As Seen By a Girl

I brought her to a little café in uptown Manhattan. She ate her home fries and pancakes from the center, outwards. I had a wrap and fries and two mimosas. She had one mimosa. The conversation was flowing but at this point, I really, really just wanted to get into her pants. Jeans. Jeans, I mean. Them jeans…

This was a girl date. First one in a while. First one ever with a girl from the south. A girl with an accent, even. Not too slow, not too languid or mopey or mollases-y, but lovely, sweet, lilting, even. I had told her over gchat, that I sounded somewhat like a news reporter from the Midwest, and that my accent would probably not alarm her. It didn’t.

We’d been chatting online for weeks in preparation for her visit. We’d said over and over again the things we wanted to do to each other. That we wanted to be sweet and rough and cuddle and smoke in bed and make each other come. She talked about biting me and messing me up and I liked that.

But honestly, all that chat had me feeling overwhelmed the day before our date. What if I don’t live up to her expectations? What if there isn’t the chemistry we’re hoping for? What if it just doesn’t work between us? Novice dater questions, but suddenly, I did feel like a novice again. I so wanted to impress. To be impressed. As ridiculous as that sounds.

These are the fears of anticipation. These are the fears we conjure up for ourselves to protect us from failure. If we expect the worst and we get it, then we were right.

But after brunch that day, as we walked across the bridge toward my apartment on the hill, I had no doubts. The idiosyncratic way she ate her pancakes, from the center, let me know that she was real, that we were real, together. And thank goodness, people become real. Thank goodness, people are not ideas. Or ideals. They are people.

I poured myself some whiskey and diet coke as she sat on my couch, drinking her water. “Gosh, I’m just so thirsty,” she said. (She probably didn’t say Gosh but I like to imagine that she did.) She continued to talk about her mother and her family and the South and school and friends and really, I’m not sure I said anything of use at this point. At all. I’m so bad at conjuring up details with this one. I don’t think I was being exceptionally clever. I was just working up the courage to make a move, like a 17 year old boy with a 3 hour old hard-on pressed up against his jeans. I was unarmed with this girl on my couch. Didn’t have a game. No game I knew to play.

I played with her hair a little bit. I saw her back straighten. We talked a bit more. I ended up switching places on the couch. I asked her if I could kiss her. She said yes. We kissed.

“Girls kiss differently than boys,” she said.

I wasn’t sure what was different, but my pussy got wet. So ta-da.

And then it all just happened, because thank goodness, bodies can so take the lead.

She devoured me with her mouth. I felt tongue and teeth and lips. She got on top of me. I could feel a part of her strength. I knew we would feel that throughout this, swapping strength and vulnerability, not switching, per say, but being all those things. Just like that. On encounter number one.

I needed her naked.

We went to my room. I was naked quicker than she was. She had on those jeans for a while. She said she liked those jeans. They did look good. Would look better on my floor, however. My floor wears jeans WELL, I tell you what.

She pushed me onto the bed. She licked and nibbled. And we kissed. Then she spread my legs. And looked at my pussy.

“I’m just looking,” she said quietly, matter-of-factly. And she was. Just looking. I gulped and smiled and cooed. She told me the other day I make sounds like a cat in heat when I get excited. She’s right. I do. I meow.

She ate my pussy good. Gently at first. Then harder. And I came quickly. I was ready to give it for hours. And then she lied on top of me. And I sighed. And petted her. My fingers went to her cunt and I felt the wetness. I wanted to taste it. Suddenly, senses were blasting away again. I already felt the welts on my tits rising. From her bites. She bites hard. I still have four yellow bruises that aren’t going away…

Soon, my face was between her creamiest of thighs. Her pussy, though. Ha. I have to tell you. It’s almost laughable. How fucking perfect it is. How small and tight and symmetrical. Like a porn star. So edible. So I ate it. I slurped and sucked hard. I was greedy for her orgasm. I didn’t savor as much as I wanted to yank that come out of her. And her orgasm came like a train. Her back arched, her face, scarlet red, her legs shaking, her thighs clamped around my ears. All was quiet. She came hard. I lapped gently at her cunt, licked her clean. She smelled like wet grass. Seriously.

Then we smoked a cigarette. At some point, she performed a breast exam on me. And showed me where the pulses were in my body. Because she’s going to be a medical professional. This pulse is hard to find, she’d say. She put her fingers around my wrists. She told me I had a medium build because her fingers could touch one another around my wrist.

She slapped my tits very hard. I said she could do it harder. She spanked my ass. Her hand hurt. My cheeks blushed.

And then, of course:

“I want you to squirt for me. I’ve never seen a girl do that before,” she said.

“Okay!” I said, excited.

Oh. Hah. On command, I thought to myself. This might not be happening…but then.

I fucked myself hard with the Pure Wand and my cunt made the juiciest sounds and then I gushed on my red comforter in under two minutes.

As it trickled out of me, she said, “Well, if that isn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” exhaling her cigarette smoke. Kneeling beside me. Above me. I looked up at her.

I’d done it.

I high-fived her.

“You told me to do it, and I did it,” I said. “I’ve only squirted once before in front of another person. This, this is special.”

We cuddled. We laughed. We kissed. We looked in the mirror and compared bodies. I liked how short and curvy I looked next her long, languid, svelte prettiness. I liked the way we looked next to one another. It turned me on. Our differences. Our skin, though.

Exact same color.

There’s a picture of our legs in my cell phone, same pale, fair skin.

At one point, we were actually quiet. Dwelling in blissed-out silence as we spooned. And then she broke the silence.

“I can see your pores,” she whispered in my ear. She was peering closely at my shoulder, grazing her fingertips against the curves of me, examining the new girl.

“Oh, I have freckles on my back!” I exclaimed, softly.

“I see them,” she said. “I see them.”

Nice to be seen. It’s always so nice to be seen.