His name was Isaac. He was the hottest thing going in Long Island City. He was skinny and taut, had a hairy chest, ice blue eyes, black hair, stubble for days. Tough looking tattoos all over his back, chest and shoulders. Designer. Owner of excellent furniture, including an Eames chair. Displayer of strange, homemade dolls and a truly warped dvd collection. Afficionado of heavy metal and tiny Asian girls. At first glance, he looked a little bit like a bad motherfucker.
But then: he giggled.
Seriously, Isaac giggles. All the time. The girliest sounding giggle I’ve ever heard come out of a full-grown man. You take the tattoos, the chest hair, and you add the avalanche of feminine giggling—and well, I’ll pretty much do whatever Isaac tells me to do. Seriously. And the way Isaac suggests things of a sexual nature—well, you think he was asking you to the prom rather than…well, we’ll get to that.
“Heeheeheeheehee, look I have the biggest hole in my jeans,” Isaac pronounced. We were sitting very close to each other in a red plastic booth in a dark and woodsy bar. I’d made the trek out to LIC to meet him for drinks, with the hopes of a nice fuck afterwards. We’d been talking in the bar for about five minutes, when I decided I needed to down my drink fast—I really wanted to get out of that bar and into this boy’s pants. He looked damn fine. But apparently, we didn’t need to leave the bar in order for some of our parts to get, let’s say, acquainted.
“You do have a hole in your pants, Isaac!” I exclaimed. It was a ridiculously big hole. Like why would anyone still be wearing jeans with a hole that big in them?
(Duh, Janie, duh.)
“I know, isn’t it funny? It’s like the biggest hole EVER!” He giggled. He traced his finger around the rim of his beer glass. I noticed his calloused hands. At that moment, I noticed he had a nose ring, too.
“I like your nose ring,” I said.
“Thanks, Janie.” He leaned in closer. “I like your tits.”
I cleared my throat. “You’re right, it is a big hole. It’s a good thing you’re wearing underwear. If you didn’t, well—“
“Oh my gosh, know what? You should totally put your hand through the hole and grab my dick!” Isaac’s eyes lit up like he was watching the 4th of July Fireworks finale.
“No!” I said, rather automatically. “We’re in a bar! Someone will see!” I couldn’t believe he’d suggest such a thing.
But then again, I could.
The last email I received from him that day was:
“I’m gonna slam that pussy, yeah girl, get PSYCHED!” And then, of course, he added like a million smiley faces. (I know, reader, he sounds a little zany, possibly on drugs. But he’s actually straightedge, and really, just the most terribly enthusiastic boy in all the world. He’s sexy like sexy is going out of style.)
“No one will see. Look, no one’s here, and the bartender’s at the end of the bar, drying glasses. Just do it. Put your hand in.”
“That is so totally naughty, Isaac.”
“Oh, I know. But it’ll be fun! Come on, just do it, it’s really totally silly!” Isaac giggled. “Like a game, you know? Like a game. Put your hand in my pants and grab my cock!”
“That sounds fun but--”
“Janieeeee—I dare you!”
Ooh, a dare. See, that made it a whole new thing. A dare—I mean, I couldn’t really ignore a dare. Could I?
“I accept that dare,” I said and slipped my hand through the hole. I grabbed his cock. He was semi-hard and twitching. I felt pretty fucking ballsy, and so, I stared deep into his eyes and squeezed. He closed them briefly, then opened them back up. His pupils were dilated. His black eyelashes, fluttering.
“You look high,” I said.
“Just. Very. Excited.” Isaac looked serious for a moment. I took my hand out of the hole in his pants. “Oh, you totally woke him up!” Isaac giggled. “Feel it again. Janie, feel my cock again, it’s all harrrrrd!”
I just laughed. “But, Isaac—“
Isaac put his hand down the back of my jeans and fingered my asshole. Not really fingered. Just slipped the fingertip in. I squirmed.
“Isaac!” I hissed. Of course, I was grinning like a crazy person.
“Hee hee. I touched your asshole!” Isaac said in a song-song voice. I sighed. This was ridiculous. Ridiculously hot.
“Oh, my gosh, Janie. Feel my cock again, please,” Isaac pleaded. He took a swig of his beer and grinned. I nodded and looked at the bar. No one was paying any attention to us. I put my hand through the hole in his jeans and felt his cock, out of the hole in his boxers now, and very hard. I felt the precum on the tip. Good Lord. I was getting so wet.
“You’re wet,” I whispered. “Like a girl.”
Isaac grinned. “I know. You have a very good touch.” He kissedme and I grabbed his cock harder.
“We have to stop,” I said. “Someone’s gonna see.”
“No one will see. I’ll be on the lookout.”
He took my hand out of his pants and put two of my fingers into my mouth. I licked them. Got a taste of him. Christ.
“Listen. Janie,” Isaac leaned into me and I felt my nerves start to pop. He really was something else. “I think you should suck my cock,” Isaac giggled.
My synapses fired all at once. Oh my God, I thought, I think my brain is having an orgasm.
“What?! Are you crazy? We’re in a BAR!” I gasped and folded my arms. But I couldn’t hide my stupid grin, my sparkling eyes. He knew. He knew he could push me.
“OH, I know,” Isaac said, in a soft voice. “But that’s what makes it fun. You suck my cock for like ten seconds, and then we go home, and I promise I’ll fuck you into a blabbering, cumming mess. Okay?” I shook my head in disbelief. Isaac giggled.
“You keep giggling!” I said.
He giggled again.
“Janie, come on, you want to!”
“Yeah, okay, maybe part of me wants to, but what if we get caught?”
“We won’t get caught.”
“Yeah, but what if we do, I can never come back to Long Island City again!”
“Why would you want to, except to fuck me?” He pinched my right cheek. The one on my face.
“Oh, you!” I slapped him on the shoulder.
“Suck my dick.”
I sighed. “Why don’t we just go home and I can do it there?”
“Why would we do that when you can just do it here?” Isaac dissolved into giggles. “In my favorite bar. Pleeeeease?”
“You are too much,” I shook my head “You know, your tone suggests that we be crazy and have pancakes for dinner, but in actuality, you’re asking me to suck your dick in this booth!”
“I know. The tone. It’s what gets the LADIES.” Isaac giggled again.
“You are too much, dear.” I kissed him on the cheek.
“Janie? Suck my dick? Please?”
“Okay.”
“Yessss!” he said. Gosh,
We looked around. He watched the door. I looked at the bartender, the back of her head, blonde, ponytail. Isaac took his cock out. I lowered my head. I saw the red tiles of the bar floor, a crumpled straw wrapper, and then his beautiful purple cock, glistening. I put my mouth around it and sucked hard—no time for licking frills. My heart raced. I lowered my mouth all the way to his jeans and I gagged a bit, as my pussy melted into a hot brand of ready-to-be-fucked cunt. Moving my head up and down, halfway down his cock—this dick, it was the hardest I could remember a dick in my mouth being. I sucked his cock for about 45 seconds, maybe. And then I came back up for air. I was grinning something fierce. I felt insanely proud. And a bit proudly insane. Isaac’s eyes were wild.
“You are so awesome,” Isaac whispered and kissed me on the neck. “That was so awesome. Oh, man, you’re fun. The walk home is gonna be totally painful, though. Girl, you got me ready to burst.”
“Can I come with you? To your apartment?” I giggled, downing the rest of my Maker’s.
“Yes, you are coming with me! I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you. And make you sit on my face. And ooh—“ the way he was narrating this, it sounded like he was telling me the itinerary for our Disney World vacation. “Also—I have anal beads. Which you can fuck my ass with!”
My jaw dropped.
Isaac giggled. “Hee hee. They’re RED.”
“Wow,” I murmured.
I don’t remember putting on my coat. I think Isaac must have paid for the drinks.
I do remember being led to the bar door, stepping out into the cold, and Isaac grabbing my hand, and saying, “I really wanna fuck! Let’s run! I’m only three blocks away. But don’t slip.“ He linked my arm in his. “It’s icy!”
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Well-Furnished, Well-Fucked
Well, I am back in the city after a lovely mini-vacation with the family. First on the list: dear reader, I did, in fact, make the chocolate-caramel bread pudding I mentioned in an earlier post—and it was quite good, dear reader, QUITE good. But here’s what I suggest: the addition of more chewy caramels, a dusting of powered sugar on the top (for decorative festive purposes) and please, serve this chocolate carbohydrate atop a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream. I made a bread pudding last year, a recipe from my girl, Paula Dean. And I must say, Paula’s bread pudding got the better crowd response. The flavors in last year’s pudding proved more complex (there’s liqueur in the pudding and in the sauce). But you know, bread pudding is one of life’s great adventures, and I’m sure there will be twists and turns along the way. Please trust that I’ll continue to update you on additional changes with my relationship with bread pudding as they occur.
(I just realized that I might get a new batch of readers from my mention of Paula Dean--folks who Google search "Paula Dean bread pudding" just might end up here on a fluke. Oh, Internet!)
Second: now that the inhabitants of this city have pretty much all returned from their holiday breaks, I expect that I’ll be getting laid more often. Or I'm hoping. It’s only logical. Right? Numbers game. Right? Besides, I have some new furniture I have to try out, and when I say try out, I mean have sex on or against.
For Christmas, I acquired a lovely beech wood kitchen cart. It has locking wheels, which will prove useful as I brace myself against it, and proceed to get fucked from behind. I also acquired a metal microwave cart which, admittedly, is less promising as a fucking area. It is not so sturdy and is holding, alas, a microwave, so there’s not much room for me on or around there. But I do fantasize about the beech wood kitchen cart. Whilst chopping vegetables or stirring some cake batter in my little pink cotton nightie, suddenly, my lover (I definitely call the person who fucks me in this fantasy “my lover”) surprises me and starts to feel me up from behind. I desperately try to ignore him/her.
(Yes, this fantasy is a great “preparing brunch for my part-time lesbian lover when suddenly our bodies merge” sort of deal as well. I’m sorry, to my real, true-to-life lesbian readers out there, I admit it--I tend to over-romanticize things in my lesbian fantasies. I’m always like tending to some spectacular garden with my lesbian lover, or helping her move out of her cruel ex’s apartment with my blue Chevy truck, or browsing the same shelf at the second hand book store, when all of a sudden, our tits come bursting out of our perfect bras. Kinda hot, mostly corny. The nature of my fantasy here sort of annoys me as well, so please comforted in that.)
But, of course, I can’t ignore them, and when I turn around with the knife or spoon I’m using in my hand, they grab the utensil from me, and throw it into the sink, and then commence the great kitchen pounding of my pussy in gloriously rough fashion, and from behind. After I've cum, muttering something about pre-heating the oven, they leave me to finish up the meal preparations while they have a glass of wine on the couch. Fierce domestic edge, right??
So there’s the beech wood kitchen cart. Course, I haven’t fucked on my kitchen table yet. Or on my couch. I’ve gotten my pussy eaten on the couch, though. These are all fairly new pieces of furniture as well. I moved back in October and acquired a lot of new (see: secondhand) furniture from family and friends. These things need to be fucked on or against. Right? Isn’t that what people with their own apartments do? Fuck everywhere? See, I suppose this is when the late bloomer stuff comes in, dear reader. I haven’t fucked in many different kinds of places. I’ve given a blow job in a car. I’ve given a blow job in a bar (in a BOOTH, no less, not even in the restroom! Oh gosh, that’s a STORY, dear reader! I’ll tell that one soon!). I’ve been fingered against a pole under a bridge. But as far as really public sex, or even, you know, sex on the living room floor goes—I haven’t done that yet. The bed always seems to be the most logically comfortable option. I know, it's all so terribly unadventurous of me. Yes, I have found myself on my knees near couches giving, what else, blow jobs, many a time. (I’m such a BJ Queen sometimes, really, good gracious!) But I figure I need to branch out, and while I’m not ready to fuck in the park quite yet, I think a good slam against the beech wood kitchen cart will be a good start. Anybody hungry?
(I just realized that I might get a new batch of readers from my mention of Paula Dean--folks who Google search "Paula Dean bread pudding" just might end up here on a fluke. Oh, Internet!)
Second: now that the inhabitants of this city have pretty much all returned from their holiday breaks, I expect that I’ll be getting laid more often. Or I'm hoping. It’s only logical. Right? Numbers game. Right? Besides, I have some new furniture I have to try out, and when I say try out, I mean have sex on or against.
For Christmas, I acquired a lovely beech wood kitchen cart. It has locking wheels, which will prove useful as I brace myself against it, and proceed to get fucked from behind. I also acquired a metal microwave cart which, admittedly, is less promising as a fucking area. It is not so sturdy and is holding, alas, a microwave, so there’s not much room for me on or around there. But I do fantasize about the beech wood kitchen cart. Whilst chopping vegetables or stirring some cake batter in my little pink cotton nightie, suddenly, my lover (I definitely call the person who fucks me in this fantasy “my lover”) surprises me and starts to feel me up from behind. I desperately try to ignore him/her.
(Yes, this fantasy is a great “preparing brunch for my part-time lesbian lover when suddenly our bodies merge” sort of deal as well. I’m sorry, to my real, true-to-life lesbian readers out there, I admit it--I tend to over-romanticize things in my lesbian fantasies. I’m always like tending to some spectacular garden with my lesbian lover, or helping her move out of her cruel ex’s apartment with my blue Chevy truck, or browsing the same shelf at the second hand book store, when all of a sudden, our tits come bursting out of our perfect bras. Kinda hot, mostly corny. The nature of my fantasy here sort of annoys me as well, so please comforted in that.)
But, of course, I can’t ignore them, and when I turn around with the knife or spoon I’m using in my hand, they grab the utensil from me, and throw it into the sink, and then commence the great kitchen pounding of my pussy in gloriously rough fashion, and from behind. After I've cum, muttering something about pre-heating the oven, they leave me to finish up the meal preparations while they have a glass of wine on the couch. Fierce domestic edge, right??
So there’s the beech wood kitchen cart. Course, I haven’t fucked on my kitchen table yet. Or on my couch. I’ve gotten my pussy eaten on the couch, though. These are all fairly new pieces of furniture as well. I moved back in October and acquired a lot of new (see: secondhand) furniture from family and friends. These things need to be fucked on or against. Right? Isn’t that what people with their own apartments do? Fuck everywhere? See, I suppose this is when the late bloomer stuff comes in, dear reader. I haven’t fucked in many different kinds of places. I’ve given a blow job in a car. I’ve given a blow job in a bar (in a BOOTH, no less, not even in the restroom! Oh gosh, that’s a STORY, dear reader! I’ll tell that one soon!). I’ve been fingered against a pole under a bridge. But as far as really public sex, or even, you know, sex on the living room floor goes—I haven’t done that yet. The bed always seems to be the most logically comfortable option. I know, it's all so terribly unadventurous of me. Yes, I have found myself on my knees near couches giving, what else, blow jobs, many a time. (I’m such a BJ Queen sometimes, really, good gracious!) But I figure I need to branch out, and while I’m not ready to fuck in the park quite yet, I think a good slam against the beech wood kitchen cart will be a good start. Anybody hungry?
Friday, December 21, 2007
It's About That Time
It’s that time of year.
What exactly makes this time of year be “that” time of year?
Huh. I guess I'll get to that…
One day this week, I found myself extremely horny. Big surprise. Over IM, I struck up a conversation with one of my favorite bed pals, Matt:
Janie: I’m so fucking horny!
Matt: I have to go the bar with friends after work, and then grocery shopping. I won’t even be home until 9.
Janie: So, you can be up at my apartment by 9:30, we’ll take care of business in an hour tops, and you can be asleep by 11. Sound good?
Matt replied with one of those blasted smiley faces and a something like: We’ll see.
Hmphh. We’ll see.
It’s that time of year—people are awfully busy during these holiday months. There are all those parties, and there’s endless shopping to be done. There are dinners with colleagues from work and last minute deadlines to fulfill before the holiday. All of that on top of the fact that New Yorkers are experiencing the kind of weather during which many of them tend to stay in, nest, drink cocoa on the couch, and read Jane Eyre.
At least, that’s what I picture people doing when my pussy is screaming “Fuck me!”
It’s that time of year—I haven’t been able to make a date for weeks. Honestly. Of course, I’ve been a busy girl as well. I have a new creative project coming up in February and lasting until May for which I’ve been preparing. I’ve been shopping for zillions of relatives, and painstakingly rethinking what I should buy the dear Brazilian mail lady at my wor,k who tells me she loves me every morning, and brings me homemade empanadas once a month, just as I’m PMS’ing. I’ve been looking for a new job that utilizes my creative skills (endless search), trying very hard to keep up this new blog of mine, and making a concerted effort to get back into the whole gym routine,
At least, that’s what I tell myself when my pussy is screaming “Fuck me!!!”
And it’s that time of year—when I start to long for—wait for it—a boyfriend. I know, I know. It’s barely worth talking about. Because he will make himself apparent, eventually. I was thinking about it the other day—this idea of trying to nail down a boyfriend. I mean, what else can I do but date, keep myself open to new sorts of people and concepts of relationships, and you know—be hopeful.
Yes, I was indeed thinking about it the other day—the search for a boyfriend should be as strange a concept as a search for, say, a best friend. Like there is no search to be had, really. I do believe it can be a spontaneous sort of thing, the boyfriend. It just—happens. Maybe?
It’s that time of year. And when I say it’s that time of year, I mean it’s the time of year when I start to think about what I’ve accomplished, and what I want to accomplish. It’s the end, it’s the beginning. But the only thing that’s really wrapping up is the man-made invention of the year.
You know, I wonder sometimes if I could choose to live my life non-linearly. If I tried hard enough, could I go back and forth between this idea of now and this idea of the future, skip around, skip ahead, say fuck you to cause and effect. But I guess, in a sense, that’s all I ever do. We’re never really ready for things to happen, are we? I mean, if I was prepared for everything in my life, then nothing would ever seem spontaneous, surprises wouldn’t occur, and my capacity for change would not exist. I’d be what I’ve been my whole life. I’d be stagnant. And I’m so not stagnant.
What I really want to be is a Change Machine.
But this blog is about sex, though, right?
So Matt did end up coming over. He said he’d been thinking about my eating my pussy since I im’ed him early and so he felt compelled.
“On one condition,” he said. “Only if I can lick your pussy for a very, very long time.”
Well, my, my, Matt. That there’s a condition I can deal with.
Matt arrived at my doorstep in his winter coat and a striped scarf. His pale skin, glowing, and pink from the cold. I was very glad to see him. Matt has one of those kind and open faces that puts a smile on my own.
We were on the clock, though. Yes, this time concept sometimes becomes very real when a boy needs to get his sleep for a big day of work tomorrow.
I showed Matt my fake little Christmas tree that I’d bought at the pharmacy. Twinkly lights and silver tinsel. Crooked, bent, humble, and yet clear in purpose. Holiday cheer on a budget. Sitting in the middle of my dining room table.
“I think your tree’s really great,” Matt said, standing behind me, his hands all over my tits as we stared at my tree.
“Isn’t it, though?” I felt chills go up my back, the goosebumps of desire, you understand. And incidentally, I was popping a new cherry; I’d never made out in front of a Christmas tree before.
“It’s been too long,” Matt said. “Well, too long since I’ve been with you. I’ve had—I mean, I’ve been having other sex.”
This really made me laugh out loud.
“Oh, that was supposed to be a compliment,” Matt stuttered.
“I know,” I said. “I know. And it was nice. It was sweet.”
Really, I found myself glad that Matt had been getting laid in my absence.
I told him to take off his belt. He giggled. I said, “Do it.”
He turned around and muttered, “Okay, okay.” Matt placed his belt on the chair and turned back around. He was trying to hide his smile.
“Now, your pants,” I said. Sternly. He sort of rolled his eyes.
Oh well, I thought.
I gave him my sternest, most domme-y (?) sort of look and he said, “I’m not really a very good sub,”
“I know,” I said. “You’re quite the brat.” Matt has these submissive sort of tendencies, but he does get a bit giggly over it at times. Which I have to say is both lovely and frustrating. Among other things this next year, I want to learn how to be dominant. I want to learn how to top like a bad ass. I don’t really know what I’m doing yet. I have inspired moments but you know—still a little cutesy. But I know I have the capacity for it. It’s there.
Matt finally took off his pants. His cock was hard.
“Oooh, you’re very hard already,” I admired.
“The cabbie asked me,” Matt kissed me. “where the hell was I going? And was it worth it. I told him, yes, very worth it.” Matt suddenly kissed me passionately. His timing was so perfect. And I was happy that he was happy to be there.
I straddled him on the couch for a while. We kissed and moaned into each other’s necks. It was comfortable. It felt like home. A very wet, hard home. I’m really comfortable fooling around with and fucking Matt. There aren’t too many men who know my body as well, just by instinct, as Matt does.
For instance, Matt knew how to get me off, just so, with his tongue and fingers, minutes later on my bed. The blinds were open a bit. Orange light from the industrial light bulbs outside streamed in. Matt’s long, pale body under this light looked beautiful. The horizontal lines of shadow and light from the blinds segmented him and made him look like a tiger of sorts. I remember thinking that. He looks like a tiger.
Soon, Matt started finger fucking me—like, do I dare say, a tiger?
“Oh my God, you are sooooo warm,” Matt said.
Suddenly, I remembered a move I’d recently discovered with Jefferson—I told Matt to press down on my stomach, right above my pelvic bone, as he fingered me. He did what I asked, and my g-spot met his fingers like that. I could tell he felt me getting wetter by the look on his face. His thumb was covering my asshole, just the tiniest bit. I came quickly. I sucked on his fingers and tongued the space between his fingers, which were the saltiest and sweetest with my cum. These spaces were sexy, and his fingertips were wrinkly from my wetness.
Then I sucked his cock. I could deep throat it better now, I realized. Still, Matt reacted most to my sucking just on the head, and to my moving my tongue around the ridge. I don’t need to swallow the cock whole when it comes to blowing Matt.
“Oh, fuck me,” Matt said.
“What?” I asked. I’d heard him the first time, of course.
“Just fuck me, please.” The please got me.
I rode him fairly easily. My pussy so wet and warm, the cock slid easily in and out. I must admit, I am rarely am on top. I have to say I need to practice this. My hips and ass move so easily, with such easy isolation, when I’m, say, dancing. I have control over those parts of my body. But when I’m on top during sex, suddenly, I get self conscious, I’m not sure how to move the way I want to move. I don’t want the cock to slip out. I don’t want to seem lazy. I want the cock to touch the places it does when he’s on top, or fucking me from behind, or when I’m on my side. But it doesn’t quite seem to that easily, yet. When Matt started to thrust into me, I started to feel the bits inside me light up more, my gspot said hello. And then Matt got on top. He fucked me well, with my ankles by his ears, my legs spread out, feet nearly hitting the wall behind us. My bed rocked and squeaked, making more noise than it usually makes.
“Is your bed going to be okay?” Matt asked. I smiled.
“My bed will be fine. Fuck me hard, baby.”
He did, very hard. And he came, in his Matt way, grunting, loudly, gritting his teeth, and shaking.
“Um,” Matt said, after he finished.
“Yes?” I asked, floating.
“I can’t really get my cock out of your pussy right now. You’re, like, too tight—could you relax?”
I laughed, and relaxed, and his cock left my body, and made a bit of a popping sound. Matt gets me so aroused, so wet, and so tight, but this is the first time he’d gotten stuck!
“That was new,” Matt said, laughing.
We chatted. I showed him the spatula in my dresser drawer that, I discovered the other day, was a fine spanking tool. Really, I’d been washing it and, somehow, I ended up tapping it on lightly on my ass in the kitchen. I quickly went to my bed and spanked myself with the spatula. Then I put it in my drawer and decided I needed to buy a new one for burger flipping, as this spatula was going to be for my ass.
Then I showed Matt my nipple clamps.
“Those are kind of scary,” Matt said. I put away the nipple clamps.
“I know you don’t like spanking me, so that’s okay,” I said, fondling the spatula. I put it away.
I lied on the bed next to him. There was a moment of stillness, quiet. Matt started massaging my ass cheeks, the undersides.
“I’ve just recently—um—ah, fuck—discovered. Um. Fuck. How much my ass—oh oh oh—reacts to that!” I squirmed.
Then Matt spanked the fuck out of me. I very nearly came.
“Oh, my Gosh,” I said. “Thank you.”
“I can spank you,” Matt said. “See.” He grinned, proudly.
Matt finger fucked me again. I remember seeing his arm go back and forth and thought: jack hammer. Machine gun.
I came.
“I need a new arm,” he said.
I laughed.
“Oh my God, Janie. What a work out you give me!”
I went into the living room to smoke a cigarette. Matt came in after me. The blinds in the living room were also open slightly. He looked like a tiger again, if a slightly more tired tiger.
I played him a song I’d written off of my itunes. He said the lyrical structure reminded him of one of his favorite bands. I can’t remember for the life of me the name of the band right now. I wish I could. What was the name of that band?
Honestly, I’d call him right now to ask him, but I think he’s entertaining his friends for the weekend. They’re in town for the holidays.
You know. It’s that time of year.
I’m going home to the folks tomorrow. My siblings will all be there, and the brother-in-law. We do my Dad’s side of the family party this weekend, an immediate family Christmas on Christmas Eve, and my Mom’s side on Christmas Day. It will be a few days full of eating, drinking, board game playing, and new dvd watching. I’ll be spending the holidays just like any regular girl. And then I’ll come back here to the city for the New Year.
So, I don’t really write journal entries or personal essays about the end of the year. As I’ve said, the year’s end is a man-made invention, and time is such an abstract thing, I have a hard time writing about it. But if I’m going to discuss this last year, well, this year, in particular, I feel as though I’ve been bounced around quite a bit, had more successes and disappointments of a personal nature this year than any other year I can remember. Nothing tragic and nothing exalted. But I do feel like I’ve really been putting myself out there, sexually and personally. I’m making new friends, and I’m finding new sex partners. And I’m growing to love them, in many different ways.
Still, my life has a short story feeling right now, episodic, if you will. I don’t see a large event happening in the near future. I have felt constantly on the cusp of something great for a while, but you know—just on the cusp. I think I might have to do something drastic soon.
I think I might have to travel through time.
It’s true. I might just have to skip ahead to an event that I’m not quite ready for. I think I’ve been preparing for too long. I think I have to just do it now. Skip the rest of the preparations, skip the dress rehearsal, and lunge into the performance, without knowing my lines.
I told you all, I’m a late bloomer. Sometimes, I mull things over for too long. Sometimes I am tentative. Sometimes I am scared. Sometimes I am not as brave as I should be, as I can be.
I’m not even sure what I’m talking about right now, I mean, specifically. I’m not even sure what has to be done. I’m not unhappy—don’t get me wrong. There are so many things to be happy about. But I am restless. And this restlessness is not all bad—but it does make me wonder. What needs to be done? What plans need to be made? And can I fit it all in? Of course I can.
Gosh, it’s that time of YEAR.
Happy Holidays, everyone. And may we all get the courage, if we so desire it, to travel through time.
What exactly makes this time of year be “that” time of year?
Huh. I guess I'll get to that…
One day this week, I found myself extremely horny. Big surprise. Over IM, I struck up a conversation with one of my favorite bed pals, Matt:
Janie: I’m so fucking horny!
Matt: I have to go the bar with friends after work, and then grocery shopping. I won’t even be home until 9.
Janie: So, you can be up at my apartment by 9:30, we’ll take care of business in an hour tops, and you can be asleep by 11. Sound good?
Matt replied with one of those blasted smiley faces and a something like: We’ll see.
Hmphh. We’ll see.
It’s that time of year—people are awfully busy during these holiday months. There are all those parties, and there’s endless shopping to be done. There are dinners with colleagues from work and last minute deadlines to fulfill before the holiday. All of that on top of the fact that New Yorkers are experiencing the kind of weather during which many of them tend to stay in, nest, drink cocoa on the couch, and read Jane Eyre.
At least, that’s what I picture people doing when my pussy is screaming “Fuck me!”
It’s that time of year—I haven’t been able to make a date for weeks. Honestly. Of course, I’ve been a busy girl as well. I have a new creative project coming up in February and lasting until May for which I’ve been preparing. I’ve been shopping for zillions of relatives, and painstakingly rethinking what I should buy the dear Brazilian mail lady at my wor,k who tells me she loves me every morning, and brings me homemade empanadas once a month, just as I’m PMS’ing. I’ve been looking for a new job that utilizes my creative skills (endless search), trying very hard to keep up this new blog of mine, and making a concerted effort to get back into the whole gym routine,
At least, that’s what I tell myself when my pussy is screaming “Fuck me!!!”
And it’s that time of year—when I start to long for—wait for it—a boyfriend. I know, I know. It’s barely worth talking about. Because he will make himself apparent, eventually. I was thinking about it the other day—this idea of trying to nail down a boyfriend. I mean, what else can I do but date, keep myself open to new sorts of people and concepts of relationships, and you know—be hopeful.
Yes, I was indeed thinking about it the other day—the search for a boyfriend should be as strange a concept as a search for, say, a best friend. Like there is no search to be had, really. I do believe it can be a spontaneous sort of thing, the boyfriend. It just—happens. Maybe?
It’s that time of year. And when I say it’s that time of year, I mean it’s the time of year when I start to think about what I’ve accomplished, and what I want to accomplish. It’s the end, it’s the beginning. But the only thing that’s really wrapping up is the man-made invention of the year.
You know, I wonder sometimes if I could choose to live my life non-linearly. If I tried hard enough, could I go back and forth between this idea of now and this idea of the future, skip around, skip ahead, say fuck you to cause and effect. But I guess, in a sense, that’s all I ever do. We’re never really ready for things to happen, are we? I mean, if I was prepared for everything in my life, then nothing would ever seem spontaneous, surprises wouldn’t occur, and my capacity for change would not exist. I’d be what I’ve been my whole life. I’d be stagnant. And I’m so not stagnant.
What I really want to be is a Change Machine.
But this blog is about sex, though, right?
So Matt did end up coming over. He said he’d been thinking about my eating my pussy since I im’ed him early and so he felt compelled.
“On one condition,” he said. “Only if I can lick your pussy for a very, very long time.”
Well, my, my, Matt. That there’s a condition I can deal with.
Matt arrived at my doorstep in his winter coat and a striped scarf. His pale skin, glowing, and pink from the cold. I was very glad to see him. Matt has one of those kind and open faces that puts a smile on my own.
We were on the clock, though. Yes, this time concept sometimes becomes very real when a boy needs to get his sleep for a big day of work tomorrow.
I showed Matt my fake little Christmas tree that I’d bought at the pharmacy. Twinkly lights and silver tinsel. Crooked, bent, humble, and yet clear in purpose. Holiday cheer on a budget. Sitting in the middle of my dining room table.
“I think your tree’s really great,” Matt said, standing behind me, his hands all over my tits as we stared at my tree.
“Isn’t it, though?” I felt chills go up my back, the goosebumps of desire, you understand. And incidentally, I was popping a new cherry; I’d never made out in front of a Christmas tree before.
“It’s been too long,” Matt said. “Well, too long since I’ve been with you. I’ve had—I mean, I’ve been having other sex.”
This really made me laugh out loud.
“Oh, that was supposed to be a compliment,” Matt stuttered.
“I know,” I said. “I know. And it was nice. It was sweet.”
Really, I found myself glad that Matt had been getting laid in my absence.
I told him to take off his belt. He giggled. I said, “Do it.”
He turned around and muttered, “Okay, okay.” Matt placed his belt on the chair and turned back around. He was trying to hide his smile.
“Now, your pants,” I said. Sternly. He sort of rolled his eyes.
Oh well, I thought.
I gave him my sternest, most domme-y (?) sort of look and he said, “I’m not really a very good sub,”
“I know,” I said. “You’re quite the brat.” Matt has these submissive sort of tendencies, but he does get a bit giggly over it at times. Which I have to say is both lovely and frustrating. Among other things this next year, I want to learn how to be dominant. I want to learn how to top like a bad ass. I don’t really know what I’m doing yet. I have inspired moments but you know—still a little cutesy. But I know I have the capacity for it. It’s there.
Matt finally took off his pants. His cock was hard.
“Oooh, you’re very hard already,” I admired.
“The cabbie asked me,” Matt kissed me. “where the hell was I going? And was it worth it. I told him, yes, very worth it.” Matt suddenly kissed me passionately. His timing was so perfect. And I was happy that he was happy to be there.
I straddled him on the couch for a while. We kissed and moaned into each other’s necks. It was comfortable. It felt like home. A very wet, hard home. I’m really comfortable fooling around with and fucking Matt. There aren’t too many men who know my body as well, just by instinct, as Matt does.
For instance, Matt knew how to get me off, just so, with his tongue and fingers, minutes later on my bed. The blinds were open a bit. Orange light from the industrial light bulbs outside streamed in. Matt’s long, pale body under this light looked beautiful. The horizontal lines of shadow and light from the blinds segmented him and made him look like a tiger of sorts. I remember thinking that. He looks like a tiger.
Soon, Matt started finger fucking me—like, do I dare say, a tiger?
“Oh my God, you are sooooo warm,” Matt said.
Suddenly, I remembered a move I’d recently discovered with Jefferson—I told Matt to press down on my stomach, right above my pelvic bone, as he fingered me. He did what I asked, and my g-spot met his fingers like that. I could tell he felt me getting wetter by the look on his face. His thumb was covering my asshole, just the tiniest bit. I came quickly. I sucked on his fingers and tongued the space between his fingers, which were the saltiest and sweetest with my cum. These spaces were sexy, and his fingertips were wrinkly from my wetness.
Then I sucked his cock. I could deep throat it better now, I realized. Still, Matt reacted most to my sucking just on the head, and to my moving my tongue around the ridge. I don’t need to swallow the cock whole when it comes to blowing Matt.
“Oh, fuck me,” Matt said.
“What?” I asked. I’d heard him the first time, of course.
“Just fuck me, please.” The please got me.
I rode him fairly easily. My pussy so wet and warm, the cock slid easily in and out. I must admit, I am rarely am on top. I have to say I need to practice this. My hips and ass move so easily, with such easy isolation, when I’m, say, dancing. I have control over those parts of my body. But when I’m on top during sex, suddenly, I get self conscious, I’m not sure how to move the way I want to move. I don’t want the cock to slip out. I don’t want to seem lazy. I want the cock to touch the places it does when he’s on top, or fucking me from behind, or when I’m on my side. But it doesn’t quite seem to that easily, yet. When Matt started to thrust into me, I started to feel the bits inside me light up more, my gspot said hello. And then Matt got on top. He fucked me well, with my ankles by his ears, my legs spread out, feet nearly hitting the wall behind us. My bed rocked and squeaked, making more noise than it usually makes.
“Is your bed going to be okay?” Matt asked. I smiled.
“My bed will be fine. Fuck me hard, baby.”
He did, very hard. And he came, in his Matt way, grunting, loudly, gritting his teeth, and shaking.
“Um,” Matt said, after he finished.
“Yes?” I asked, floating.
“I can’t really get my cock out of your pussy right now. You’re, like, too tight—could you relax?”
I laughed, and relaxed, and his cock left my body, and made a bit of a popping sound. Matt gets me so aroused, so wet, and so tight, but this is the first time he’d gotten stuck!
“That was new,” Matt said, laughing.
We chatted. I showed him the spatula in my dresser drawer that, I discovered the other day, was a fine spanking tool. Really, I’d been washing it and, somehow, I ended up tapping it on lightly on my ass in the kitchen. I quickly went to my bed and spanked myself with the spatula. Then I put it in my drawer and decided I needed to buy a new one for burger flipping, as this spatula was going to be for my ass.
Then I showed Matt my nipple clamps.
“Those are kind of scary,” Matt said. I put away the nipple clamps.
“I know you don’t like spanking me, so that’s okay,” I said, fondling the spatula. I put it away.
I lied on the bed next to him. There was a moment of stillness, quiet. Matt started massaging my ass cheeks, the undersides.
“I’ve just recently—um—ah, fuck—discovered. Um. Fuck. How much my ass—oh oh oh—reacts to that!” I squirmed.
Then Matt spanked the fuck out of me. I very nearly came.
“Oh, my Gosh,” I said. “Thank you.”
“I can spank you,” Matt said. “See.” He grinned, proudly.
Matt finger fucked me again. I remember seeing his arm go back and forth and thought: jack hammer. Machine gun.
I came.
“I need a new arm,” he said.
I laughed.
“Oh my God, Janie. What a work out you give me!”
I went into the living room to smoke a cigarette. Matt came in after me. The blinds in the living room were also open slightly. He looked like a tiger again, if a slightly more tired tiger.
I played him a song I’d written off of my itunes. He said the lyrical structure reminded him of one of his favorite bands. I can’t remember for the life of me the name of the band right now. I wish I could. What was the name of that band?
Honestly, I’d call him right now to ask him, but I think he’s entertaining his friends for the weekend. They’re in town for the holidays.
You know. It’s that time of year.
I’m going home to the folks tomorrow. My siblings will all be there, and the brother-in-law. We do my Dad’s side of the family party this weekend, an immediate family Christmas on Christmas Eve, and my Mom’s side on Christmas Day. It will be a few days full of eating, drinking, board game playing, and new dvd watching. I’ll be spending the holidays just like any regular girl. And then I’ll come back here to the city for the New Year.
So, I don’t really write journal entries or personal essays about the end of the year. As I’ve said, the year’s end is a man-made invention, and time is such an abstract thing, I have a hard time writing about it. But if I’m going to discuss this last year, well, this year, in particular, I feel as though I’ve been bounced around quite a bit, had more successes and disappointments of a personal nature this year than any other year I can remember. Nothing tragic and nothing exalted. But I do feel like I’ve really been putting myself out there, sexually and personally. I’m making new friends, and I’m finding new sex partners. And I’m growing to love them, in many different ways.
Still, my life has a short story feeling right now, episodic, if you will. I don’t see a large event happening in the near future. I have felt constantly on the cusp of something great for a while, but you know—just on the cusp. I think I might have to do something drastic soon.
I think I might have to travel through time.
It’s true. I might just have to skip ahead to an event that I’m not quite ready for. I think I’ve been preparing for too long. I think I have to just do it now. Skip the rest of the preparations, skip the dress rehearsal, and lunge into the performance, without knowing my lines.
I told you all, I’m a late bloomer. Sometimes, I mull things over for too long. Sometimes I am tentative. Sometimes I am scared. Sometimes I am not as brave as I should be, as I can be.
I’m not even sure what I’m talking about right now, I mean, specifically. I’m not even sure what has to be done. I’m not unhappy—don’t get me wrong. There are so many things to be happy about. But I am restless. And this restlessness is not all bad—but it does make me wonder. What needs to be done? What plans need to be made? And can I fit it all in? Of course I can.
Gosh, it’s that time of YEAR.
Happy Holidays, everyone. And may we all get the courage, if we so desire it, to travel through time.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
ee cummings
I first got acquainted with ee cummings my sophomore year of high school. It was a thrlling experience, reading his poetry-- beautiful, strange words that literally painted the page with odd line breaks, unorthodox puntuation and metaphor that had no business being near any 16 year-old girl. ee's stuff is NAUGHTY, let's put it that way, even when he's not writing about sex; it is always a beautiful assault on the senses.
Last night, I wrote Jefferson an email, saying how much I looked forward to being close to his naked body in the new year. And I was reminded of a poem by cummings that celebrates being with a new lover. Please note, I'm not the type of girl who goes for quantity when it comes my sexual partners. I have made up for last time these past couple of years, certainly, but it doesn't mean I'm a numbers queen--that's high school boy stuff. What is most amazing to me is how everyone has been so different, though we're all made up of the same parts. This poem gets me hot. I hope you enjoy.
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new
Last night, I wrote Jefferson an email, saying how much I looked forward to being close to his naked body in the new year. And I was reminded of a poem by cummings that celebrates being with a new lover. Please note, I'm not the type of girl who goes for quantity when it comes my sexual partners. I have made up for last time these past couple of years, certainly, but it doesn't mean I'm a numbers queen--that's high school boy stuff. What is most amazing to me is how everyone has been so different, though we're all made up of the same parts. This poem gets me hot. I hope you enjoy.
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new
Monday, December 17, 2007
Get Off, Get Off, Wherever You Are!
So, being the late bloomer that I am, I have just recently started to poke around the internet in search of stuff to get off to. It's true! Not very long ago, I was the type to lie on my bed, and passively masturbate, awaiting an orgasm, but you know, putting in minimal effort at all times. Not very long ago, I didn't even think to imagine anyone or anything while masturbating. Honestly. I didn't know that was the part of the deal. I didn't know there was supposed to be anything going on but my hand touching my pussy.
But soon after I started having sex, I started to think of some of my partners while I masturbated. This, surprisingly enough, intensified my orgasm. Soon after that, I started to imagine different sorts of scenarios with--get this--people I didn't even know! Gasp!!! And then, all of a sudden--I remembered. There was porn on the internet. So I decided to look around. And all of a sudden--well, Janie found photographs! Video! Clit lit! All this led to Janie joining an adult dating site so that she could have readily available to her photographs, video, and naughtily written profiles. And all the sexy people those things belonged to--well, she could date them as well! And it was here on this adult dating site, that I came upon--the web cam.
And boy oh boy. Did moving naked women and men on my computer screen doing sexy things do something astounding to my masturbatory habits.
Wherein I introduce you to my first sponser, WebCam Reports. Here, your host, Tony, guides you through many a webcam site to help you find the kind that really wets your masturbatory whistle--truly, a fine assortment for one and all. From vanilla splendor to girl on girl to BDSM, WebCam Reports covers quite a bit, So check it out.
Okay. So all this talk of masturbating, I think I need to go get off. Yes, reader, after writing some of these posts, I find the need to rub one out. Just as you do, I hope.
But soon after I started having sex, I started to think of some of my partners while I masturbated. This, surprisingly enough, intensified my orgasm. Soon after that, I started to imagine different sorts of scenarios with--get this--people I didn't even know! Gasp!!! And then, all of a sudden--I remembered. There was porn on the internet. So I decided to look around. And all of a sudden--well, Janie found photographs! Video! Clit lit! All this led to Janie joining an adult dating site so that she could have readily available to her photographs, video, and naughtily written profiles. And all the sexy people those things belonged to--well, she could date them as well! And it was here on this adult dating site, that I came upon--the web cam.
And boy oh boy. Did moving naked women and men on my computer screen doing sexy things do something astounding to my masturbatory habits.
Wherein I introduce you to my first sponser, WebCam Reports. Here, your host, Tony, guides you through many a webcam site to help you find the kind that really wets your masturbatory whistle--truly, a fine assortment for one and all. From vanilla splendor to girl on girl to BDSM, WebCam Reports covers quite a bit, So check it out.
Okay. So all this talk of masturbating, I think I need to go get off. Yes, reader, after writing some of these posts, I find the need to rub one out. Just as you do, I hope.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Bad Date, Good Fuck
When my date, Darwin, finally arrived, he called me from outside my apartment and said, rather angrily, “I didn’t know it was going to take so fucking long to get to your apartment. The traffic was fucking terrible.”
Jeeze.
I almost told him, right then, that he’d made the trip for nothing, and to turn around and drive back to Queens. What kind of date greets you on the phone like that? I thought that was rather rude.
Still, I figured Darwin might be still getting over some road rage, and that he’d be mellowing out soon enough. We had met on a respectable dating site (ie, one without sex or adult in the name). Our email exchange had been quite pleasant, and he seemed to be a curious sort of person. I didn’t really have plans to sleep with him on this first date. It was just going to be a nice getting to know you sort of date. So, hopeful, I went downstairs to meet him.
Darwin was 6’5’, muscular, with an intelligent face, and well dressed in a tight shirt and swishy black pants that suited him just fine. He stood, leaning against a parking meter. He had a very intense look in his eyes. I gulped.
“Hi Darwin.”
“Hi Janie. I hope this bar is close.”
“Um, yeah, it’s right across the street. Sorry the drive was so—“
“Yeah, I wouldn’t have agreed to meet you up here if I knew it was going to take so long.”
“I’m sorry, I have no way of predicting the traffic,” I smiled.
Suddenly, I wanted this date over.
“Let’s just get some food. I’m hungry,” Darwin said, sighing.
This was our first date. Did I mention that?
We walked to the bar in silence and sat down on stools.
“What do you want to drink? My treat.” I was being too nice. But sometimes I overcompensate for bad vibes by putting out overly good ones.
“Um, I don’t drink. Alcohol is poison,” he said.
Oh, brother.
“Okay, they have really good root beer here,” I countered, trying, trying so hard.
“Please, sugar is even worse. Ice water with lemon, please,” he told the bartender.
“Double vodka tonic for me,” I said. I was gonna need something stiff and hard.
(Hah.)
“And chicken fingers, double fries,” Darwin said. For a man who protested both the casual alcoholic beverage and sugary drinks, it seemed interesting that he didn’t mind deep fried trans fat for dinner.
“So how long have you been living in Queens?” I asked.
“Ever since I quit design school,” Darwin replied. Of course, he’d answer my question with somewhat of a negative response, addressing quitting. This kid was like some New York City version of Eeyore.
He was really hot, though.
I kept thinking that.
This kid is really sapping all conversational energy, I’m not sure he’s a very nice person. And I don’t think either of us really want to be here right now.
But boy, am I terribly attracted to him.
This was a brand new feeling.
I wasn’t sure what to make of it.
And as the date went on, things got—worse.
“Do you date often?” I asked.
“What do you think?” he said.
“How are your onion rings?” he asked.
“Soggy,” I said. (Which was true. But I wasn’t being Miss Positive at this point, either.)
“Are you feeling more relaxed now?” I asked.
“Sort of. I hate driving. Why did you choose to live in this neighborhood?” he said.
“Because it’s cheap and my apartment’s big,” I answered.
“Wouldn’t you rather live in a cool, happening neighborhood? Compromise space for, say, a good time?” he asked.
“I think you have anger problems,” I said.
“Hmmph,” Darwin said.
Seriously. This was how the conversation went.
Darwin paid the bill.
I went for my cigarettes. I lit one as soon as we got outside.
“You smoke, too?” he asked.
“Too? Like in addition to what other thing that you apparently disapprove of?”
He laughed. “You’re paranoid. It’s kind of cute.”
Darwin put his hand on the small of my back.
My pussy lit up.
This isn’t good.
Send his ass packing.
Go home, make yourself another drink, and masturbate, I thought.
“Are you gonna come up or what?” I asked.
“Yeah,’ he said.
We walked into my apartment. Darwin sat on my couch. I got us two beers.
“I don’t drink,” he said, as I placed the bottle in his hand.
“Fine,’ I said. “Watch me then.” I sat on his lap, facing him, and took a big swig of my beer.
I grabbed his face and kissed him. I felt his dick get hard quick against my leg.
I rotated my hips around, hitting his dick with my crotch. I felt my pussy get slick and my panties get cool and I knew that they would be soaked soon.
“Can we move to your bed? I’d feel more comfortable there,” Darwin said, his hands up my shirt.
“No, we can’t,” I said. “I’d feel most comfortable if you ate my pussy here.”
I stood up and unzipped my pants. I pulled down my panties. They lay on the floor around my ankles. I took a couple steps back.
“Well?’ I said.
Darwin knelt on the floor and lapped at my cunt.
“Good,” I said.
What the fuck was going on? I wondered. I drank my beer as he ate my pussy. I pictured question marks spilling out from between my legs as I came.
“Now we can go to my room,” I said. I took his hand and dragged him to my bedroom. It was a mess.
“Your room’s a sty,” Darwin said, giggling.
“The sheets are clean,” I said.
I ripped off his shirt, and pulled down his pants. He wasn’t wearing…underwear.
His cock was a big thick meaty masterpiece.
I pushed him toward the bed. Darwin lied down. I sucked his cock until I tasted precum.
“You gonna fuck me now or what?” I asked. My shirt and bra still on.
“Yeah, I am,” Darwin said. I pulled off my shirt and unhooked my bra. My nipples stuck straight out in the air. Darwin groaned at the sight of my tits and sucked at them hard, pulling away. My pussy had a pulse.
I slid a condom onto his cock. It was almost too small.
Darwin entered me, filling me all the way up with the very first thrust.
I groaned and squeezed his ass with both hands.
Darwin fucked me hard for about fifteen minutes. And finished it off by cumming on my tits. I told him to eat it. He did.
(Holy shit, he did.)
I lit a cigarette. Darwin went into the living room and came back with his beer. He drank in, standing in the doorway.
“Though you said you didn’t drink,” I said.
“I don’t,” Darwin said. “Finish that cigarette. I’m gonna fuck you from behind now.”
His recovery time was about four minutes.
Darwin slapped my ass until I soaked his cock with my pussy juice.
He came inside me and threw the condom, full of a really good load, onto my floor. It made a puddle on the wood. I’d clean it up later.
We faced each other in my bed. We kissed.
“Hiya friend,” he said. I cackled.
I started sucking at his nipples, jerking his cock. He got hard, and got hard fast. I started sucking him off again, fingering my own pussy as I did.
“Fuck, bitch. You suck a good cock,” Darwin said.
“Be nice,” I said. “Or I won’t let you fuck me again.”
“I’ll be nice,” he said, and I sucked on his balls, hard. He groaned.
Darwin fucked me on my side, grabbing my tits and pulling at my nipples as he did.
This time, he came between my shoulder blades, as I lied on my tummy.
He got a paper towel from the kitchen and wiped it off me. I thought that was nice.
I sucked on Darwin’s fingers next.
He put one in my ass.
“Tight,” he groaned. “I want in that ass.”
“Not with that dick, baby, sorry.” My ass was very much a virgin ass.
I sat on his face. Darwin’s rough, rough stubble felt good on my pussy.
I slipped another condom on his cock.
I rode him, screaming and panting. He tried to cover my mouth with his hand. I brushed it away.
We came at the same time. I collapsed on him, his shrinking dick on my thigh.
I went to the bathroom and peed. I didn’t look in the mirror like I normally do. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see what I looked like at that moment. I went back to my room.
Darwin had stolen a cigarette.
“Thought you disapproved of smoking,” I said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth, and taking a drag for myself.
“I approve of that pussy of yours, I’ll tell you that much.”
We lied next to each other in silence, passing the cigarette back and forth. I put it out in the half full Diet Coke can next to my bed.
The man was hard again, sticking straight up. I opened up my legs and he climbed on top of me, and pounded me, my ankles by his ears, his sweat dripping from his face and chest and hitting my next, my tits, my belly.
“I need a break,” Darwin said.
We broke eye contact. He straddled me for a minute his cock, on my tummy. I looked at the clock. I drummed my fingers against the bedpost.
Darwin entered me while I wasn’t looking.
He shook this time as he came. He closed his eyes tight. He was whispering something. Very quietly.
“What are you saying?” I asked.
“Nothing” Darwin said. “Nothing.”
He fucked me two more times in the next hour.
I had more orgasms than I’d like to admit.
Darwin started to fall asleep. I nudged him.
“Darwin? I can’t sleep with someone in my bed.” It was true, I couldn’t. “Could you sleep on the couch?”
He shook his head. “I’ll go,” he said.
“No, no, just sleep on the—“
“That’s okay. The traffic tomorrow morning will be murder, right? I’ll go.”
I sighed. I smiled at him, watched him get dressed.
“You fuck. So. Good.” I said. “Do you want a cranberry juice with some seltzer? And lime? Would that be nice? Before you go?”
Darwin smiled. “I’d like that.”
I made him a drink in my underwear. He gulped it down.
I walked him to the door.
We kissed briefly. We didn’t say goodbye.
I wrote a short email to Darwin the next morning. “Thank you. I’ll be sore for a week.”
Not surprisingly, I never heard back.
Can't say I blame him.
It was never going to get any better than that for Darwin and me.
Jeeze.
I almost told him, right then, that he’d made the trip for nothing, and to turn around and drive back to Queens. What kind of date greets you on the phone like that? I thought that was rather rude.
Still, I figured Darwin might be still getting over some road rage, and that he’d be mellowing out soon enough. We had met on a respectable dating site (ie, one without sex or adult in the name). Our email exchange had been quite pleasant, and he seemed to be a curious sort of person. I didn’t really have plans to sleep with him on this first date. It was just going to be a nice getting to know you sort of date. So, hopeful, I went downstairs to meet him.
Darwin was 6’5’, muscular, with an intelligent face, and well dressed in a tight shirt and swishy black pants that suited him just fine. He stood, leaning against a parking meter. He had a very intense look in his eyes. I gulped.
“Hi Darwin.”
“Hi Janie. I hope this bar is close.”
“Um, yeah, it’s right across the street. Sorry the drive was so—“
“Yeah, I wouldn’t have agreed to meet you up here if I knew it was going to take so long.”
“I’m sorry, I have no way of predicting the traffic,” I smiled.
Suddenly, I wanted this date over.
“Let’s just get some food. I’m hungry,” Darwin said, sighing.
This was our first date. Did I mention that?
We walked to the bar in silence and sat down on stools.
“What do you want to drink? My treat.” I was being too nice. But sometimes I overcompensate for bad vibes by putting out overly good ones.
“Um, I don’t drink. Alcohol is poison,” he said.
Oh, brother.
“Okay, they have really good root beer here,” I countered, trying, trying so hard.
“Please, sugar is even worse. Ice water with lemon, please,” he told the bartender.
“Double vodka tonic for me,” I said. I was gonna need something stiff and hard.
(Hah.)
“And chicken fingers, double fries,” Darwin said. For a man who protested both the casual alcoholic beverage and sugary drinks, it seemed interesting that he didn’t mind deep fried trans fat for dinner.
“So how long have you been living in Queens?” I asked.
“Ever since I quit design school,” Darwin replied. Of course, he’d answer my question with somewhat of a negative response, addressing quitting. This kid was like some New York City version of Eeyore.
He was really hot, though.
I kept thinking that.
This kid is really sapping all conversational energy, I’m not sure he’s a very nice person. And I don’t think either of us really want to be here right now.
But boy, am I terribly attracted to him.
This was a brand new feeling.
I wasn’t sure what to make of it.
And as the date went on, things got—worse.
“Do you date often?” I asked.
“What do you think?” he said.
“How are your onion rings?” he asked.
“Soggy,” I said. (Which was true. But I wasn’t being Miss Positive at this point, either.)
“Are you feeling more relaxed now?” I asked.
“Sort of. I hate driving. Why did you choose to live in this neighborhood?” he said.
“Because it’s cheap and my apartment’s big,” I answered.
“Wouldn’t you rather live in a cool, happening neighborhood? Compromise space for, say, a good time?” he asked.
“I think you have anger problems,” I said.
“Hmmph,” Darwin said.
Seriously. This was how the conversation went.
Darwin paid the bill.
I went for my cigarettes. I lit one as soon as we got outside.
“You smoke, too?” he asked.
“Too? Like in addition to what other thing that you apparently disapprove of?”
He laughed. “You’re paranoid. It’s kind of cute.”
Darwin put his hand on the small of my back.
My pussy lit up.
This isn’t good.
Send his ass packing.
Go home, make yourself another drink, and masturbate, I thought.
“Are you gonna come up or what?” I asked.
“Yeah,’ he said.
We walked into my apartment. Darwin sat on my couch. I got us two beers.
“I don’t drink,” he said, as I placed the bottle in his hand.
“Fine,’ I said. “Watch me then.” I sat on his lap, facing him, and took a big swig of my beer.
I grabbed his face and kissed him. I felt his dick get hard quick against my leg.
I rotated my hips around, hitting his dick with my crotch. I felt my pussy get slick and my panties get cool and I knew that they would be soaked soon.
“Can we move to your bed? I’d feel more comfortable there,” Darwin said, his hands up my shirt.
“No, we can’t,” I said. “I’d feel most comfortable if you ate my pussy here.”
I stood up and unzipped my pants. I pulled down my panties. They lay on the floor around my ankles. I took a couple steps back.
“Well?’ I said.
Darwin knelt on the floor and lapped at my cunt.
“Good,” I said.
What the fuck was going on? I wondered. I drank my beer as he ate my pussy. I pictured question marks spilling out from between my legs as I came.
“Now we can go to my room,” I said. I took his hand and dragged him to my bedroom. It was a mess.
“Your room’s a sty,” Darwin said, giggling.
“The sheets are clean,” I said.
I ripped off his shirt, and pulled down his pants. He wasn’t wearing…underwear.
His cock was a big thick meaty masterpiece.
I pushed him toward the bed. Darwin lied down. I sucked his cock until I tasted precum.
“You gonna fuck me now or what?” I asked. My shirt and bra still on.
“Yeah, I am,” Darwin said. I pulled off my shirt and unhooked my bra. My nipples stuck straight out in the air. Darwin groaned at the sight of my tits and sucked at them hard, pulling away. My pussy had a pulse.
I slid a condom onto his cock. It was almost too small.
Darwin entered me, filling me all the way up with the very first thrust.
I groaned and squeezed his ass with both hands.
Darwin fucked me hard for about fifteen minutes. And finished it off by cumming on my tits. I told him to eat it. He did.
(Holy shit, he did.)
I lit a cigarette. Darwin went into the living room and came back with his beer. He drank in, standing in the doorway.
“Though you said you didn’t drink,” I said.
“I don’t,” Darwin said. “Finish that cigarette. I’m gonna fuck you from behind now.”
His recovery time was about four minutes.
Darwin slapped my ass until I soaked his cock with my pussy juice.
He came inside me and threw the condom, full of a really good load, onto my floor. It made a puddle on the wood. I’d clean it up later.
We faced each other in my bed. We kissed.
“Hiya friend,” he said. I cackled.
I started sucking at his nipples, jerking his cock. He got hard, and got hard fast. I started sucking him off again, fingering my own pussy as I did.
“Fuck, bitch. You suck a good cock,” Darwin said.
“Be nice,” I said. “Or I won’t let you fuck me again.”
“I’ll be nice,” he said, and I sucked on his balls, hard. He groaned.
Darwin fucked me on my side, grabbing my tits and pulling at my nipples as he did.
This time, he came between my shoulder blades, as I lied on my tummy.
He got a paper towel from the kitchen and wiped it off me. I thought that was nice.
I sucked on Darwin’s fingers next.
He put one in my ass.
“Tight,” he groaned. “I want in that ass.”
“Not with that dick, baby, sorry.” My ass was very much a virgin ass.
I sat on his face. Darwin’s rough, rough stubble felt good on my pussy.
I slipped another condom on his cock.
I rode him, screaming and panting. He tried to cover my mouth with his hand. I brushed it away.
We came at the same time. I collapsed on him, his shrinking dick on my thigh.
I went to the bathroom and peed. I didn’t look in the mirror like I normally do. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see what I looked like at that moment. I went back to my room.
Darwin had stolen a cigarette.
“Thought you disapproved of smoking,” I said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth, and taking a drag for myself.
“I approve of that pussy of yours, I’ll tell you that much.”
We lied next to each other in silence, passing the cigarette back and forth. I put it out in the half full Diet Coke can next to my bed.
The man was hard again, sticking straight up. I opened up my legs and he climbed on top of me, and pounded me, my ankles by his ears, his sweat dripping from his face and chest and hitting my next, my tits, my belly.
“I need a break,” Darwin said.
We broke eye contact. He straddled me for a minute his cock, on my tummy. I looked at the clock. I drummed my fingers against the bedpost.
Darwin entered me while I wasn’t looking.
He shook this time as he came. He closed his eyes tight. He was whispering something. Very quietly.
“What are you saying?” I asked.
“Nothing” Darwin said. “Nothing.”
He fucked me two more times in the next hour.
I had more orgasms than I’d like to admit.
Darwin started to fall asleep. I nudged him.
“Darwin? I can’t sleep with someone in my bed.” It was true, I couldn’t. “Could you sleep on the couch?”
He shook his head. “I’ll go,” he said.
“No, no, just sleep on the—“
“That’s okay. The traffic tomorrow morning will be murder, right? I’ll go.”
I sighed. I smiled at him, watched him get dressed.
“You fuck. So. Good.” I said. “Do you want a cranberry juice with some seltzer? And lime? Would that be nice? Before you go?”
Darwin smiled. “I’d like that.”
I made him a drink in my underwear. He gulped it down.
I walked him to the door.
We kissed briefly. We didn’t say goodbye.
I wrote a short email to Darwin the next morning. “Thank you. I’ll be sore for a week.”
Not surprisingly, I never heard back.
Can't say I blame him.
It was never going to get any better than that for Darwin and me.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
First Boyfriend
Jakob was my first boyfriend.
I met him on an adult dating site.
(What did you expect, dear reader—a pottery class?)
We were both somewhat squares at the time, looking to fuck. He like curvy chicks, I liked skinny boys.
Incidentally, Jakob never put a finger in my ass. Jakob never spanked me. Jakob never came on my face or tits. Jakob never called me filthy names. Jakob never managed to fuck me doggie style without getting a cramp. Really, sometimes, Jakob was so vanilla, he was still a bean in the vanilla pod.
But Jakob was also a first for me in many ways.
He was the first boy to tell me I had “a killer body” which is different than “I like your tits.” He was the first boy to buy me dinner. He was the first boy to surprise me with theater tickets. He was the first boy to make out with me in a bar. He was the first boy to fuck me when I had my period. He was the first boy to introduce me to bourbon. He was the first boy to sleep over. He was the first boy who made me cry during sex.
He was my first boyfriend.
I know these things might seem cutesy to many of you. For many of you with long term boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives, perhaps having a significant other is about something deeper, it’s about knowing a person so well, and being comfortable in silence, in sadness, in hope, in pain around them, so comfortable, that the theater tickets and the bourbon and the dinner, are all just romantic details, lovely, silly details for a girl who’s blooming late.
But damn, if Jakob didn’t make me feel all grown up…
The most important thing for you to remember at all times when perusing this blog, reader, was there was a long period of time when I thought I would never kiss a boy. I thought I would never have my nipples in a boy’s mouth. I thought I would never feel a tongue on my clit or an erection on the small of my back at 7:00 am.
So with Jakob, I felt like I won the fucking lottery. Because all this sex stuff. Felt like something more with him.
No one wants to hear the story of a relationship though. Relationships have obvious arcs. Relationships begin and end and thrill us and disappoint us. I’m all for love stories and everything, but isn’t this all about the fuck story? I think it is. I think it’s all about the fuck story. So knowing what you know about lovely Jakob, I’m gonna go ahead and tell the fuck story.
Jakob was the first to take me to a hotel to fuck me.
“Here’s the hotel,” he said. “It’s fine. I’ve been here before.”
“With who?” I said, smiling coyly.
“Silly. When I came to visit Columbia a couple years ago, I stayed here.”
We walked into the hotel. Jakob dealt with the guy at the front desk. There were two girls in the lobby. They were staring at Jakob. He was hot, skinny, tight jeans, tight button down shirt, hipster and dork, dorkster, perfect for this part of town. And he looked damn good tonight.
“Upstairs,” Jakob said. He took my hand.
We walked up the stairs. He put his arm around my waist and his hand slipped down and squeezed my ass. “Jakob!” I hissed. He shrugged.
He opened the door with the key card.
“Here is our den of iniquity, my sweet.” He said. He jumped on the bed. “Get undressed.”
“Hah. I have to use the bathroom.” I looked around for the bathroom. “Wait. Where is it?”
“In the hall. Classy shit, I tell you.”
I laughed.
I went to the restroom.
Fuck.
I came back.
“Jakob, I have my period.”
“So?”
“So?! So I have my period, we can’t—“
“Hahaha, you’re so cute. Baby. We can.”
“We can?”
“We can.” He stood up and unbuttoned his shirt. “You should take off yours, too, you know. It doesn’t work unless we’re both naked.”
I took off my shirt.
“Yummy,” he said. “Skirt, please.”
I took off my skirt.
“Look at this shit,” he said. “So fuckin hot. Every time.” He rubbed my belly. “Gahhh! I love your belly so much!!!” He pinched my sides. I giggled. I melted.
“You’re too sweet,” I said.
“You’re too sexy,” he replied.
Jakob put his hand down my panties. I couldn’t get over the fact that I—I didn’t know people still—that you could—
“Jakob, please, I—“
“Listen, Janie. I don’t care about your fucking period. So you should get over it. Okay?”
I gulped. Okay.
We kissed. We fell onto the bed. We rolled around. I felt him get hard.
“Can I suck your cock now?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I’m gonna eat you out.”
“But Jakob—“
He groaned and sucked on my tit, with pleading eyes.
“What?” he asked, his voice muffled against my breast.
“You’re not kinky.”
He gasped.
“What!?” he said again.
“You’re—you’re not kinky.”
Gosh, I felt shy.
“Oh, I know I’m not. But Janie, dear, this shit is NOT kinky. This is me wanting your pussy on my face right now.” He kissed my neck and quieted down. “Please, baby. I wanna taste you.”
It’s true, Jakob wasn’t kinky.
He just loved my pussy.
He took out my tampon.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“I want to finger you while I’m—“ and he mouth latched onto my clit.
Suddenly, I wasn’t so self-conscious anymore.
Jakob tried extra hard to get me off with his mouth and fingers that night. And I did get off. With his tongue on my clit and his two fingers inside my wet cunt, I came hard, and felt my cramps return right after. It was a good ache. The ache of being a woman.
“Can I suck your cock now, please, baby?” I asked, panting.
“Yes, you sure can.”
He knelt on the bed and I lied down before him, propped up on my elbows. Jakob had the perfect size cock for me to feel like an expert cocksucker as a newbie, wide, but not too long. I had to return the favor. I had to get him off with my mouth. I wanted him to cum down my throat.
“Your mouth. Is amazing. Janie. It’s—“ He sprayed down my throat, coating it. Jakob’s cum was as sweet as Jakob himself. No, really, it was.
“Baby, I never cum from head,” he panted. And grabbed my face, kissing me, hard.
“Now you do,” I said.
We lied down on the bed together. The comforter was rough, not soft. The air conditioner hummed. I felt his chest hair as he felt around my nipples. He kissed me on the nose.
“We have the whole night, you know,” he whispered.
He grabbed my cigarettes from my jeans on the floor and lit up a cigarette.
“You’re so pretty,” he said. I got up, and grabbed a facecloth hanging on a hook by the door. I patted my forehead with the towel, drying off the sweat.
“Please.” I walked back over to the bed. He sat on the edge and started rubbing my tits.
“You’re the pretty one.”
“Fuck, you know, I’m ready to go, again, baby. You want to get fucked?” Jakob bit his lower lip.
“Yes,” I said.
We fucked. Slow and long. He took my legs and pressed them against his chest. That was the first time I had ever been in that position. Something new happened inside my pussy.
“Oh—oh my God. That’s really good, Jakob.”
“We found Janie’s spot, did we?” He fucked me hard.
“Ummmmmm, yesssss!” I exploded on his cock. He kept fucking me. He would watch his cock enter me and then look away. Would look, and look away. “I can’t watch your pussy take my cock. I cum too fast that way.”
So I watched instead. His cock, red with my blood. Wow.
“I want you to cum, baby. I really want you to cum,” I whispered. “Like—now.”
He groaned and his body got stiff. He looked into my eyes with this look that said it all.
“God,” he collapsed on top of me.
His sweat against my sweat was stinging my skin.
“Jakob..”
“Yes, Janie?”
“I like you, you know.”
“I know. I like you, too.”
He slid out of me, pulled on some boxers, and went to the restroom to clean up.
A few moments alone, on this strange bed. I looked at my legs, damp with sweat, and tiny droplets of blood.
He was taking it all. He was taking it from me. I was giving it out. And he was taking it from me. He was giving it to me. And I was taking it from him.
I really did like Jakob. He really was the subtlest boy. Even in his most bold acts during fucking, he was so subtle. His voice, deadpan. You had to really pay attention to what he was saying in order to get it. It was a joy trying to figure him out.
Jakob came back into the room and smiled at me. He filled two plastic cups with water, and gave me one. We sat on the edge of the bed and drank in silence. He leaned over and kissed my neck.
“Do you like the hotel room I got us?” he asked.
“I do,” I said. “Two beds. Very proper.”
“You better sleep in the bed I’m sleeping in, Janie. Or I’ll think you’re just using me for my amazing cock.” He laughed.
“I will. Honey. Are you gonna sleep?” Jakob had trouble sleeping.
“Maybe. Or I’ll just watch you sleep.” He kissed me. I knew he wouldn’t sleep. Every time, we slept together, I woke up to him, looking up at the ceiling, his eyes open and blinking. Bloodshot. We’d get to why he couldn’t sleep in a few weeks.
“Mm, okay,” I lied down on the bed. He lied down next to me.
“Oh, I have to go put in a tampon.”
“You do, dear.” He smiled. “You don’t have to go the bathroom to do that.”
“You’re so funny!” I giggled and walked to the door.
“Why am I funny?” he asked.
“You’re like, I don’t know.” I really didn’t know how to place this feeling.
“It’s called intimacy, Janie.”
Holy shit. That’s what it was called, wasn’t it?
“Gosh,” I whispered. “Intimacy.” I paused at the door, turned around, and put in the tampon.
I came back to the bed. I lied on my side. He lied on his, my ass towards him.
“Turn off the light, Janie? Will you?”
I did.
“I might have to fuck you again in a little bit. With us lying like this,” Jakob whispered into my ear. “Your ass on my cock is a bit disturbing. In a good way.” He bit my earlobe.
Minutes lately, Jakob fucked me gently, noiselessly on my side. Neither of us came. There was no need for more orgasms. Jakob massaged my breasts lightly as I fell asleep. A few hours later, I woke up to him, staring at the ceiling, anxiously. I touched his cheek and he smiled. His stubble was rough. The dark circles under his eyes made him look older. Sexier. He had secrets. I wanted to know them.
“Morning, pretty,” he whispered.
We fucked until we had to check out.
Jakob was my first boyfriend, the first boy to take me to a hotel and fuck me until check out and buy me coffee before we hopped on our separate trains. I rode the train that day, knowing I could love Jakob, eventually. That made me smile.
The possibility of love, sometimes, seemingly as beautiful as love itself.
I met him on an adult dating site.
(What did you expect, dear reader—a pottery class?)
We were both somewhat squares at the time, looking to fuck. He like curvy chicks, I liked skinny boys.
Incidentally, Jakob never put a finger in my ass. Jakob never spanked me. Jakob never came on my face or tits. Jakob never called me filthy names. Jakob never managed to fuck me doggie style without getting a cramp. Really, sometimes, Jakob was so vanilla, he was still a bean in the vanilla pod.
But Jakob was also a first for me in many ways.
He was the first boy to tell me I had “a killer body” which is different than “I like your tits.” He was the first boy to buy me dinner. He was the first boy to surprise me with theater tickets. He was the first boy to make out with me in a bar. He was the first boy to fuck me when I had my period. He was the first boy to introduce me to bourbon. He was the first boy to sleep over. He was the first boy who made me cry during sex.
He was my first boyfriend.
I know these things might seem cutesy to many of you. For many of you with long term boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives, perhaps having a significant other is about something deeper, it’s about knowing a person so well, and being comfortable in silence, in sadness, in hope, in pain around them, so comfortable, that the theater tickets and the bourbon and the dinner, are all just romantic details, lovely, silly details for a girl who’s blooming late.
But damn, if Jakob didn’t make me feel all grown up…
The most important thing for you to remember at all times when perusing this blog, reader, was there was a long period of time when I thought I would never kiss a boy. I thought I would never have my nipples in a boy’s mouth. I thought I would never feel a tongue on my clit or an erection on the small of my back at 7:00 am.
So with Jakob, I felt like I won the fucking lottery. Because all this sex stuff. Felt like something more with him.
No one wants to hear the story of a relationship though. Relationships have obvious arcs. Relationships begin and end and thrill us and disappoint us. I’m all for love stories and everything, but isn’t this all about the fuck story? I think it is. I think it’s all about the fuck story. So knowing what you know about lovely Jakob, I’m gonna go ahead and tell the fuck story.
Jakob was the first to take me to a hotel to fuck me.
“Here’s the hotel,” he said. “It’s fine. I’ve been here before.”
“With who?” I said, smiling coyly.
“Silly. When I came to visit Columbia a couple years ago, I stayed here.”
We walked into the hotel. Jakob dealt with the guy at the front desk. There were two girls in the lobby. They were staring at Jakob. He was hot, skinny, tight jeans, tight button down shirt, hipster and dork, dorkster, perfect for this part of town. And he looked damn good tonight.
“Upstairs,” Jakob said. He took my hand.
We walked up the stairs. He put his arm around my waist and his hand slipped down and squeezed my ass. “Jakob!” I hissed. He shrugged.
He opened the door with the key card.
“Here is our den of iniquity, my sweet.” He said. He jumped on the bed. “Get undressed.”
“Hah. I have to use the bathroom.” I looked around for the bathroom. “Wait. Where is it?”
“In the hall. Classy shit, I tell you.”
I laughed.
I went to the restroom.
Fuck.
I came back.
“Jakob, I have my period.”
“So?”
“So?! So I have my period, we can’t—“
“Hahaha, you’re so cute. Baby. We can.”
“We can?”
“We can.” He stood up and unbuttoned his shirt. “You should take off yours, too, you know. It doesn’t work unless we’re both naked.”
I took off my shirt.
“Yummy,” he said. “Skirt, please.”
I took off my skirt.
“Look at this shit,” he said. “So fuckin hot. Every time.” He rubbed my belly. “Gahhh! I love your belly so much!!!” He pinched my sides. I giggled. I melted.
“You’re too sweet,” I said.
“You’re too sexy,” he replied.
Jakob put his hand down my panties. I couldn’t get over the fact that I—I didn’t know people still—that you could—
“Jakob, please, I—“
“Listen, Janie. I don’t care about your fucking period. So you should get over it. Okay?”
I gulped. Okay.
We kissed. We fell onto the bed. We rolled around. I felt him get hard.
“Can I suck your cock now?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I’m gonna eat you out.”
“But Jakob—“
He groaned and sucked on my tit, with pleading eyes.
“What?” he asked, his voice muffled against my breast.
“You’re not kinky.”
He gasped.
“What!?” he said again.
“You’re—you’re not kinky.”
Gosh, I felt shy.
“Oh, I know I’m not. But Janie, dear, this shit is NOT kinky. This is me wanting your pussy on my face right now.” He kissed my neck and quieted down. “Please, baby. I wanna taste you.”
It’s true, Jakob wasn’t kinky.
He just loved my pussy.
He took out my tampon.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“I want to finger you while I’m—“ and he mouth latched onto my clit.
Suddenly, I wasn’t so self-conscious anymore.
Jakob tried extra hard to get me off with his mouth and fingers that night. And I did get off. With his tongue on my clit and his two fingers inside my wet cunt, I came hard, and felt my cramps return right after. It was a good ache. The ache of being a woman.
“Can I suck your cock now, please, baby?” I asked, panting.
“Yes, you sure can.”
He knelt on the bed and I lied down before him, propped up on my elbows. Jakob had the perfect size cock for me to feel like an expert cocksucker as a newbie, wide, but not too long. I had to return the favor. I had to get him off with my mouth. I wanted him to cum down my throat.
“Your mouth. Is amazing. Janie. It’s—“ He sprayed down my throat, coating it. Jakob’s cum was as sweet as Jakob himself. No, really, it was.
“Baby, I never cum from head,” he panted. And grabbed my face, kissing me, hard.
“Now you do,” I said.
We lied down on the bed together. The comforter was rough, not soft. The air conditioner hummed. I felt his chest hair as he felt around my nipples. He kissed me on the nose.
“We have the whole night, you know,” he whispered.
He grabbed my cigarettes from my jeans on the floor and lit up a cigarette.
“You’re so pretty,” he said. I got up, and grabbed a facecloth hanging on a hook by the door. I patted my forehead with the towel, drying off the sweat.
“Please.” I walked back over to the bed. He sat on the edge and started rubbing my tits.
“You’re the pretty one.”
“Fuck, you know, I’m ready to go, again, baby. You want to get fucked?” Jakob bit his lower lip.
“Yes,” I said.
We fucked. Slow and long. He took my legs and pressed them against his chest. That was the first time I had ever been in that position. Something new happened inside my pussy.
“Oh—oh my God. That’s really good, Jakob.”
“We found Janie’s spot, did we?” He fucked me hard.
“Ummmmmm, yesssss!” I exploded on his cock. He kept fucking me. He would watch his cock enter me and then look away. Would look, and look away. “I can’t watch your pussy take my cock. I cum too fast that way.”
So I watched instead. His cock, red with my blood. Wow.
“I want you to cum, baby. I really want you to cum,” I whispered. “Like—now.”
He groaned and his body got stiff. He looked into my eyes with this look that said it all.
“God,” he collapsed on top of me.
His sweat against my sweat was stinging my skin.
“Jakob..”
“Yes, Janie?”
“I like you, you know.”
“I know. I like you, too.”
He slid out of me, pulled on some boxers, and went to the restroom to clean up.
A few moments alone, on this strange bed. I looked at my legs, damp with sweat, and tiny droplets of blood.
He was taking it all. He was taking it from me. I was giving it out. And he was taking it from me. He was giving it to me. And I was taking it from him.
I really did like Jakob. He really was the subtlest boy. Even in his most bold acts during fucking, he was so subtle. His voice, deadpan. You had to really pay attention to what he was saying in order to get it. It was a joy trying to figure him out.
Jakob came back into the room and smiled at me. He filled two plastic cups with water, and gave me one. We sat on the edge of the bed and drank in silence. He leaned over and kissed my neck.
“Do you like the hotel room I got us?” he asked.
“I do,” I said. “Two beds. Very proper.”
“You better sleep in the bed I’m sleeping in, Janie. Or I’ll think you’re just using me for my amazing cock.” He laughed.
“I will. Honey. Are you gonna sleep?” Jakob had trouble sleeping.
“Maybe. Or I’ll just watch you sleep.” He kissed me. I knew he wouldn’t sleep. Every time, we slept together, I woke up to him, looking up at the ceiling, his eyes open and blinking. Bloodshot. We’d get to why he couldn’t sleep in a few weeks.
“Mm, okay,” I lied down on the bed. He lied down next to me.
“Oh, I have to go put in a tampon.”
“You do, dear.” He smiled. “You don’t have to go the bathroom to do that.”
“You’re so funny!” I giggled and walked to the door.
“Why am I funny?” he asked.
“You’re like, I don’t know.” I really didn’t know how to place this feeling.
“It’s called intimacy, Janie.”
Holy shit. That’s what it was called, wasn’t it?
“Gosh,” I whispered. “Intimacy.” I paused at the door, turned around, and put in the tampon.
I came back to the bed. I lied on my side. He lied on his, my ass towards him.
“Turn off the light, Janie? Will you?”
I did.
“I might have to fuck you again in a little bit. With us lying like this,” Jakob whispered into my ear. “Your ass on my cock is a bit disturbing. In a good way.” He bit my earlobe.
Minutes lately, Jakob fucked me gently, noiselessly on my side. Neither of us came. There was no need for more orgasms. Jakob massaged my breasts lightly as I fell asleep. A few hours later, I woke up to him, staring at the ceiling, anxiously. I touched his cheek and he smiled. His stubble was rough. The dark circles under his eyes made him look older. Sexier. He had secrets. I wanted to know them.
“Morning, pretty,” he whispered.
We fucked until we had to check out.
Jakob was my first boyfriend, the first boy to take me to a hotel and fuck me until check out and buy me coffee before we hopped on our separate trains. I rode the train that day, knowing I could love Jakob, eventually. That made me smile.
The possibility of love, sometimes, seemingly as beautiful as love itself.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
The Continuing Tale of Getting Over It
Lately, I’ve been doing a very good job at keeping a certain boy out of my thoughts and my daily actions. This boy led me on and, oh, how I was so easily led. In a post a few weeks ago, I talked about how, suddenly, through some sexual healing and some small kind of epiphany, I felt free of him and ready to move on…
But last night, he fucking showed up in a dream of mine.
Bastard.
Now, in real life I have blocked said boy from my email, my instant messenger. And since he never really called me, I haven’t been nervous about him leaving me voicemail.
But last night, in my dream, he left me a message on my phone. And the scariest and most disturbing part of it was, the message--it was completely mundane.
“Hi Janie. It’s me. So, I was up in your neighborhood today and I was hoping we could get together. We keep missing each other! So give me a call or shoot me an email and hopefully we can get drinks, and then maybe finally…well, you know. Sound good? Okay. Hope you’re well. Bye!”
I absolutely broke down in the dream. He just didn’t get it. This fear of him not getting it, this I why I never want to hear from him. I don’t want to hear his apologies. None of them will ever be enough because I know he doesn’t really understand. He’s all about lip service, he’s all about excuses. Oh, gosh. I hate to say it, but I don’t really know what he’s about. Every time he gave me an excuse, I believed it. I ate it up like it was my favorite childhood candy.
And in this dream, he had no excuses. This broke my heart even more.
The dream was just one of sound, just his voice, I couldn’t see my hand holding the phone in the dream. It was just his voice. And then, the sound of my crying, my stuffed up nose, sniffling, and that hysterical crying-coughing you get after you've been crying for too long.
Okay. So each day, it hurts a little less, admittedly. But I must also admit that he works only three blocks from where I work. And I used to walk down his block every day as it was the quickest way to get to my work in the morning, and to my train at night. Now, I walk down a different street, because I’m afraid to run into him. I’m afraid he’ll just say, “Hi, gosh where you been? I haven’t seen you online!”—clueless, shameless. My hope is that this time, he knows to keep away.
But there’s no him keeping away in my dreams.
I woke up this morning and checked my voicemail, with some trepidation. I had one message. It turned out to be from my mother. She was wondering which kitchen cart I liked better from Target, the one with the pull out butcher block or the one with the drawers. She’s finishing up her Christmas shopping this week.
A friend once told me when you break up with a boy, it’s not the loss of the boy that you’re mourning, it’s the end of the idea of who you thought he was. It’s not the boy himself. He goes on, he’s the same as ever. So do I, I guess, I go on. But am I the same?
But last night, he fucking showed up in a dream of mine.
Bastard.
Now, in real life I have blocked said boy from my email, my instant messenger. And since he never really called me, I haven’t been nervous about him leaving me voicemail.
But last night, in my dream, he left me a message on my phone. And the scariest and most disturbing part of it was, the message--it was completely mundane.
“Hi Janie. It’s me. So, I was up in your neighborhood today and I was hoping we could get together. We keep missing each other! So give me a call or shoot me an email and hopefully we can get drinks, and then maybe finally…well, you know. Sound good? Okay. Hope you’re well. Bye!”
I absolutely broke down in the dream. He just didn’t get it. This fear of him not getting it, this I why I never want to hear from him. I don’t want to hear his apologies. None of them will ever be enough because I know he doesn’t really understand. He’s all about lip service, he’s all about excuses. Oh, gosh. I hate to say it, but I don’t really know what he’s about. Every time he gave me an excuse, I believed it. I ate it up like it was my favorite childhood candy.
And in this dream, he had no excuses. This broke my heart even more.
The dream was just one of sound, just his voice, I couldn’t see my hand holding the phone in the dream. It was just his voice. And then, the sound of my crying, my stuffed up nose, sniffling, and that hysterical crying-coughing you get after you've been crying for too long.
Okay. So each day, it hurts a little less, admittedly. But I must also admit that he works only three blocks from where I work. And I used to walk down his block every day as it was the quickest way to get to my work in the morning, and to my train at night. Now, I walk down a different street, because I’m afraid to run into him. I’m afraid he’ll just say, “Hi, gosh where you been? I haven’t seen you online!”—clueless, shameless. My hope is that this time, he knows to keep away.
But there’s no him keeping away in my dreams.
I woke up this morning and checked my voicemail, with some trepidation. I had one message. It turned out to be from my mother. She was wondering which kitchen cart I liked better from Target, the one with the pull out butcher block or the one with the drawers. She’s finishing up her Christmas shopping this week.
A friend once told me when you break up with a boy, it’s not the loss of the boy that you’re mourning, it’s the end of the idea of who you thought he was. It’s not the boy himself. He goes on, he’s the same as ever. So do I, I guess, I go on. But am I the same?
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Adventures in Craigslisting: Part II
John and I found a booth in the back of the bar. I had sat in this same booth many times with friends, when family visited. This was just my neighborhood pub. But tonight, the place took on an entirely different air. Even the waitress seemed to be coyer than usual:
“What can I get for you two this evening?” She took her pen out from behind her ear.
“Um, “ I said, “Well, we’re just going to have drinks.”
“Fantastic choice,’ she said. “Girl, I hope he’s buyin’.”
And she winked at me. Waitresses at this pub don’t normally do things like wink. They sigh. They grumble. They forget your onion rings. At that moment, I had the strange thought that Craig’s List had sent out an all-city alert about my Birthday Fuck Date, which this waitress had received. It was the only explanation for her cuteness.
“I’ll have a Bud,” he said. “Tap.”
“I have a Stoli’s Vanilla and ginger ale.” I said. John laughed.
“I’ll go and get those for you,” the waitress said.
John was still giggling about my girly drink.
“What?” I said. “Did you get the email? It’s my birthday.”
“I did get the email, in fact. I’m really glad you chose me, Janie. If you could indulge for me a second, why me? I mean, I’m sure you got hundreds of responses.”
“You’re smart,” I said. “You seemed confident, but not overly so. Lots of dudes seemed to think they really needed to prove something in the very first email. You simply offered information. I mean, interesting information, of course, but nothing too brazen.” He nodded and smiled. Then, things got quiet for a minute. You know those moments of quiet on first dates. I am scared of those moments when they first occur, but then I remember that I’m a female, and I have those feminine wiles things, so I smile at the boy across from me or cock an eyebrow, and he smiles back, or cocks the other eyebrow, and the moment passes.
I smiled at John. He smiled back.
“So I take it your name isn’t really John Keats,” I said. Our drinks came.
“You are right. Though my name is John. Is your name really Janie?”
“For now,” I said. “I might want you calling me something else later on.”
He choked on his beer a little bit. “You’re a flirt, miss!”
“Was there ever any doubt?” I countered. “My drink is really strong. Try it. It’s amazing.”
John took a sip, cautiously. “You know. It’s nice. It kinda tastes like candy.”
“I know! That’s exactly what it tastes like. Candy that’ll get you fucked up.” I was feeling good about this date. In fact, I knew at that moment when he agreed to try my drink that I was definitely wanted to see him naked.
“I’m really glad you chose me, Janie,” John said again. I was realizing now. He was definitely a bit of a dork. Or at least, definitely nervous. The way he behaved outside when he first saw me, super confident, super direct, with a kiss on the neck to greet me—I think he might have practiced that greeting. Now that we were in the date, John’s nerves were beginning to show. And I liked that. It showed he felt as though he had something to lose. Which was very enticing.
“I’m so glad I chose you, too, John! You got all dressed up for our date. I love that!” I giggled and touched his hand.
“Oh, ha. I did. It’s your birthday and all. I couldn’t very well wear a t-shirt and jeans. Have I said that you look very nice this evening as well?” John’s eyes went down to my tits. He stared at them. For a good four seconds or so. I cleared my throat, loudly, and then rolled my eyes at him, playfully. He leaned in.
“I’m looking at your breasts, Janie. It’s true. Because they’re spectacular.” Wow! Sudden boldness again! Maybe the nervous part was just an act—or maybe, just maybe, when a man notices something he likes about a woman, a confidence chemical is quickly released in his brain, and he is able to flirt. I blushed. My blushing chemical had just been concurrently released.
“Thank you,” I said. “I made them myself.”
John laughed. We ordered another drink.
“I think I’m gonna get the drink that you got, Janie. Vanilla Stoli’s and ginger ale, was it?”
I beamed. “Two then,” I said.
The drinks came quickly. Hand touches. Eye contact. Me, leaning into, and pushing my upper arms against the sides of my tits to create cleavage. He told me he had a house-share in the Hamptons and that that fact was the most impressive thing about him, in the materialistic sense. The rest of his life he lived not so lavishly. His first novel about tourism was being published that fall.
“Tourism is hot. So many obvious literary themes in the concept—the idea of “the other”, colonization, retreat, Bacchanalia.” I said.
John sipped at his Stoli’s and winced. I think it was a bit too sweet for him. “You’re right, Janie. You’re a bit of a nerd.”
“Yes,” I said, proudly. “I am. Which means I know how to do a lot of things well.”
John raised an eyebrow.
“That was supposed to be cool sexual innuendo, but it came out really awkwardly,” I explained. He cocked his head to the side. “What?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just glad to meet you,” John said. I believe that was the fourth time he’d said it. I looked down at his glass. It was empty. It was time.
“Um, John. I’m done with drinking, are you?” I asked.
“Yeah. I think I’m all set.”
“So. Do you wanna come back to my place and hang out, then?” Suddenly, I was the one with nerves. I knew this was the plan all along, but I was still a bit nervous he’d say no. Rejection is, at any time, a possibility.
“I would love to.” He put down a couple some cash. “Let’s go.”
I put on my coat. John tried to help me put it on, but I don’t know how to allow that. I still have to work on being a passive coat-putter-on-er. It was a nice try on John’s part. I think I might have accidentally elbowed him as he tried to assist. Oh well.
He put on his black leather jacket. “Ba-ba-ba-ba-bad, ba-ba-ba-ba-bad, bad the to the bone!” I sang.
“Are you making fun of my black leather jacket?” John asked, as we exited the bar.
“No,” I said. “I was just simply reminded of that song and I thought I’d treat you to some of my wonderful song stylings. Aren’t I a good singer?” I put my arm around his waist. He smiled and put his arm around mine.
“You’re a really good singer.”
“Brr, it’s cold,” I said, as we crossed the street.
“Come closer,” John said.
“Oh, we’re almost there.”
“No,” John said, pulling me nearer to him as we walked. His eyes got suddenly very intense. “Come closer, Janie.”
My pussy woke up at that moment. I have to say, and this probably isn’t exactly a stunning surprise, I like it when boys tell me what to do.. Or rather, my cunt aches for direction, my mouth sometimes knows only one word, which is, accordingly, “Yes.” At that moment, I was John’s.
I got closer.
We arrived at my apartment. “I have two roommates,” I said. “Which only means I have two roommates.”
“Hah, you’re not nervous that they’ll see you bringing a boy home? Or hear your cries of ecstasy?” he whispered hot in to my ear. Remember that game “Operator, Operator”? Everyone sits around in a circle and whispers a phrase into the ear of the person sitting next to them, and supposedly, the fun of it is, the phrase morphing and changing into something completely different and silly by the time the last person in the circle heard of it and says it aloud. Well, the silly rephrasing—that wasn’t actually the fun part for me. The fun part was the sensation of someone whispering into my ear. Their breath, hot on my lobes.
I got so wet during that game.
Anyway.
“Nah,” I said. “One of them knows you’re coming over anyway.” I blurted out.
“Well well well, who’s Miss Kiss and Tell?”
“We haven’t really kissed yet.” I whispered. “Here, this is my room. Make yourself comfortable. I have to pee.”
Being a late bloomer, I had a twin bed back then. Boys usually reacted favorably to this, actually. It reminded them of brief and hurried adolescent trysts, forbidden make out sessions while the parents were away, and all that other formative sexual stuff.
I peed and as I washed my hands, I looked at myself in the mirror. I had that glow of cold, drunkenness, arousal. This is what the birthday girl looked like on her birthday.
I crept down the hall to my bedroom. John was lying on the bed, shoes off, shirt unbuttoned at the top. He’d made himself quite at home. He’d already lit a candle on my bedside table. The lit candle made me smile. I walked over to the bed. He sat up. I stood before him. He put his head on my chest, in between my breasts.
“Mmm,” he moaned. “Can we please take off that shirt now?”
I nodded. I let him take off the shirt. I have no problem with boys undressing me.
My tits were bulging in my new black birthday bra.
“Pretty,” John said. He traced the lacing up top with his fingers, then slipped his hands underneath the bra. “My my, your tits go on forever. So deep. Where are those pretty nipples of yours?
I inhaled sharply and took off the bra. He stood up. I unbuttoned his shirt. I grabbed his face and kissed him hard, our bodies pressed together, the soft fuzz of his chest hair warm against my tits. He moaned and I sighed a girlish sigh.
“Janie, you’re so sexy.”
“Oh, God. You are too,” I was telling the truth.
We kept kissing as I slipped off my shoes and he instinctively went for the zipper on my jeans. I hurriedly pulled off my jeans and his hand went from my hard nipples to my already dripping cunt. “You are so wet.”
“I have been all day,” I said. “I’m sort of slutty that way.”
He grinned and unbuckled his belt, I pulled down his pants. His cock stood at full attention in a pair of white briefs. I love briefs. Boxers are cute but briefs show the package so much better. I know some people say they look silly, but not to me. And in fact, his cock did look big. I gasped when I found a wet spot on his underwear.
“Mmm, you’re wet, too, baby.” He blushed and nodded, shyly.
I pulled down his briefs. His cock stood fully erect and ever so purple, screaming at me to be stroked. We just stood there, for a bit, jerking each other off. No kissing, just one hand from each of us exploring the areas down there on the other, eyes intent on one another’s bodies, the sounds of wet fingers and breathing.
“I wanna suck those fucking tits,” John said suddenly. He pushed me down onto the bed and crawled on top of me. “Fuck, Janie. I love these curves.” His mouth went to my nipples, sucking tenderly, nibbling. It was pleasant, but not exactly rough enough for my tastes. It was then that I remembered.
“I bought something for us today,” I giggled.
He looked up from my tits, his face, red, his brow, sweaty. “Oh. What’s that?”
I reached into the drawer by my nightstand. “Nipple clamps.”
“Oh, my.” He said. “Hot.”
“Do you want to put them on me?” I asked. I started to play with my clit absentmindedly. He watched me as I did that, fondling the chain of the clamps.
“Fuck yes,” he said. He fiddled with the screws and touched the black rubber of the clamps. “Do you want them very tight?”
“Yes, I do. I want you to torture my tits with those, baby.”
“Yes, fuck, god. I want to fuck you.”
“Soon,” I whispered, and he pinched open a clamp and attached it to my right nipple. I gasped.
“Ohhhh, god.” My cunt screamed at me.
“Does that feel good?” he asked. “Does it hurt?”
“Yes,” I said. “And yes.”
“God, Janie, you look so sexy right now. The other one?” he asked. I nodded. He secured the second clamp to my left nipple. I winced.
“Jesus Christ,” I said. “That’s so fucking intense.”
“Does it feel good?” he asked again, his eyes wide.
“Fuck yes, it feels good. You want me to suck your cock while I wear these?”
“Shit. Suck my fucking cock, yes.” He lied down on the bed, his hands underneath the back of his head. He smiled at me. I felt another twinge. An electric impulse shooting across my breasts from nipple to nipple then zapping my hot pink pussy. I kissed him hard, felt his tongue swirl around mine, and I grabbed his cock. I took my hand off his cock and spat on it and then made him lick my palm. I kissed his neck, his nipples, licked the area around his belly button, massaged his hip bones until I felt his body melt under my hands, and I put my wet hand on the base of his cock, attacking the head with my mouth. I felt the clamps working as my tongue swirled around the head of his cock. “Oh, Janie. What a fucking hot mouth you have, girl.” I gobbled his knob and kept my tongue moving underneath. I took my hand from the base of his cock and cupped his balls which were firm and hairless. My mouth sucked his cock hard, with a lot of spit, and a lot of fast up, down, up, down. I heard him sigh and suddenly, my cunt was on fire, and I sucked him harder, and faster, so very greedy. The clamps were doing their work. I don’t know how they knew to tell my mouth to fucking suck cock like a motherfucking cock slut, but they did. And John was writhing around, his toes curling, squealing like a girl. I licked his balls, pointing my tongue and then flattening it out, and then ever so delicately, I popped his balls into my mouth and sucked, softly, wet, and slow.
“You suck some good cock, baby,” John moaned.
“Mhmmm,” I moaned, mouth full of dick.
“You’re gonna make me cum. But I don’t wanna cum now. Can I eat your pussy, Janie?”
I smiled, drool leaking out the sides of my mouth. “You can.”
We switched positions. He kissed me and played with my tits, juggling them in his hands, the chain of the clamps making the slightest tinkly sound. “How do your nipples feel right now?”
I looked down at them. They were so hard, so purple, so big. The biggest I’d ever seen them. “They feel so good, John. These clamps are a present to myself, you know.”
“They look really hot. I can’t wait to taste your pussy.” He blew on my clit. “Fuck, girl. Your cunt is so red right now. Did anyone ever tell you how big your clitty gets?”
“Yes,” I said. “I have been told.”
He licked the lips and softly touched my asshole with his fingers. Then I felt his tongue move up under my hood and around my clit. He began sucking on it, hard. He knew instinctively how I like my pussy eaten. Hard and fast, like it’s a cock. I know men are told it’s a delicate area, but what can I say? My pussy likes to be played with in a slightly brutal fashion at time. He put two fingers in me and started to massage my gspot as he sucked and nibbled away at my clitty.
“Yes, baby. That’s good,” I said and looked down at him. He paused for a moment, smiled at me, then spat crudely on my pussy. I felt his spit roll down into my asshole and I writhed around as he continued to drink in all my juice. The pain my nipples had now completely disappeared and turned into a delicious heat. I moaned and begin to swivel my hips around, wanting his mouth everywhere. He took a deep breath and started to fuck me faster with fingers, pulling at my clit with his mouth until my back arched and I came. I grabbed his arm and pulled his hand up to my mouth to suck on his fingers.
“Good girl,” he said. “My cock wants in there now. God. You’re so wet.”
I tossed him a condom from my drawer. He rolled it on, massaging my tummy as he did, squeezing my belly. This immediately got me so much wetter. My stomach is the place where I hold most of my vulnerability, most of my insecurity. Therefore, it’s the most sensitive part on my body. I swear, you could touch my tummy with your fingertips for ten minutes, and that’s it, and I would cum, most likely. I’ve learned that my stomach is a powerful part of my body, round, bigger than many girls’ stomachs, but oh so sensitive.
And sensitivity is, in fact, power.
John entered me. With just an inch of his cock in me, he pulled out.
“Haha,” I giggled. “That’s funny. Fuck me, please.”
He put his inch back in and took it out.
“Come on, John. Fuck me.”
He nodded. “I am fucking you.”
Now I’ve since learned that many boys say this is a common move, using only a fraction of their length and girth to fuck a girl for a while, to tease her and to prolong their own erections.
But no one has done this as well as John.
In, out, in, out. Two inches. I groaned. In, out, in out. I wiggled around, lifting my pussy to get more of him. He put his hands down on my hips and shook his head.
“Greedy little pussy you have there, Janie.”
I exhaled. “Mmmm. Yes. You feel so nice, but—“
“Shhh, this is what you’re getting. This is it. Three inches now. That’s it, Janie. How do you feel about that?”
Three inches suddenly felt like more than that. I groaned, my pussy tightening up. “Please, John. Please fuck me.”
“What?” he asked, sighing, lazily, his thumb on my clit.
“John, I want you to fuck me now. Hard.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought I was. Fuck.” He kept at it with three inches.
“But John, you have such a big, beautiful cock. Don’t you want my cunt strangling it? Don’t you want to my feel my wet pussy all over it? Fuck, baby. Please. Just fuck me.”
John paused. He looked down at me and smiled, so kind. And then ever so slowly, he slid all of his cock into me. And I went nuts.
“Oh, fucking shit!!! Yes!!” I yelled.
“Your roommates,” he whispered, smiling.
“Fuck them, just fuck ME, you fucking—gahhhh….” I melted away as he started to pound my pussy. I stretched my legs out. He pushed on them harder. I aimed my pussy up. He began hitting my gspot over and over again. I took off the nipple clamps.
“Ohhhhhh my God!” All of a sudden, the clamps felt as intense as ever, and they were off, on the floor. “My my—oh, God, John, please!”
He fucked me. Hard. I was sweating, profusely, I realized, from the clamps, and from his cock plowing me. John slammed into me, as hard as I’d ever been fucked and suddenly, I came, fast, hard, so wet. I felt the juice on my thighs.
“Yesssssss,” John said. “Yes, girl, that shit is fucking hot.”
I recovered quickly enough to remember that the beautiful gift of his cum was still to, well, come. “Cum on my face, John, cum on my face, cum on my fucking face right now!” His face changed and I knew those words had gotten him close, just like that. He pulled out and threw the condom on the floor.
“Ugh, Janie, oh God, I’m gonna cum.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it, give me your fucking cum.”
He jerked off above me and suddenly, white streams of his cum struck my neck, my nose, my forehead, and the wall behind me.
“Uhhhhhhh,” he bellowed. “Yeahhhhhh.”
I giggled, and touched the tip of my nose, feeling a drop of cum there. I licked my finger with vigor. I stuck out my tongue to show him I’d swallowed. Then he wiped my neck with his fingers and stuck three of them in my mouth. I saw his stomach moving as his breathing became regular again. I licked off his fingers and rubbed his chest. John collapsed on me. He lied on top of me, completely still. My nipples were a bit sore. We were quiet.
I giggled.
“What?” he said, his voice muffled against my tits.
“You fuck good,” I said.
He looked up at me. “Thank you. So do you, dear.”
We were silent. He rolled off of me.
“Janie?”
“Yes?”
“This was my first Craig’s List date.”
“Mine, too,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Yup,” I answered. I grabbed a cigarette from my nightstand and lit up. I had a feeling John was very tired and that he’d soon ask to be excuse.
“Hmm,” he said.
“What?” I asked. “You tired?”
“No,’ he replied. “It’s just. Do you think. Can I loosen up those nipple clamps? And put them on your outer labia?”
I blinked.
“After my cigarette?”
“Oh, yes. After your cigarette. Because,” he took my cigarette from me and took a drag. “I’m not done with the birthday girl just yet.”
“That,” I said, taking my cigarette back, “makes me a very happy birthday girl, indeed.”
“What can I get for you two this evening?” She took her pen out from behind her ear.
“Um, “ I said, “Well, we’re just going to have drinks.”
“Fantastic choice,’ she said. “Girl, I hope he’s buyin’.”
And she winked at me. Waitresses at this pub don’t normally do things like wink. They sigh. They grumble. They forget your onion rings. At that moment, I had the strange thought that Craig’s List had sent out an all-city alert about my Birthday Fuck Date, which this waitress had received. It was the only explanation for her cuteness.
“I’ll have a Bud,” he said. “Tap.”
“I have a Stoli’s Vanilla and ginger ale.” I said. John laughed.
“I’ll go and get those for you,” the waitress said.
John was still giggling about my girly drink.
“What?” I said. “Did you get the email? It’s my birthday.”
“I did get the email, in fact. I’m really glad you chose me, Janie. If you could indulge for me a second, why me? I mean, I’m sure you got hundreds of responses.”
“You’re smart,” I said. “You seemed confident, but not overly so. Lots of dudes seemed to think they really needed to prove something in the very first email. You simply offered information. I mean, interesting information, of course, but nothing too brazen.” He nodded and smiled. Then, things got quiet for a minute. You know those moments of quiet on first dates. I am scared of those moments when they first occur, but then I remember that I’m a female, and I have those feminine wiles things, so I smile at the boy across from me or cock an eyebrow, and he smiles back, or cocks the other eyebrow, and the moment passes.
I smiled at John. He smiled back.
“So I take it your name isn’t really John Keats,” I said. Our drinks came.
“You are right. Though my name is John. Is your name really Janie?”
“For now,” I said. “I might want you calling me something else later on.”
He choked on his beer a little bit. “You’re a flirt, miss!”
“Was there ever any doubt?” I countered. “My drink is really strong. Try it. It’s amazing.”
John took a sip, cautiously. “You know. It’s nice. It kinda tastes like candy.”
“I know! That’s exactly what it tastes like. Candy that’ll get you fucked up.” I was feeling good about this date. In fact, I knew at that moment when he agreed to try my drink that I was definitely wanted to see him naked.
“I’m really glad you chose me, Janie,” John said again. I was realizing now. He was definitely a bit of a dork. Or at least, definitely nervous. The way he behaved outside when he first saw me, super confident, super direct, with a kiss on the neck to greet me—I think he might have practiced that greeting. Now that we were in the date, John’s nerves were beginning to show. And I liked that. It showed he felt as though he had something to lose. Which was very enticing.
“I’m so glad I chose you, too, John! You got all dressed up for our date. I love that!” I giggled and touched his hand.
“Oh, ha. I did. It’s your birthday and all. I couldn’t very well wear a t-shirt and jeans. Have I said that you look very nice this evening as well?” John’s eyes went down to my tits. He stared at them. For a good four seconds or so. I cleared my throat, loudly, and then rolled my eyes at him, playfully. He leaned in.
“I’m looking at your breasts, Janie. It’s true. Because they’re spectacular.” Wow! Sudden boldness again! Maybe the nervous part was just an act—or maybe, just maybe, when a man notices something he likes about a woman, a confidence chemical is quickly released in his brain, and he is able to flirt. I blushed. My blushing chemical had just been concurrently released.
“Thank you,” I said. “I made them myself.”
John laughed. We ordered another drink.
“I think I’m gonna get the drink that you got, Janie. Vanilla Stoli’s and ginger ale, was it?”
I beamed. “Two then,” I said.
The drinks came quickly. Hand touches. Eye contact. Me, leaning into, and pushing my upper arms against the sides of my tits to create cleavage. He told me he had a house-share in the Hamptons and that that fact was the most impressive thing about him, in the materialistic sense. The rest of his life he lived not so lavishly. His first novel about tourism was being published that fall.
“Tourism is hot. So many obvious literary themes in the concept—the idea of “the other”, colonization, retreat, Bacchanalia.” I said.
John sipped at his Stoli’s and winced. I think it was a bit too sweet for him. “You’re right, Janie. You’re a bit of a nerd.”
“Yes,” I said, proudly. “I am. Which means I know how to do a lot of things well.”
John raised an eyebrow.
“That was supposed to be cool sexual innuendo, but it came out really awkwardly,” I explained. He cocked his head to the side. “What?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just glad to meet you,” John said. I believe that was the fourth time he’d said it. I looked down at his glass. It was empty. It was time.
“Um, John. I’m done with drinking, are you?” I asked.
“Yeah. I think I’m all set.”
“So. Do you wanna come back to my place and hang out, then?” Suddenly, I was the one with nerves. I knew this was the plan all along, but I was still a bit nervous he’d say no. Rejection is, at any time, a possibility.
“I would love to.” He put down a couple some cash. “Let’s go.”
I put on my coat. John tried to help me put it on, but I don’t know how to allow that. I still have to work on being a passive coat-putter-on-er. It was a nice try on John’s part. I think I might have accidentally elbowed him as he tried to assist. Oh well.
He put on his black leather jacket. “Ba-ba-ba-ba-bad, ba-ba-ba-ba-bad, bad the to the bone!” I sang.
“Are you making fun of my black leather jacket?” John asked, as we exited the bar.
“No,” I said. “I was just simply reminded of that song and I thought I’d treat you to some of my wonderful song stylings. Aren’t I a good singer?” I put my arm around his waist. He smiled and put his arm around mine.
“You’re a really good singer.”
“Brr, it’s cold,” I said, as we crossed the street.
“Come closer,” John said.
“Oh, we’re almost there.”
“No,” John said, pulling me nearer to him as we walked. His eyes got suddenly very intense. “Come closer, Janie.”
My pussy woke up at that moment. I have to say, and this probably isn’t exactly a stunning surprise, I like it when boys tell me what to do.. Or rather, my cunt aches for direction, my mouth sometimes knows only one word, which is, accordingly, “Yes.” At that moment, I was John’s.
I got closer.
We arrived at my apartment. “I have two roommates,” I said. “Which only means I have two roommates.”
“Hah, you’re not nervous that they’ll see you bringing a boy home? Or hear your cries of ecstasy?” he whispered hot in to my ear. Remember that game “Operator, Operator”? Everyone sits around in a circle and whispers a phrase into the ear of the person sitting next to them, and supposedly, the fun of it is, the phrase morphing and changing into something completely different and silly by the time the last person in the circle heard of it and says it aloud. Well, the silly rephrasing—that wasn’t actually the fun part for me. The fun part was the sensation of someone whispering into my ear. Their breath, hot on my lobes.
I got so wet during that game.
Anyway.
“Nah,” I said. “One of them knows you’re coming over anyway.” I blurted out.
“Well well well, who’s Miss Kiss and Tell?”
“We haven’t really kissed yet.” I whispered. “Here, this is my room. Make yourself comfortable. I have to pee.”
Being a late bloomer, I had a twin bed back then. Boys usually reacted favorably to this, actually. It reminded them of brief and hurried adolescent trysts, forbidden make out sessions while the parents were away, and all that other formative sexual stuff.
I peed and as I washed my hands, I looked at myself in the mirror. I had that glow of cold, drunkenness, arousal. This is what the birthday girl looked like on her birthday.
I crept down the hall to my bedroom. John was lying on the bed, shoes off, shirt unbuttoned at the top. He’d made himself quite at home. He’d already lit a candle on my bedside table. The lit candle made me smile. I walked over to the bed. He sat up. I stood before him. He put his head on my chest, in between my breasts.
“Mmm,” he moaned. “Can we please take off that shirt now?”
I nodded. I let him take off the shirt. I have no problem with boys undressing me.
My tits were bulging in my new black birthday bra.
“Pretty,” John said. He traced the lacing up top with his fingers, then slipped his hands underneath the bra. “My my, your tits go on forever. So deep. Where are those pretty nipples of yours?
I inhaled sharply and took off the bra. He stood up. I unbuttoned his shirt. I grabbed his face and kissed him hard, our bodies pressed together, the soft fuzz of his chest hair warm against my tits. He moaned and I sighed a girlish sigh.
“Janie, you’re so sexy.”
“Oh, God. You are too,” I was telling the truth.
We kept kissing as I slipped off my shoes and he instinctively went for the zipper on my jeans. I hurriedly pulled off my jeans and his hand went from my hard nipples to my already dripping cunt. “You are so wet.”
“I have been all day,” I said. “I’m sort of slutty that way.”
He grinned and unbuckled his belt, I pulled down his pants. His cock stood at full attention in a pair of white briefs. I love briefs. Boxers are cute but briefs show the package so much better. I know some people say they look silly, but not to me. And in fact, his cock did look big. I gasped when I found a wet spot on his underwear.
“Mmm, you’re wet, too, baby.” He blushed and nodded, shyly.
I pulled down his briefs. His cock stood fully erect and ever so purple, screaming at me to be stroked. We just stood there, for a bit, jerking each other off. No kissing, just one hand from each of us exploring the areas down there on the other, eyes intent on one another’s bodies, the sounds of wet fingers and breathing.
“I wanna suck those fucking tits,” John said suddenly. He pushed me down onto the bed and crawled on top of me. “Fuck, Janie. I love these curves.” His mouth went to my nipples, sucking tenderly, nibbling. It was pleasant, but not exactly rough enough for my tastes. It was then that I remembered.
“I bought something for us today,” I giggled.
He looked up from my tits, his face, red, his brow, sweaty. “Oh. What’s that?”
I reached into the drawer by my nightstand. “Nipple clamps.”
“Oh, my.” He said. “Hot.”
“Do you want to put them on me?” I asked. I started to play with my clit absentmindedly. He watched me as I did that, fondling the chain of the clamps.
“Fuck yes,” he said. He fiddled with the screws and touched the black rubber of the clamps. “Do you want them very tight?”
“Yes, I do. I want you to torture my tits with those, baby.”
“Yes, fuck, god. I want to fuck you.”
“Soon,” I whispered, and he pinched open a clamp and attached it to my right nipple. I gasped.
“Ohhhh, god.” My cunt screamed at me.
“Does that feel good?” he asked. “Does it hurt?”
“Yes,” I said. “And yes.”
“God, Janie, you look so sexy right now. The other one?” he asked. I nodded. He secured the second clamp to my left nipple. I winced.
“Jesus Christ,” I said. “That’s so fucking intense.”
“Does it feel good?” he asked again, his eyes wide.
“Fuck yes, it feels good. You want me to suck your cock while I wear these?”
“Shit. Suck my fucking cock, yes.” He lied down on the bed, his hands underneath the back of his head. He smiled at me. I felt another twinge. An electric impulse shooting across my breasts from nipple to nipple then zapping my hot pink pussy. I kissed him hard, felt his tongue swirl around mine, and I grabbed his cock. I took my hand off his cock and spat on it and then made him lick my palm. I kissed his neck, his nipples, licked the area around his belly button, massaged his hip bones until I felt his body melt under my hands, and I put my wet hand on the base of his cock, attacking the head with my mouth. I felt the clamps working as my tongue swirled around the head of his cock. “Oh, Janie. What a fucking hot mouth you have, girl.” I gobbled his knob and kept my tongue moving underneath. I took my hand from the base of his cock and cupped his balls which were firm and hairless. My mouth sucked his cock hard, with a lot of spit, and a lot of fast up, down, up, down. I heard him sigh and suddenly, my cunt was on fire, and I sucked him harder, and faster, so very greedy. The clamps were doing their work. I don’t know how they knew to tell my mouth to fucking suck cock like a motherfucking cock slut, but they did. And John was writhing around, his toes curling, squealing like a girl. I licked his balls, pointing my tongue and then flattening it out, and then ever so delicately, I popped his balls into my mouth and sucked, softly, wet, and slow.
“You suck some good cock, baby,” John moaned.
“Mhmmm,” I moaned, mouth full of dick.
“You’re gonna make me cum. But I don’t wanna cum now. Can I eat your pussy, Janie?”
I smiled, drool leaking out the sides of my mouth. “You can.”
We switched positions. He kissed me and played with my tits, juggling them in his hands, the chain of the clamps making the slightest tinkly sound. “How do your nipples feel right now?”
I looked down at them. They were so hard, so purple, so big. The biggest I’d ever seen them. “They feel so good, John. These clamps are a present to myself, you know.”
“They look really hot. I can’t wait to taste your pussy.” He blew on my clit. “Fuck, girl. Your cunt is so red right now. Did anyone ever tell you how big your clitty gets?”
“Yes,” I said. “I have been told.”
He licked the lips and softly touched my asshole with his fingers. Then I felt his tongue move up under my hood and around my clit. He began sucking on it, hard. He knew instinctively how I like my pussy eaten. Hard and fast, like it’s a cock. I know men are told it’s a delicate area, but what can I say? My pussy likes to be played with in a slightly brutal fashion at time. He put two fingers in me and started to massage my gspot as he sucked and nibbled away at my clitty.
“Yes, baby. That’s good,” I said and looked down at him. He paused for a moment, smiled at me, then spat crudely on my pussy. I felt his spit roll down into my asshole and I writhed around as he continued to drink in all my juice. The pain my nipples had now completely disappeared and turned into a delicious heat. I moaned and begin to swivel my hips around, wanting his mouth everywhere. He took a deep breath and started to fuck me faster with fingers, pulling at my clit with his mouth until my back arched and I came. I grabbed his arm and pulled his hand up to my mouth to suck on his fingers.
“Good girl,” he said. “My cock wants in there now. God. You’re so wet.”
I tossed him a condom from my drawer. He rolled it on, massaging my tummy as he did, squeezing my belly. This immediately got me so much wetter. My stomach is the place where I hold most of my vulnerability, most of my insecurity. Therefore, it’s the most sensitive part on my body. I swear, you could touch my tummy with your fingertips for ten minutes, and that’s it, and I would cum, most likely. I’ve learned that my stomach is a powerful part of my body, round, bigger than many girls’ stomachs, but oh so sensitive.
And sensitivity is, in fact, power.
John entered me. With just an inch of his cock in me, he pulled out.
“Haha,” I giggled. “That’s funny. Fuck me, please.”
He put his inch back in and took it out.
“Come on, John. Fuck me.”
He nodded. “I am fucking you.”
Now I’ve since learned that many boys say this is a common move, using only a fraction of their length and girth to fuck a girl for a while, to tease her and to prolong their own erections.
But no one has done this as well as John.
In, out, in, out. Two inches. I groaned. In, out, in out. I wiggled around, lifting my pussy to get more of him. He put his hands down on my hips and shook his head.
“Greedy little pussy you have there, Janie.”
I exhaled. “Mmmm. Yes. You feel so nice, but—“
“Shhh, this is what you’re getting. This is it. Three inches now. That’s it, Janie. How do you feel about that?”
Three inches suddenly felt like more than that. I groaned, my pussy tightening up. “Please, John. Please fuck me.”
“What?” he asked, sighing, lazily, his thumb on my clit.
“John, I want you to fuck me now. Hard.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought I was. Fuck.” He kept at it with three inches.
“But John, you have such a big, beautiful cock. Don’t you want my cunt strangling it? Don’t you want to my feel my wet pussy all over it? Fuck, baby. Please. Just fuck me.”
John paused. He looked down at me and smiled, so kind. And then ever so slowly, he slid all of his cock into me. And I went nuts.
“Oh, fucking shit!!! Yes!!” I yelled.
“Your roommates,” he whispered, smiling.
“Fuck them, just fuck ME, you fucking—gahhhh….” I melted away as he started to pound my pussy. I stretched my legs out. He pushed on them harder. I aimed my pussy up. He began hitting my gspot over and over again. I took off the nipple clamps.
“Ohhhhhh my God!” All of a sudden, the clamps felt as intense as ever, and they were off, on the floor. “My my—oh, God, John, please!”
He fucked me. Hard. I was sweating, profusely, I realized, from the clamps, and from his cock plowing me. John slammed into me, as hard as I’d ever been fucked and suddenly, I came, fast, hard, so wet. I felt the juice on my thighs.
“Yesssssss,” John said. “Yes, girl, that shit is fucking hot.”
I recovered quickly enough to remember that the beautiful gift of his cum was still to, well, come. “Cum on my face, John, cum on my face, cum on my fucking face right now!” His face changed and I knew those words had gotten him close, just like that. He pulled out and threw the condom on the floor.
“Ugh, Janie, oh God, I’m gonna cum.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it, give me your fucking cum.”
He jerked off above me and suddenly, white streams of his cum struck my neck, my nose, my forehead, and the wall behind me.
“Uhhhhhhh,” he bellowed. “Yeahhhhhh.”
I giggled, and touched the tip of my nose, feeling a drop of cum there. I licked my finger with vigor. I stuck out my tongue to show him I’d swallowed. Then he wiped my neck with his fingers and stuck three of them in my mouth. I saw his stomach moving as his breathing became regular again. I licked off his fingers and rubbed his chest. John collapsed on me. He lied on top of me, completely still. My nipples were a bit sore. We were quiet.
I giggled.
“What?” he said, his voice muffled against my tits.
“You fuck good,” I said.
He looked up at me. “Thank you. So do you, dear.”
We were silent. He rolled off of me.
“Janie?”
“Yes?”
“This was my first Craig’s List date.”
“Mine, too,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Yup,” I answered. I grabbed a cigarette from my nightstand and lit up. I had a feeling John was very tired and that he’d soon ask to be excuse.
“Hmm,” he said.
“What?” I asked. “You tired?”
“No,’ he replied. “It’s just. Do you think. Can I loosen up those nipple clamps? And put them on your outer labia?”
I blinked.
“After my cigarette?”
“Oh, yes. After your cigarette. Because,” he took my cigarette from me and took a drag. “I’m not done with the birthday girl just yet.”
“That,” I said, taking my cigarette back, “makes me a very happy birthday girl, indeed.”
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Adventures in Craigslisting: Part I
As my 28th birthday approached, I realized, I had never been fucked on my birthday. And since I had been fucking for about a year at around the time of my 28th birthday, I decided that that the time had come. I was gonna get royally and completely motherfucking fucked on my birthday. I didn’t have a boyfriend or a really reliable fuck buddy at the time, so who was it gonna be? I wondered. Who was gonna fill my sweet, still tight 28-year old pussy up on my birthday?
I decided that posting an ad on Craig’s List would answer that question for me.
Of course, Janie had never done the Craig’s List thing before…
FUCK THE BIRTHDAY GIRL ON HER BIRTHDAY. I wrote.
Yeah, that was a good headline, I thought. Don’t people need provocative headlines to get noticed in these here Craig’s List parts? Or is it enough that I am actually a woman?
Fuck the birthday girl on her birthday. It’s my birthday. And my pussy wants to celebrate. I am a redhead, with fair skin, green eyes, and a big pouty mouth. I have curves, including a really spectacular set of tits. I have an MFA. I am very oral and extremely enthusiastic. You need be: very intelligent, attractive, drug and disease free. It would help if you were the owner of a large cock as well, as it is my birthday, and (giggle) I’ve always wanted one of those! Let’s get drinks first at the bar across the street from my apartment, flirt a bit, and then let’s see if we can’t have some orgasms. You know, like together. On my birthday. Hope to hear from you soon!
I posted the ad.
And of course, 200 responses flooded my inbox within the hour.
I put on my game face and I started to go through the emails. I eliminated the emails that were 5 words or less. I eliminated the emails that began with “Hey Mami” or “Hey Mamacita” (such words are not part of my cultural property and I find them a bit annoying—no offense to the Latin men out there—they seem to be some of my biggest fans.) Then I just started to skim, skim, skim—too many spelling mistakes, they were gone. Picture of cock only, they were gone. Anyone with unreasonable facial hair—they were gone. I know, I was being picky. But I could afford to be. It was my birthday, baby.
Then along came a Mr. John Keats.
I figured the name was fake. John Keats, a great English romantic poet, died when he was 27—and you know, like practically 200 years ago.
This John Keats’s subject line was: I find curvy b-day girls quite fetching.
Ding ding ding. Most subject lines were re: your ad. Or Craigs List. Or Fucking You. Or Let’s Fuck. BOR-ING. But John's was different.
So I read on.
He wrote:
Hi. I'm 35, 6-0, 170 and in good shape and I love, LOVE curvy women. (And if your curvaceousness is matched by a bit of intellectual curiosity, ohhh....)
I'll throw in one more measurement--let's just say that it involves an 8. (But I'm not the kind of guy who has pictures of it, so you'll have to see for yourself...)
I'm also quite geographically desirable as I live near you. I'm a writer. What do you do?
So I've shown you mine; will you show me yours?
Happy birthday & be safe.
I hope to hear from you...
John
He attached a picture of himself looking ruggedly (and believably) handsome by the sea.
We had A WINNER.
I emailed him back and told him so.
You win! I wrote. You're it, you're the guy. Are you excited? I’m excited. You could very well be fucking me tomorrow! Oh my God! Craig’s List is wicked fun. Okay,yay! Let’s keep chatting.
I attached to the email a picture of my face. Okay, and one of my tits. What can I say—I was eager!
Oh, can I fuck those? He wrote back. My cock would look fucking incredible between those beautiful tits.
Why, yes, I hope you do fuck my tits! I replied. Ooh, titty fucking. So luxurious. Definitely b-day sexual material.
We continued our correspondence and decided to meet at a certain bar near my apartment at 7 pm the next day.
That next morning on the day of my birthday, I went shopping with my best girlfriend. I told her about my birthday fuck date.
“That is great,” she said. “What a great idea! Is he cute?”
“He is,” I said. “And a writer. And he has an 8 inch cock!”
“Mmm-hmm,” she nodded. “We’ll see about the 8 inch cock.". Good point, I thought. We WILL see.
That day, we made a trip to the sex toy store. There, I bought some nipple clamps. I told myself that I’d wait until my date to try them out. But I couldn’t wait. What if they were too intense? I didn’t want to like freak out on my birthday fuck date over the clamps. So that night, after my Italian dinner and flourless chocolate cake with friend, and before leaving for my date with John, I tried out the clamps.
“Wowweewoweeweow!!!!” Golly that was intense! Pain, right? Or was it heat? Or was it, oh wait. Something just happened, I thought. This pain just switched. It was starting to feel very, very nice. There were layers happening. It was like a pain and pleasure parfait. My brain wasn’t sure which layer to dive into, so it was moving between the layers, stirring up the parfait, creating a mess of sensation. Mostly good, though. Still, I adjusted the gauges, loosening them up a bit. And then I melted, melted away. My pussy immediately set off her “I’m wet, I’m wet, I’m wet” alarm but I refused to jerk off. It would have to wait for Mr. Keats. I looked in my mirror, nipple clamps on, the silver chain hanging between my tits. My neck was blushing red.
I look really sexy, I thought.
I’d fuck me tonight, definitely, if things didn’t work out with John. Some nights you just feel sexy, you know? Your skin is glowing, your tits are perky, your pussy’s got a pulse of her own, your eye make up’s perfect, your hair looks good, you’re 28, you’re horny, you want to get fucked. And you will, you decide. You will get fucked. One way or another. And hard.
I unclamped the clamps. Phantom clamps on my nipples. Lovely.
Black push up bra and black thong would do for tonight. And then, I put on my lowest cut purple shirt. This was a shirt that left very little to the imagination. Sometimes there’s no room for subtlety. I’m pretty sure my date knew that I wouldn’t be a subtle kind of girl, however. So I wasn’t afraid of tramping it up a bit. I applied the very shiny, very wet looking peppermint lip gloss I had bought that day. I took one more look in the mirror. And I said:
“Let’s do this.” Really, I said that. Sometimes going on dates for me is like playing in the championship game. I get really psyched. I stretch a bit. I crack my knuckles, do some lunges, but instead of adrenaline pumping, it’s my pheromones. I got my purse. And I left my apartment for my date at the bar.
Men must have been catching pheromone whiffs as I passed by them, their heads turning as I walked, a line of men into something about me, something they couldn't quite place. But they were into the sex vibe. That's what they were into. I was giving it away. The light turned green. Cars whizzed by. I bit my lower lip and started to get that butterflies feeling. This was a Craig's List date, baby. The real deal. Walking across the crosswalk, I saw my date in the distance, waiting by the bar doors. He was wearing a red shirt and a black leather jacket. A bit too much flarey-flare and pizzazz for my taste, but I could tell it was his date outfit, and that I appreciated. This made me happy. Some woman had once told him that red was his best color. I walked up to him. And I said:
“John?”
He turned around and smiled. Big brown eyes like Ralph Macchio in THE KARATE KID. Dark and brooding and adolescent. He checked me out, stopping twice, on the way down and on the way up, at my breasts, and he said, “Why hello, Janie.” He grabbed and squeezed my hand. Ooooh. Hand grab. And kissed me on the neck.
Oh, um. That’s terribly forward and panty-wetting.
“Shall we get a drink?” he inquired.
Do we have to, I thought. Can’t we just fuck now?
“Yes,” I said. “Let’s.”
“That’s a great top,” he said, opening the door.
I giggled. “Thanks,” I said. “Um. It’s sort of a naughty shirt, right?”
“It is,” he said. “Let’s get a booth in the back, shall we?” John placed his hand on my lower back. And then he whispered these hot, breathy words into my ear:
“Birthday girl?”
TO BE CONTINUED…
\
I decided that posting an ad on Craig’s List would answer that question for me.
Of course, Janie had never done the Craig’s List thing before…
FUCK THE BIRTHDAY GIRL ON HER BIRTHDAY. I wrote.
Yeah, that was a good headline, I thought. Don’t people need provocative headlines to get noticed in these here Craig’s List parts? Or is it enough that I am actually a woman?
Fuck the birthday girl on her birthday. It’s my birthday. And my pussy wants to celebrate. I am a redhead, with fair skin, green eyes, and a big pouty mouth. I have curves, including a really spectacular set of tits. I have an MFA. I am very oral and extremely enthusiastic. You need be: very intelligent, attractive, drug and disease free. It would help if you were the owner of a large cock as well, as it is my birthday, and (giggle) I’ve always wanted one of those! Let’s get drinks first at the bar across the street from my apartment, flirt a bit, and then let’s see if we can’t have some orgasms. You know, like together. On my birthday. Hope to hear from you soon!
I posted the ad.
And of course, 200 responses flooded my inbox within the hour.
I put on my game face and I started to go through the emails. I eliminated the emails that were 5 words or less. I eliminated the emails that began with “Hey Mami” or “Hey Mamacita” (such words are not part of my cultural property and I find them a bit annoying—no offense to the Latin men out there—they seem to be some of my biggest fans.) Then I just started to skim, skim, skim—too many spelling mistakes, they were gone. Picture of cock only, they were gone. Anyone with unreasonable facial hair—they were gone. I know, I was being picky. But I could afford to be. It was my birthday, baby.
Then along came a Mr. John Keats.
I figured the name was fake. John Keats, a great English romantic poet, died when he was 27—and you know, like practically 200 years ago.
This John Keats’s subject line was: I find curvy b-day girls quite fetching.
Ding ding ding. Most subject lines were re: your ad. Or Craigs List. Or Fucking You. Or Let’s Fuck. BOR-ING. But John's was different.
So I read on.
He wrote:
Hi. I'm 35, 6-0, 170 and in good shape and I love, LOVE curvy women. (And if your curvaceousness is matched by a bit of intellectual curiosity, ohhh....)
I'll throw in one more measurement--let's just say that it involves an 8. (But I'm not the kind of guy who has pictures of it, so you'll have to see for yourself...)
I'm also quite geographically desirable as I live near you. I'm a writer. What do you do?
So I've shown you mine; will you show me yours?
Happy birthday & be safe.
I hope to hear from you...
John
He attached a picture of himself looking ruggedly (and believably) handsome by the sea.
We had A WINNER.
I emailed him back and told him so.
You win! I wrote. You're it, you're the guy. Are you excited? I’m excited. You could very well be fucking me tomorrow! Oh my God! Craig’s List is wicked fun. Okay,yay! Let’s keep chatting.
I attached to the email a picture of my face. Okay, and one of my tits. What can I say—I was eager!
Oh, can I fuck those? He wrote back. My cock would look fucking incredible between those beautiful tits.
Why, yes, I hope you do fuck my tits! I replied. Ooh, titty fucking. So luxurious. Definitely b-day sexual material.
We continued our correspondence and decided to meet at a certain bar near my apartment at 7 pm the next day.
That next morning on the day of my birthday, I went shopping with my best girlfriend. I told her about my birthday fuck date.
“That is great,” she said. “What a great idea! Is he cute?”
“He is,” I said. “And a writer. And he has an 8 inch cock!”
“Mmm-hmm,” she nodded. “We’ll see about the 8 inch cock.". Good point, I thought. We WILL see.
That day, we made a trip to the sex toy store. There, I bought some nipple clamps. I told myself that I’d wait until my date to try them out. But I couldn’t wait. What if they were too intense? I didn’t want to like freak out on my birthday fuck date over the clamps. So that night, after my Italian dinner and flourless chocolate cake with friend, and before leaving for my date with John, I tried out the clamps.
“Wowweewoweeweow!!!!” Golly that was intense! Pain, right? Or was it heat? Or was it, oh wait. Something just happened, I thought. This pain just switched. It was starting to feel very, very nice. There were layers happening. It was like a pain and pleasure parfait. My brain wasn’t sure which layer to dive into, so it was moving between the layers, stirring up the parfait, creating a mess of sensation. Mostly good, though. Still, I adjusted the gauges, loosening them up a bit. And then I melted, melted away. My pussy immediately set off her “I’m wet, I’m wet, I’m wet” alarm but I refused to jerk off. It would have to wait for Mr. Keats. I looked in my mirror, nipple clamps on, the silver chain hanging between my tits. My neck was blushing red.
I look really sexy, I thought.
I’d fuck me tonight, definitely, if things didn’t work out with John. Some nights you just feel sexy, you know? Your skin is glowing, your tits are perky, your pussy’s got a pulse of her own, your eye make up’s perfect, your hair looks good, you’re 28, you’re horny, you want to get fucked. And you will, you decide. You will get fucked. One way or another. And hard.
I unclamped the clamps. Phantom clamps on my nipples. Lovely.
Black push up bra and black thong would do for tonight. And then, I put on my lowest cut purple shirt. This was a shirt that left very little to the imagination. Sometimes there’s no room for subtlety. I’m pretty sure my date knew that I wouldn’t be a subtle kind of girl, however. So I wasn’t afraid of tramping it up a bit. I applied the very shiny, very wet looking peppermint lip gloss I had bought that day. I took one more look in the mirror. And I said:
“Let’s do this.” Really, I said that. Sometimes going on dates for me is like playing in the championship game. I get really psyched. I stretch a bit. I crack my knuckles, do some lunges, but instead of adrenaline pumping, it’s my pheromones. I got my purse. And I left my apartment for my date at the bar.
Men must have been catching pheromone whiffs as I passed by them, their heads turning as I walked, a line of men into something about me, something they couldn't quite place. But they were into the sex vibe. That's what they were into. I was giving it away. The light turned green. Cars whizzed by. I bit my lower lip and started to get that butterflies feeling. This was a Craig's List date, baby. The real deal. Walking across the crosswalk, I saw my date in the distance, waiting by the bar doors. He was wearing a red shirt and a black leather jacket. A bit too much flarey-flare and pizzazz for my taste, but I could tell it was his date outfit, and that I appreciated. This made me happy. Some woman had once told him that red was his best color. I walked up to him. And I said:
“John?”
He turned around and smiled. Big brown eyes like Ralph Macchio in THE KARATE KID. Dark and brooding and adolescent. He checked me out, stopping twice, on the way down and on the way up, at my breasts, and he said, “Why hello, Janie.” He grabbed and squeezed my hand. Ooooh. Hand grab. And kissed me on the neck.
Oh, um. That’s terribly forward and panty-wetting.
“Shall we get a drink?” he inquired.
Do we have to, I thought. Can’t we just fuck now?
“Yes,” I said. “Let’s.”
“That’s a great top,” he said, opening the door.
I giggled. “Thanks,” I said. “Um. It’s sort of a naughty shirt, right?”
“It is,” he said. “Let’s get a booth in the back, shall we?” John placed his hand on my lower back. And then he whispered these hot, breathy words into my ear:
“Birthday girl?”
TO BE CONTINUED…
\
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
If Bread Pudding Be the Food of Love, Play On
There are a few things I truly, truly love in this world. You know what one of the things are already—-sex, of course. I also love my family, theater, dream logic, long walks in cold weather and...FOOD.
I love food. What can I say? I’m a sensual girl. Pleasures of the flesh of all kinds, I’m into.
So today, I came across this recipe. And my eyes nearly filled with tears. I am so excited about the idea of Chocolate-Caramel Bread Pudding, my friends. It has, in fact, four of my favorite words in the name: chocolate, caramel, bread and pudding. For certain, I am going to make it this holiday season. I will feed the ones I love this dessert and everyone will be better for it. As a matter of fact, cooking, I think, is the sexiest thing I can do for someone, besides, you know, have sex with them.
Of course, I will go the distance and serve vanilla ice cream along side this Chocolate-Caramel Bread Pudding in order to “cut the sweetness.” God, I’m such a pervert...
I love food. What can I say? I’m a sensual girl. Pleasures of the flesh of all kinds, I’m into.
So today, I came across this recipe. And my eyes nearly filled with tears. I am so excited about the idea of Chocolate-Caramel Bread Pudding, my friends. It has, in fact, four of my favorite words in the name: chocolate, caramel, bread and pudding. For certain, I am going to make it this holiday season. I will feed the ones I love this dessert and everyone will be better for it. As a matter of fact, cooking, I think, is the sexiest thing I can do for someone, besides, you know, have sex with them.
Of course, I will go the distance and serve vanilla ice cream along side this Chocolate-Caramel Bread Pudding in order to “cut the sweetness.” God, I’m such a pervert...
Monday, December 3, 2007
Janie's Sex Toy Shortage
I bought my first vibrator about four years ago. Before that time, I generally used my hand or a pillow to rub one out. But around my 25th birthday, I figured it was, at last, time to buy myself a sex toy. Now, granted, this was technically before the start of this late bloomer’s official “blooming period,” but my pussy was starting to get quite antsy around that time, and while a bio-cock wasn’t in my immediate future, a vibrator seemed like it would be a valuable resource to my masturbatory activities.
So I bought a very popular brand of vibrator, which came highly recommended by many of my female friends. It supposedly did it all—clitoral and g-spot stimulation, it spun and whirred and vibrated as if vibrating was going out of style. It had little nubs along the shaft and a smiley face on the head. It supposedly glowed in the dark! It sounded perfect! I ordered the toy from a respectable shop online and waited with bated breath for the toy.
Then, one day, the vibrator came. I was ecstatic. I ran to the drugstore and bought the appropriate batteries for the vibrator. I ran right home and put the batteries in the toy. I put on my sexiest pair of panties (which, at that time, were maybe some cheap black satin things from Rite-Aid—oh, Janie, Janie, Janie.) But seriously, I wanted to look hot for my first vibrator. With the batteries secure in the toy, I shut off the light. I turned on the fan to drown out any possible toy/Janie noise. I lied down on the bed. I turned on the vibrator and…it make a clunking sound. As if something were stuck in it. I turned it off quickly. I waited a minute. And then I turned it back on. The vibrator seemed to be moaning and screeching at me. But then I thought perhaps this was how vibrators were supposed to sound. It was a bit alarming, however. Soon, the vibe quieted down. I turned it off, to give it a rest. And then I turned the toy back on. The vibrator sounded okay to me, quieter than before. It probably just needed a chance to warm up or something. I was about to place the vibrating head on my clit when--POOF! A puff of smoke shot out the vibrator.
“What the—“
A spark!
“Oh shit!”
And a crackling sound!
“Holy…”
And that was it.
My first vibrator had essentially just blown up. Inches away from my pussy.
“AHHHH!” I screamed and threw the vibrator across the room. It hit the wall. It wobbled a bit on the floor, quivering, dying. And then it grew silent. "Bastard," I whispered.
“Now. What. The fuck. Was that?” I stared at the box I had so eagerly ripped open only minutes earlier.
I regained some composure, and called the sex toy store’s customer service line, and I went off on the poor customer service agent.
“My vibrator just blew up!” I stuttered.
“Excuse me, ma’am? Did you say your toy just blew up?” the nice lady with a sexy lilt in her voice said.
“Yes, inches away from my—you know. I was about to—you know.” Janie had a hard time saying words like “pussy” and “jerk off” back in those days.
“Ma’am, I’m very sorry to hear that, ma’am. Did you hurt yourself? Is the vibrator away from your body now?”
“Of course it’s away from my body! It almost singed off my pubic hair, you think I’m about to give it another whirl?!”
“Of course not, ma’am. What you seem to have is a defective toy.”
“I should say it’s defective—it just blew up in my hand!”
“And we’ll be happy to provide you a full refund. Just return the toy in its packaging and use the return label. And we’ll be happy to provide you with a full refund or, if you like, a replacement vibrator.”
“A REPLACEMENT toy?! Are you kidding me? My first sex toy—and apparently, a user favorite—just blew up in my hand! I’m laying off the vibrators for a while, thank you very much!” I took a deep breath and then I thanked the lady for being so nice, and apologized for yelling. She understood. I think she might have giggled as we hung up. You really couldn't blame her.
But reader. I have not bought a sex toy since. Actually, that’s not quite true—I have some nipple clamps. Fortunately, they don’t require batteries so I doubt any electrical failures will occur with them.
Sigh.
Really, though, I need to get a vibrator! I do! I’m not scared of potentially sparking, smoking, scary malfunctioning toys anymore. I’ve never heard another story like mine, and I doubt I’m toy-cursed. It’s just, I’ve just grown so used to my hand and fingers, I haven’t really thought of purchasing a vibrator for a while. The time has come, however.
But which vibrator is for me? I look at all the options and I get a bit intimidated. I know, sounds kind of silly for a sexy rock star like myself. But I have a bit of vibe baggage. What can I say?
READERS, I NEED YOUR HELP.
Girls, boys—what vibrators do you like to use? On yourself? On your partners? I’m looking for names here. I know every body is different, and every masturbator enjoys different features. Me, I like intense clit contact as well as some real hard gspot stimulation. Janie likes to get FUCKED, what can she say? I mean, I like the soft touchy-touches at first, but when it comes down to it, I want a toy with some power. So please, leave comments, write emails. Tell me about your favorite toy experiences. Convince Janie to purchase a vibrator. Maybe it’ll be my Christmas present to myself! New kinds of orgasms for the New Year! Sounds like a good start to 2008, don’t you think?
So I bought a very popular brand of vibrator, which came highly recommended by many of my female friends. It supposedly did it all—clitoral and g-spot stimulation, it spun and whirred and vibrated as if vibrating was going out of style. It had little nubs along the shaft and a smiley face on the head. It supposedly glowed in the dark! It sounded perfect! I ordered the toy from a respectable shop online and waited with bated breath for the toy.
Then, one day, the vibrator came. I was ecstatic. I ran to the drugstore and bought the appropriate batteries for the vibrator. I ran right home and put the batteries in the toy. I put on my sexiest pair of panties (which, at that time, were maybe some cheap black satin things from Rite-Aid—oh, Janie, Janie, Janie.) But seriously, I wanted to look hot for my first vibrator. With the batteries secure in the toy, I shut off the light. I turned on the fan to drown out any possible toy/Janie noise. I lied down on the bed. I turned on the vibrator and…it make a clunking sound. As if something were stuck in it. I turned it off quickly. I waited a minute. And then I turned it back on. The vibrator seemed to be moaning and screeching at me. But then I thought perhaps this was how vibrators were supposed to sound. It was a bit alarming, however. Soon, the vibe quieted down. I turned it off, to give it a rest. And then I turned the toy back on. The vibrator sounded okay to me, quieter than before. It probably just needed a chance to warm up or something. I was about to place the vibrating head on my clit when--POOF! A puff of smoke shot out the vibrator.
“What the—“
A spark!
“Oh shit!”
And a crackling sound!
“Holy…”
And that was it.
My first vibrator had essentially just blown up. Inches away from my pussy.
“AHHHH!” I screamed and threw the vibrator across the room. It hit the wall. It wobbled a bit on the floor, quivering, dying. And then it grew silent. "Bastard," I whispered.
“Now. What. The fuck. Was that?” I stared at the box I had so eagerly ripped open only minutes earlier.
I regained some composure, and called the sex toy store’s customer service line, and I went off on the poor customer service agent.
“My vibrator just blew up!” I stuttered.
“Excuse me, ma’am? Did you say your toy just blew up?” the nice lady with a sexy lilt in her voice said.
“Yes, inches away from my—you know. I was about to—you know.” Janie had a hard time saying words like “pussy” and “jerk off” back in those days.
“Ma’am, I’m very sorry to hear that, ma’am. Did you hurt yourself? Is the vibrator away from your body now?”
“Of course it’s away from my body! It almost singed off my pubic hair, you think I’m about to give it another whirl?!”
“Of course not, ma’am. What you seem to have is a defective toy.”
“I should say it’s defective—it just blew up in my hand!”
“And we’ll be happy to provide you a full refund. Just return the toy in its packaging and use the return label. And we’ll be happy to provide you with a full refund or, if you like, a replacement vibrator.”
“A REPLACEMENT toy?! Are you kidding me? My first sex toy—and apparently, a user favorite—just blew up in my hand! I’m laying off the vibrators for a while, thank you very much!” I took a deep breath and then I thanked the lady for being so nice, and apologized for yelling. She understood. I think she might have giggled as we hung up. You really couldn't blame her.
But reader. I have not bought a sex toy since. Actually, that’s not quite true—I have some nipple clamps. Fortunately, they don’t require batteries so I doubt any electrical failures will occur with them.
Sigh.
Really, though, I need to get a vibrator! I do! I’m not scared of potentially sparking, smoking, scary malfunctioning toys anymore. I’ve never heard another story like mine, and I doubt I’m toy-cursed. It’s just, I’ve just grown so used to my hand and fingers, I haven’t really thought of purchasing a vibrator for a while. The time has come, however.
But which vibrator is for me? I look at all the options and I get a bit intimidated. I know, sounds kind of silly for a sexy rock star like myself. But I have a bit of vibe baggage. What can I say?
READERS, I NEED YOUR HELP.
Girls, boys—what vibrators do you like to use? On yourself? On your partners? I’m looking for names here. I know every body is different, and every masturbator enjoys different features. Me, I like intense clit contact as well as some real hard gspot stimulation. Janie likes to get FUCKED, what can she say? I mean, I like the soft touchy-touches at first, but when it comes down to it, I want a toy with some power. So please, leave comments, write emails. Tell me about your favorite toy experiences. Convince Janie to purchase a vibrator. Maybe it’ll be my Christmas present to myself! New kinds of orgasms for the New Year! Sounds like a good start to 2008, don’t you think?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
