feel of you against me. I want play and smiles and giggles. I don’t want to choke. I don’t want the pain anymore, Now only the pleasure.
My panties were soaking wet before I made to the car, as I rushed home, and when I finally pealed off my clothes from the long lovely day.
I didn’t intend to meet anyone new, though friendly gatherings such as the one I attended allow for such moments. But with his bald head yet salt and pepper facial hair, and his quiet intoxicating demeanor, well he was my catnip. Throw in his interest in writing and I was hooked.
I arrived at the high tea party early, picked a comfy couch to make my respite, and lazed waiting for others to filter in. The shade of the trees and the afternoon breeze lulled me into relaxation as I awaited who else was to attend.
Soon, people began mingling, familiar faces from past events.
I chose a black tea for the afternoon, added a little honey, and started to people watch. It is one of my favorite activities, people watching. You can learn so much just from observation.
As I saw him arrive, a beautiful woman at his side, I was immediately drawn in by his reserved nature. His eye contact was fleeting, but meaningful.
‘What is going on in that mind?’ I mused.
He and his companion installed themselves on another nearby couch. I continued my amusement while overhearing their various conversations. The afternoon progressed.
Later, after a quick exchange between them, his companion stepped away, joined a seeming friend on a carpet, and began playing a harp as the friend accompanied on violin.
With a seat now vacant beside him, I moved and sat down next to him. I found myself playing with my flowing skirt, fidgeting a little from nerves. I wondered if he noticed. He broke the ice.
“I’m a journalist and sometime biographer. Do you write?”
Why yes, I do.
I spoke a little about my hobby, but then somehow the conversation took an amazing right turn.
I forget how exactly the topic of his side hustle came up, but everything I learned about this man was intriguing, so no wonder every part of him drew me in.
“I work as a pro Dom every now and again.”
“Really?” I found myself absentmindedly touching my lips and leaning towards him. “If you don’t mind my asking, what is your rate?”
“$200 an hour, cash only.”
“Smart.”
“Efficient.”
“You strike me as someone who is both.”
“Well, if we are now handing out compliments, then I must say you are beautiful and intriguing.”
“Are we flirting? Or are you trying to lure in a client?”
“Yes.”
He said it as a whisper, leaning in close to my ear.
From somewhere – I didn’t see him retrieve it – he pressed a plain business card into my palm. Heat blossomed from my shoulder where I could feel his breath against my skin and from my hand where the pressure of his touch lingered.
I rubbed my thumb along the thick card stock. I glanced it over. On one side there was a phone number edged in white on a black background. On the other side, again with a black background, but this time edged in red, was a paddle with the letters “SIR” written down the middle.
“Is this an invitation?”
“An opening.”
He looked up and met the eyes of his companion.
“You have to go.”
“Indeed.”
His gaze moved back to me, tracing my form now as he stood. “Lovely to have met you…?”
It was then we both realized neither of us knew the other’s name.
“Call me Kitty.”
“Is that your name?”
I glanced down at the card and then again looked into his eyes. “Call me Kitty, and I’ll call you Sir.”
“So, you will call me then. Looking forward to it.”
With that, he walked away. And my pussy hasn’t stopped throbbing since.
Naked on my bed, covers twisted and tangled, I think back on those moments, that conversation.
The scent of the various teas we all tried lingering about us, yes. But also the aroma of his sweat mixed with his cologne I caught as he leaned in.
I imagine the caress of his beard against my skin as his lips meet mine. The feel of his teeth sinking into my flesh, bruising my neck, as I whimper and plead for me.
And I wonder, does he allow himself to kiss his clients?
Do I want to be a client?
Or do I want more?
If I beg, will he suck on my nipples until I moan? Will he rake his nails down my back? Will he lick me from stem to stern?
What are his rules? And does he ever break them?
My orgasm is long, drawn out, crashing through my body. I bite my wrist to keep from screaming so loud as to disturb the neighbors. I imagine him watching me, marveling at my body, whispering his orders, his admonishments, and his praise into my ear. Another orgasm rolls soon after at just the thought of him asking if his Kitty has a pretty pussy.
Somewhat satisfied, I pick up the card from my nightstand, twirl it in my hand, and wonder: Do I call? Do I give in to temptation?
I bring the card up to my nose. Yes, I recognize it. His cologne. Smart. Efficient. Effective. I’m wet all over again.
“Tomorrow,” I tell myself. Call him tomorrow.
Tonight is for the fantasy.
And with that, I rest his card on my face and slide my hands back between my legs.
It’s been a long time since I’ve watched a movie and was motivated to exorcise my feelings about said movie in a blogpost, but here we are.
AMC Stubs has this deal called Screen Unseen. For any level of membership, including me at the free version, you are offered a cheap ticket to a movie but you will not know the movie going in.
This situation made me a little nervous. What if it ended up being a scary movie and I watched the entire thing through my fingers and had nightmares for the next week? But the ticket was only $10, it was a random Monday night, and I hadn’t treated myself to a solo movie in a while. So why not.
As I sat for the previews, a new fear arose. I saw a trailer for a movie that gave hints a little too close to one of those Christian movies based on a crazy conspiracy theory and realized if this ended up being a right wing Jesus movie I would simply walk out of the theatre. $10 be damned.
They then showed a preview for the Reagan biopic movie, and in turn I flipped off the screen.
But soon enough, the lights dimmed and the show began.
When I saw the title, Slingshot, I was relieved. I vaguely knew it was a psychological thriller and was reassured I had a chance of liking this movie.
Now, sitting on my couch writing these words, I can firmly say I ultimately loved this movie but absolutely fucking hated the ending.
**Some spoilers to follow; you have been warned.**
This movie was an excellent psychological thriller. The main character, John, wakes up from hibernation on the Odyssey 1, a spaceship whose sole mission is to reach Titan, a moon of Jupiter. You soon find out he is a part of a three man crew with Captain Franks as the leader and Nash as his other crew mate.
The movie weaves in flashbacks of John’s life, specifically his time in a romance involving an engineer named Zoey who also worked on the Odyssey 1 project, with their relationship leading up to his departure.
As the story progresses, you have a constant refrain from the onboard computer each time John wakes up from hibernation. The medication that induces his sleep can cause physical and mental side effects. We see this in his crew mate Nash who wants to turn back almost immediately, in Captain Franks who is a bit overbearing and ominous towards the two men, and in John who starts having visual and auditory hallucinations of Zoey’s presence on the ship.
There are twists of course. Early on there is structural damage to the ship from some unknown source: space collision? structural integrity compromise?; we don’t know. This spurs Nash’s desperate need to turn back. But the slingshot is accomplished to fling the ship and her crew towards Titan. Still, Nash insists they need to turn back. So much so that the captain is concerned enough to bludgeon Nash with a gun (why the fuck is there a gun in space!?!) outside of John’s chamber as John is slipping into hibernation sleep.
When John next wakes up, there is no blood, no tissue, and no Nash.
The biggest twists of all come towards the end. A trick of names, of perception, and a trick of the heart had me hoping for a happy ending that was not earned and never paid off.
During one part of the movie, John explains to Nash that his logic could never be proven. So to later is it revealed that the audience’s hope for our main character was not proven, was not earned, and was not fulfilled. Ultimately, John’s past choices end up being the ghosts that haunt him in the dark and unfortunately lead him to his doom.
Kasey Affleck, the star of this movie, is captivating, compelling, and had me enthralled throughout. You hope for him, even as you see him make stupid emotional mistake after stupid emotional mistake. And you wish, in the end, that he is able to somehow make in right.
But in the end, in the literal last seconds of the film, your hope is dashed, and if you are like me you find yourself audibly cursing at the movie screen because you are so angry and disappointed.
I suppose that is an endorsement to the effect Slingshot had on me; I cared enough for this stupid Grinch of a man, hoped he would grow a heart, but when he did it was too late and ultimately was his undoing.
Don’t be surprised if this movie is talked about during awards season. Or maybe that is just me hoping again for a ending that wasn’t earned.
~This is a petty-ass hate vent. You have been warned.~
Time is a precious thing for me. I have so little of it due to the nature of my job. So when someone wastes my time, I get offended.
Cash was a waste of my time.
I met Cash via Tinder. We had chatted back and forth via the app and eventually via text messages. It took us a while to find a time to meet up because my schedule is nuts and, as it turns out, his is not simple either.
But finally, after weeks of trying to figure this out, we settled on a Tuesday evening drink. I was able to go home after work, shower, change, and meet him at a local bar near my apartment around 7pm.
Cash was cute. Not hot, but cute. He gave off a nerdy vibe, which in my book is a plus. He is working on a PhD. With my medical career, we had shared intellectual backgrounds to fall on for conversation.
From the beginning, Cash let it be known he did not want a relationship. That was fine for me as yes, love is a sweet temptation, but at the end of the day people have needs. And mine, as of late, have not been fulfilled.
I invited him back to my place. We talked about what we were looking for, each agreeing to a FWB situationship roughly once every two weeks.
My issue though is for that arrangement to work both parties have to be good in bed. And Cash is NOT good in bed.
First, and most importantly, was the condom issue.
Cash broke up with a longterm girlfriend in December. He was used to sex without a condom. I, however, was very insistent I was not going to fuck him without one. He struggled to get hard with a condom on. He was able to, with much coaxing on my part, but inevitably went limp, after a few minutes of stroking, multiple times.
Second, Cash has a small dick. Some people say good stroke game can overcome size deficiency. Welp, not in Cash’s case. When erect, he was maximum 5 inches, enough to give me the smallest amount of pleasure, but I knew I was not going to orgasm from his thrusts alone.
Third, this motherfucker cannot kiss well. He had this habit of biting on and sucking my bottom lip into his mouth so hard the entire time we were fucking. It made me want to not kiss him. Afterwards, when he had left and I went to use the restroom, I saw this asshole had actually caused a bruise on my lip.
For the two or three days while the bruise existed, I could not figure out why it made me so angry. And then it dawned on me: bruises, for me, are mementos of enjoyable moments in my life, little presents given to me via hot sex, red and purple reminders of fucking I wanted to remember and relive.
Sex with Cash was not enjoyable. It was a chore I unexpectedly endured. Having a visual representation of bad sex literally staring me in the face every time I looked at a mirror was a good way to prevent that particular experience ever happening again. In fact, I know I’ve grown to hate the sex more and more while looking at the bruise and also remembering said bruise. Presents can cut both ways.
Forth, he kept saying “I’m sorry” over and over again. This man could not stay hard. And each time he went soft, he kept saying “I’m sorry, can you…?” He even apologized after cuming (achieved via his hand with little help from me), and when we were done and getting dressed.
Look, I know what I want when I’m fucking. Sniveling, whinny, impotency (both physically and emotionally) are not fucking sexy to me. I want strength, control, dominance, none of which describes Cash.
Fifth, and final grievance, this man couldn’t even finger me well. Has no one ever been honest with him? Has no one given him tips or basic instructions in the way to please a partner with his hands? I mean probably because I had to physically push his fingers into my vagina. And even after I made it abundantly clear I wanted him to finger fuck me, he was still off the mark. This man had perfectly functional hands, yet he still could not perform.
Such a fucking waste of my time.
I am too nice. And It was my apartment. And I wanted his ass to leave. So I said I had fun and he said he had fun and he would call me.
I don’t want this man to call me. I don’t want to see this man ever again.
On the list of fucks in my life (You know I have a physical list; nerds love data.), he ranks so far down when it comes to enjoyment and fondness; if I could I would forget him. He was not the worst, but fuck he came close.
Having now taken over 800 words to express how much I did not like this particular sexual experience, I must now give a moment to acknowledge and roast myself. Because I am going back on Tinder. And I am going to find another date. And I will try again. Because your girl has needs. And my current roster is not fulfilling those needs. And I deserve excellent consistent sweaty back-breaking praise God sex in my life.