Random Rim Jobs
I swear. True story.8/28: A Diary Entry
Posted on June 09, 2009Sex with 26yo is too fucking good. And I want to look at him and touch him all the time. Which I know means my body is telling my mind to be into him. I could look at his mouth forever. Only I can’t. I have to look away because it’s so fucking beautiful. Yeah, not the way to feel about some guy I’m just fucking.
And I like talking to him too, which is more trouble. And I want him to fuck other women if he wants. Actually, I want him to tell me about fucking other women.
My pussy feels so deliciously fucked. I love riding his cock. Today he was going to fist me from behind while I was on my hands and knees but we got distracted. His cock feels so good in me.
It’s so cool to look down between my legs and see him with a big grin on his face. He has the sexy wonky tooth I love too, so he has one of those goofy smiles that tries to hide it.
Great kisser too. I kind of wasn’t feeling it until he kissed me. And then I kept thinking, “I’m gonna get fucked” and it made me so happy.
So I’m in a good mood and I get a call from a friend who’s really shitty right now. I’m trying to be supportive and say what he wants to hear while still being honest. Then he tried doing some finger-pointing at me. But I just got fucked really well so I can’t get angry. Good sex really does release endorphins.
I feel most myself when I’m having sex. And with 26yo I can admit everything I like. Cause we like some of the same things. But now I don’t know if I want to fuck others with him. Actually looking at him with a contended look on his face while getting pounded by a few guys sounds kinda nice. Yes, I can feel it in my pussy when I think about it. But defintiely looking at that beautiful face.
A Pussy by Any Other Name: An Exercise in Reader Participation
Posted on June 08, 2009I need other words for “pussy.” I like “cunt,” but even that gets old. A lot of the other words simply are not sexy.
- Fuckhole, hole, box, snatch, slit: nasty sexy if used in the right context;
- Twat: makes me think of a stupid person;
- Fly catcher: insulting;
- Honey pot: hot but easily slips into cheesy;
- Gates of Heaven: lame; if a guy said he wanted to enter my gates of heaven, I’d laugh my ass off, which would probably mess with his hard-on, but if during funny, silly sex it’d be ok;
- Gash: maybe, in a really dirty way.
And for the men: cock and dick are good, of course, but they’re sometimes overused.
- Fuckstick: funny;
- Prick, tool, rod: good, but could easily become silly;
- Willy, peter: the penis referred to as either of these is small.
I invite you, my dear readers, to comment with your favorite words for genitalia. I also want to know your reasons why they’re your favorite words. Please, be dirty as well as sweet. I want to know what your depraved minds think, and I want to know the history behind your love of the particular words or phrases. Comment with the most mundane and most creative, please. You can use some of the words I’ve used, so long as the story behind your choice is interesting.
The “winner” (which will be arbitrarily determined solely by me) will get a fun dirty (as in sans clothing) image of yours truly. Additionally, the “winner” will be featured in a a future post. Right now I’m interested only in words for naughty bits. If this goes well, in the future there will be more “contests” that will cover other topics.
Please spread the word, as the more responses the more entertaining for me, and y’all. This “competition” will be open for one week, until I post on Monday, June 15, 2009. I will make my final decision by Friday, June 19, 2009, and the lucky person will get said dirty picture just in time for a weekend wank. Comment as many times as you’d like so I have more dirty messages to read.
I swear. True story.
Fashion Police
Posted on June 07, 2009There’s a chance you’re disillusioned with San Francisco because you judge people based on looks and clothing before you’ve talked to them. You may also have trouble communicating with people since it’s obvious you have some spelling, grammar, punctuation, and capitalization issues.If you hate it here so much, why not move? Maybe New York City, which you hold up as the epitome of cities, would better suit you.
PA:
I don’t believe I’m delusioned one bit dear misguided fool. The reason why everything comes across as superficial is because it has been projected to me that way. I can only let someone show me how he or she wants to be perceived. And it was shown to me that a man or a woman is truely judged according to the labels they wear and whatever status symbol applies in San Francisco. Words should guide actions, but actions have proved otherwise and your words are misleading & dishonest.I have family and professional reasons for being in San Francisco. It’s definately not the caliber of NYC, Chicago or even Boston.
SF is not a “world class city”. It has to be a city first, and a city that caters to people. SF is a scene, nothing more. It’s a background, there’s not much going on. The ball games at AT&T Battery park is the only time I see anyone in the Bay Area share in any kind of cheer, and that’s a stretch.
And is it any deal that I mistype something if I’m speaking to others?
A friend from NY can rap off a funny story inspired by Spitzer, another gal from Boston and I can crack jokes about birds, a gawky kid from Ohio can become a stud in his own right because he has something one might call “social skills” and can hold your attention longer than five minutes, someone from India and I can rap about the currencies in Asia…
Get a Bay Arean — and from grown ups all you hear is, “I dress my kids in Zac Posen” (“I have no reason for living”), “…Marc Jacobs” (“I’m needy”), “my kids go to school at…(“I’m shopping at Ross and I live vicariously through my child for status quo”),
“I live in Blackrock” (“I need approval”), “I have a trust fund” (I say that I don’t trust you), and “I go to Tahoe on the weekends” (it really means, “I’m insecure enough to throw away my equity loan because I have to buy my friends”). You can smell the insecurity if you walk into a shop to get a pair of socks by some idiot hipster demi-god complex because they work in retail, and you can smell the insecurity when any guy will snub an AVERAGE girl because he thinks average girls have a princess complex. Again, insecure and he’s probably right. When you hear an asian girl spout out about her trophy “husband”, again… she needs approval. The self loathing/snobby self loathing boredom is sucking this city dry!I refused to pay full price on anything I saw in Cow hollow today because I pity you fools. It’s a recession, and EVERYBODY “has to have a pashmina”. EVERYBODY IN SF FROM SAN FRANCISCO IS THAT PRETENTIOUS. There’s more material in my thong than there is in a pashmina. We’re in a recession. Everybody and their grannies has to spend $50.00 for each pashmina. They’re $75.00 EACH if you walk into a trendy European store in San Francisco. My beautiful friends from Europe would not dare spend a fifth of that money in Euros on a stupid piece of junk, I mean pashmina. But hey, things like that do happen when people are allowed to like themselves. And speaking of recessions, why is a tanktop selling for over $100, a loaf of bread for $4.00 and gas for $4.00/gallon? Is everyone here that greedy? Even though I can afford a $100.00 for a stupid shirt, why do i want to pay $100 for it? They’re all $100+. I wouldn’t even expense that kind of cost on a company account.
Now we’re getting to the juice. While taking the Muni home, I noticed a black guy getting off. He is dressed down and his arm is in a sling. He stumbles to get off. People were rather snooty around him. Mind you, we are on the Muni. Not a limo. Then I noticed a bracelet, the poor guy just got out of a hospital and had to take himself home. I mean, here is someone who is having a very real experience and because he may in some way distracted a few “liberal” prudes from their trashy novels, I’m sorry it is a little obnoxious. And no, I don’t live in or around the Marina but apparently “the Marina” is the way to be.
I was in a conversation between a pair of bay area natives. They were having about the dryest conversation about rock climbing. Every other word that they shared about this exciting activity was poised and calculated. Extracurriculars are all work and no play. I’m not going to last long here.
It’s a shame. Why waste my pity on a sick man who found himself in the company of unfortunate, unfriendly hags? I’ll pity you and the natives of San Francisco instead.
SSF:
Seems as though there’s a certain kind of San Franciscan you don’t like. Not everyone who lives in this city, and I think you want this to include you, is like that. You’re judging a whole population based on your not-too-scientific viewing of a portion of the whole.
Yes, I do believe spelling, punctuation, etc., are important when communicating in the written word. Words mean something and to spell a word incorrectly alters the meaning. A comma can make or break a sentence. When communicating via spoken word of course spelling and punctuation mean less, but I’d still have to ask for clarification if you said the word “pacific” instead of “specific,” for example.
You infantilize women in general and Asian women in particular by calling them “girls.” Pashminas were in high demand roughly five years ago so I don’t know where the hell you’re shopping. Finally, you must have a shit-ton of time on your hands for you to use it in such an unproductive manner. Maybe some hobbies? Might I suggest jogging? San Francisco is a small city and it really is nice to see the various neighborhoods with fresh eyes. Try wearing headphones so you don’t have to actually interact with the locals.
PA:
You’d be suprised but I do jog quite a bit. I can get a lot done before most people get up.I’m basing my experience on reality. You can’t get more scientific than that! By the way, I see pashminas being sold everywhere. I see them being worn everywhere. I refuse to get one. As I refuse to get an Ipod. I’ve explored newer neighborhoods and I’m running out. Sorry I don’t think it should be necessary to venture into the Tenderloin or the Mission to see different than the enforced status quo of some homogenous kind.
And sorry if I offended you by “infantizing” women. I fit exactly into that category. To me, a true woman have a sense of character and self; regardless of her capabilities to spell. The main group seems quite obsessed with their vanity with either looks or intellect (if that).
Sorry if that report on reality doesn’t fit into your delusions of utopia that you’re making San Francisco out to be. To me, utopia is and of it’s people. I find it to be a hollow, vacant and empty place.
Cheers!
SSF:
Wow! You are judgmental and nutty.
Why should it be necessary for you to avoid the more interesting neighborhoods and then complain that the city isn’t interesting?
PA:
If you think gutter toilets are interesting, then you might want to realize that not everyone in the real world thinks like you. YOU are judgemental and nutty for even insinuating people be intrigued when it’s normal to find it offensive. Sorry, sometimes we have weak stomachs. And even if we have strong stomachs as I sometimes do, these types of things offend me as well.It’s not something we can help.
You’re judging someone with a normal reaction and you’re calling me judgemental. Wow, you’re not only judgemental but funny!
You don’t think it’s judgmental to say it’s “normal” to find some things offensive? Ever hear of cultural relativism? You’ve got it, bad. “Normal” is based on your upbringing, environment, etc. You think everyone in the world thinks the same things are “normal”? If so, you should maybe do some traveling. Maybe leave San Francisco forever?
S-T-O-M-A-C-H-E-S
I’m still not sure if PA is a man or a woman. I don’t really care. I would love to run into this shithead in a bar, though I suspect we’d never be in the same place at the same time. I LOVE San Francisco and while I appreciate some constructive criticism, PA’s bullshit hardly qualifies. Ah, Craig’s List, how I love thee. Thank you for connecting me to such a diverse class of folk.
I swear. True story.
J Lee: How to Properly Flirt Via Email
Posted on June 06, 2009J Lee responded to the same Craig’s List ad that Seattle Guy did: it was under Strictly Platonic as I was looking for guy FRIENDS.
J Lee:
Just moved to town. And looking for friends. Female friends are always good, for me, as it seems that male friends are for you?
But yeah… I’m interesting and attractive and funny and all that (unfortunately?). But, I mean, I’m also really good at just being friends, and would be down with just hanging out and talking, or going out for a movie, or dancing, or a few drinks, or whatever.
That’s it. I’ve attached a pic.
The photo attached was of a cute, very sweet-looking guy with big blue eyes.
SSF:
You’re lucky I’m not an eye person. I’m more of a mouth person. Otherwise we couldn’t talk.
J Lee:
Whew, that IS lucky… I promise to be really boring when and if we talk. You’re one of the funny ones, aren’t you? I can tell.
SSF:
I am fucking funny. Boring would be good.
J Lee:
Deal. I’ll talk about the stock market and lettuce.
It’ll be like your picture; imagine we’re in a bar, and I’m telling a story about the time I was in line for two hours at the DMV, but I’m telling it in real time so the story really is taking, like, two hours… and you’re so bored you’re watching the Giants game on the television…
It’ll be like that. Perfect, right?
SSF:
Stock market boring, lettuce actually may hold interest for me.
I would have to be pretty fucking bored to prefer watching a Giants game.
Approaching nice, not near perfect. Keep working on it.
J Lee:
I’m onto you, you know… you and your people have set up cameras all over my house, haven’t you? And I’m unwittingly competing with 29 other men to see who can be the most boring, aren’t I?
Well, let me tell you something… I’M IN IT TO WIN IT.
I wear sock garters.
I eat canned peas and margarine.
I spend an inordinate amount of time at the microfish machine at the public library, investigating fishing stories from the 1960′s.
I collect pocket lint.
I read the “terms and conditions” of subscription web sites for fun.
I spend my weekends bundling newspapers for the recycling center.
I dream in black. Not black and white; just black.
SSF:
I’ve kind of lost track of how many are competing, but my people have that information. They do have to keep track of all the cameras after all.
I have the utmost confidence in you. Unfortunately you’re making me laugh.
But you’re very boring, it’s true. Keep telling me how boring you are.
J Lee:
“Yeah, that’s right, I’m boring,” he said again. “I’m so boring, I make Jehovah’s Witnesses check to see if their watches are still running. I play the recorder. I tivo the Home Shopping Network. What’s got two thumbs and loves prune juice?” He made fists with both his hands and pointed his thumbs at his chest. “THIS GUY!”
Her eyes were wide, her mouth slightly agape; she shook her head slowly. “So boring,” she whispered.
He pointed down at his feet. “Brown socks and sandals.” He held up his hand in front of his face and pointed at his wrist. “Digital.” He tapped quickly at the keys. When he showed it to her, upside down, it read, “you are reading this on my calculator watch.”
“Oh god… bore me more, please, bore me more…”
“I bore so well termites come to me for advice. I’m boring, I tells ya… I’m so boring I go into chat rooms and pretend to be a librarian. My favorite video game is Virtual Plumber. You know that Andy Warhol movie ‘Sleep’?” He nodded sagely. “I was an extra.”
Her breathing slowed; her eyelids fluttered; she was out. He removed a perfectly-folded gray blanket from the top of an immaculately-stacked pile of identical gray blankets. Smiling, he shook it out and laid it gently over her prone form, tucking it lightly under her chin. He settled down into his la-z boy recliner and resumed his reading: “Consumer Reports Best American Toasters of the 1990s.”
SSF:
Damn you! Stop being funny! I still like mouths more than eyes though.
The identical perfectly-folded gray blankets actually appeals to me; I may be a little OCD.
Why do you research fishing of the 60s and toasters of the 90s? Other than that they’re boring as fuck?
J Lee:
Yup, you got it. I actively seek out boring things to study just because I’m so… fucking…
Well you know.
I hate to admit it, but since you brought it up again, and in the interest of full disclosure… I’ve been told I have a lovely mouth, too.
And not just by the boys in cell block D, either. Smartass.
SSF:
Why do I even read emails from you any more? Sometimes I do have a bit of trouble getting back to sleep after I’ve taken the dog to the park in the morning, and well, you’ll suffice.
How did you know I was thinking of the guys in D Block?
Who told you have a “lovely” mouth?
J Lee:
Oh come on, give me a bit of credit; anyone with half a sense of humor would think the same thing if a boy said that he’d been told he had a “lovely mouth”… and since we’re already established that you’re fucking funny, it was an easy assumption…
Several young ladies have admired my mouth over the years, actually. For starters I have unnaturally straight teeth. And if you look at my picture again, you may notice that my lower lip is actually quite large and full.
SSF:
So I guess we can’t be friends really. Since I’m a sucker for straight teeth and full lips.
And you’ve made me laugh. Too bad, ’cause I’d like to be friends.
Bore me some more, would you?
J Lee:
Yeah, that is too bad… I’d like to be friends, too…
But the truth of the matter is that, if you really are trying to be good, it might not be the greatest idea for us to become too friendly. ‘Cause I am actually kinda bad. Okay, okay… kinda REALLY bad.
And while I can’t promise to be good, or even to try to be good… I can and do promise to try to try to be good. And trying to be good is, after all, about as boring as it gets, right? So maybe it really COULD all work out…
But hey, emailing is harmless, right? So maybe we can just be pen pals or something.
SSF:
Tell me how bad you are.
J Lee:
How bad do you want me to be?
SSF:
VERY.
J Lee:
I’m not nearly as bad as I could be, but often a lot worse than I should be.
And just when I think I’m being good, I somehow find myself contemplating very bad things indeed.
SSF:
Tell me. Give me an example.
Are you contemplating bad things now?
J Lee:
“…so tell me. Give me an example.” A light shone in her gray-blue eyes as she smiled. “Are you contemplating bad things now?”
He closed his eyes and smiled too. Putting his hand on the back of his head, he sighed and shook his head ever so slightly. When he opened his eyes, he stared directly into hers and his smile broadened. He had unnaturally straight teeth that glinted in the light reflected by the mirror behind the bar.
He didn’t say a word, but the message in his gaze was clear. A flush rose in her cheeks. Not one to easily fluster, she was caught off guard… but only for a moment. She stirred the ice cubes in her drink, took a sip, and then returned his gaze confidently. Now it was his turn to blush. He laughed and reached across the table, trying to catch her hand. Her eyes widened, and she puffed her lower lip out. “I told you, I’m trying to be good…” her voice trailed off as his foot found hers beneath the table. His toe traced a line up her calf, the inside of her knee… a slight intake of breath, barely audible. He came around the table to her, slowly.
SSF:
What bar are we in?
J Lee:
It’s a bar where everything looks vaguely familiar. You might have been there a few times before, but you don’t recognize anybody. The lights are low, and the decor is dark red. We’re in a corner booth, very private. It’s late, and most people have already gone home. No one is paying much attention to what we’re doing… but your eyes are half closed, and your head is leaning back, and you’re asking for more.
And I’m asking what you need to finish.
SSF:
I’m impatient but I do love the anticipation.
J Lee:
What can I offer you for now… a little taste… a teaser, as you say…
Something about my hand, under the table, under your skirt… drawing figure eights with my finger along the inside of your thigh, the line of your panties, the crease in between… wet folds enveloping my fingers as you look around the bar, checking if anyone is watching… your own hand moves to my lap, your palm resting softly on the outline of my shaft through my pants…
Maybe some young lady is watching from the corner? I don’t know, it’s a work in progress…
SSF:
Do you like panties, or should I be wearing none? I get very wet.
J Lee:
I’m sitting here trying to decide… I go back and forth… and back and forth… and back again…
I do love panties… as a word, a concept… but skirts with no panties, and you dripping wet… running down your legs, over my hand… that’s hard to resist…
But then again, moving your panties to the side, rubbing your clit with my thumb and your panties are just soooo wet…
See what I mean? Back and forth.
Why don’t you surprise me…
SSF:
For some reason I have to read everything you write twice. Um, very hot. Very hot.
Where are your fingers while you’re rubbing my clit with your thumb?
J Lee:
With my first two fingers I’m stroking your labia. Tugging it on the downstroke, but you’re so wet my middle finger (which is on the inside) enters you each time… and my other hand is just lightly resting on your neck, and we’re pretending like we’re having a simple conversation… but it’s really hard to keep our hips from gyrating, and you keep rolling your head back slightly, you are trying to control it but at some point you can’t… and there’s a moan that’s caught right at the back of your throat, you’re fighting it and fighting it but it keeps rolling forward…
Yes, we eventually met, and had lots of great sex until he moved back from whence he came. I really do find it difficult to be friends with guys when they write this well, and I’m not the only one.
I swear. True story.
Naughty Boy: A Fantasy
Posted on June 05, 2009He’s being too aggressive and I tell him to stop but he’s too eager. And then I tell him to back off but he doesn’t listen, or he does so for a bit and then gets too rough again.
So I slap his face, once, and hard, and then he knows I’m fucking serious. But he totally goes along with it, he does not get angry, he just does what he’s told. I’d like the surprised look on his face when I slap him. But then he knows what I want and he’s there.
I swear. True story.
Correctional Officer, Part 3
Posted on June 04, 2009[Continued from "Correctional Officer, Part 2."]
I slept on T’s couch in his gloriously air-conditioned apartment. Being hot as fuck and hungover is a glimpse into what I’ll experience in hell, I’m sure. T did less than touch me–he was barely in the same room as me. His cat, however, was all over my shit.
After resting adequately I drove home. I returned the next week to complete my work. T, CO, and I got together again for drinks. I gave them both a lot of shit for being so sexually inexperienced. These two guys were in their mid-20s and had bedded three women between them. Poor CO, his dick had only been in two women and now he was married with a kid. T seemed to prescribe to the bizarre notion that one should not have sexual relations until one is truly, and assuredly, in love. These guys did not live on my plane of existence.
When my work was done, I left the town and my new buddies. I had T’s phone number, and CO’s email address. We said we’d keep in touch, but there was no fucking way I was EVER going back to that horrible place.
Amazingly, the three of us continued to communicate. Many times they were at the house of one or the other playing video games while I talked to them on speaker phone. We talked about anything and everything. The relationship involved me giving them shit about their “sex” lives, and them telling me all the reasons I really was a geek despite my protestations. I honestly was treating the friendship as a friendship. I wasn’t going to see these guys again unless they wanted to come to San Francisco, in which case they could stay with me and my husband.
CO and I emailed each other while we were both at work. Sometimes we’d talk on the phone too, but that was a pain in the ass because when he was stationed where he could talk to me he had to answer another phone line, from the inmates, with, “What is your medical emergency?” Inevitably it was something lame like only getting one piece of bread at meal time. I specifically asked CO NOT to tell me stories about his work; I know people are horrible and disgusting, I don’t need to know how horrible and disgusting they are.
Neither of us talked about our respective spouses much either. We were too busy talking about more interesting things. Of course we talked about sex. Because I can’t not talk about sex. I was fascinated that he had only had sex with two women. He said he’d never had a decent blow job. Wha?!
I assumed that he would never be attracted to me. We were both married anyway, so it didn’t matter. Also he was so cute and dorky and young, nine years younger than me. And the night in my hotel room he made it crystal clear that he did not find me physically appealing in any way. Our emails became increasingly more personal. He shared the story of his fucked-up childhood that made my heart ache. I told him about crap that went on in my life.
I don’t know why, and I know it wasn’t a fully-conscious decision, but I told him I had fantasized about him. At the time it was just a continuation of my teasing him. I joked about his limited sexual experience; told him in jest that I knew he was looking at my tits when we met initially; and told him I had sexual fantasies about him. It was all in an attempt to get him to blush.
More to come ….
I swear. True story.
Army Guy and SSF
Posted on June 03, 2009In December 2007 Army Guy called me for the first time. He was in Iraq at the time; I felt very special that he took the time to call me. It was the day Seattle Guy was here, so Army Guy had to hear me bitch about the disaster that was the Seattle Guy visit. This is the email I received soon thereafter. If I hadn’t already thought Army Guy was fucking amazing (I had seen his photos), this definitely did it. I still LOVE (and I’ve read this several times) the unexpected transition. I did not have to edit AT ALL for anything other than identifying information.
Army Guy:
Hey,
I enjoyed talking to you as well and I’m sorry Fat Seattle Guy showed back up. I usually hate bystanders capriciously tossing out opinions about my personal life, but I’m going to do it anyway: Where does that pencil-dicked lard-ass get off?
I like the beginnings of relationships. It’s still full of excitement and mystery and every little thing about the other person is a delightful new discovery. When you’re exploring your lover’s mind and body, your pulse still quickens and you get that feeling in your stomach, like when you’re climbing up the hill on the roller coaster and are about to take a plunge. I’ve come to believe that the “courtship” period of a relationship can never end because when it becomes a labor, that’s when people feel like they can take liberties with each other and say disrespectful things. The mystery and the thrill of the chase is gone.
You didn’t gross me out by using the “cunt” word. I like saying cock too and have never called a girl stupid when I was fucking her. I’ve probably thrown the words “filthy fucking whore” around a couple of times, but calling someone stupid isn’t hot. It’s just insulting.
I want you to feel as free as you care to tell me whatever comes into your depraved mind. It turns me on to turn you on and gratifies my ego in the particular way I like to be gratified. If you haven’t gathered by now, I have a high opinion of myself.
I’m going to make my cold drive home now in my unheated HMMWV (Hummer) with no doors. When I get home and warm up a little, I’m going to remember the cadence and timbre of your voice and imagine myself showing up on your doorstep by surprise.
You’re slightly intoxicated, but only enough to loosen your inhibitions and suspend your disbelief that I’ve paid you a visit. All the imagery and scenarios I’ve invoked in you are still fresh on your mind as you invite me in. Out of politeness, you ask me how my trip was. It was long and fraught with delays, but like any good soldier, I sleep easily in uncomfortable places and can adjust my circadian rhythms easily so I’m not too jet-lagged.
You pour me a glass of wine, for which I’m grateful, as I haven’t had anything decent in nearly a year. What comes to mind right now because I’m craving it is a Cotes du Rhone in a big glass. You’re a little nervous, meeting me for the first time, but like it did on the phone, it’s amusing and endears you to me.
We have a seat on your couch and you play some relaxing music. After making compulsory small-talk (we’re not animals, after all) I put down my wine and slide my hand behind the back of your neck and through your hair. It feels thick and alien to anything to which I’ve recently been accustomed. With a little more determination than you thought you would be comfortable, I pull you toward me and kiss you. Consistent with the slow assuredness of my voice, it’s a relaxing, slow kiss. I don’t want to kiss you to say I did it. I want to kiss you to reacquaint myself with the sensations of a woman’s lips: the taste of the wine mixed with your saliva, the smell of your hair that makes me close my eyes and breathe it in. I slide my other hand behind your back and pull your body against mine. The soft heat of your breasts pressing against me and the taste of your mouth feels like more of a welcome home than anything anyone could say to me.
Since neither one of us has taken the issue head-on, we’re hesitant to verbalize what we want to do to each other at that moment, but it becomes readily apparent as the urgency of our kiss increases. We’ve both adjusted to the fact that this is happening and are exploring each others’ bodies in earnest.
The sound of both of us breathing hard through our noses threatens to drown out the anonymous electronic “chillout” music playing on the speakers. I slide my hands up your sides and you put your arms up so your sweater comes off easier. When I unhook your bra, I forgo the normal feigned clumsiness I sometimes exhibit so as to not look like a cad. In one deft motion, it unclasps and I don’t hesitate to taste your bare skin with my tongue. Your nipples harden as I taste and suck on them. Even as I write this, I can feel a hint of the excitement and quickened pulse I was describing earlier in my letter.
When I push you down onto the couch and begin to unbutton your fly, you begin to feel that same excitement as well. As considerate as before, you assist me by lifting your butt off the couch so I can slide your jeans and panties off at the same time.
I stand up quickly to slide off my own t-shirt and jeans. I’m wearing my favorite black David Allan Coe shirt with a drawing of a demonic looking man with fists that say “love” and “hate” tattooed on his knuckles. It seems a little absurd to you and you giggle at it for no apparent reason, but I slide it off so quickly that you don’t have time to examine it. When I slide my jeans off (plain faded Levi 550’s) you sit up to see “what you’re working with.” You see that I’m obviously aroused, as I have a raging hard-on. As to my size, I imagine you’re neither intimidated as to how big I am, nor disappointed. I’ve never felt inadequate, so I pay no mind to the scrutiny I know you’re paying me.
As to my physique, I honestly can’t say I’m at my physical prime. In fact, I’m a good 5 years past, but I still have good muscle tone and a nice tan from working out a few times a week and my recent vacation to Palau.
As I behold your naked body lying before me, I can only grin to myself in anticipation. From what I know of you, I don’t imagine there’s a timid bone in your body and it excites me. I know what I’m about to do to you and when you look me in the eye, I raise one of my eyebrows mischievously. Between that and my sideways grin, you know too and it causes you to smile as well.
I plant one of my knees between yours and nudge one of your legs aside…
Fucking HOT! This makes me want to suck his cock forever.
I swear. True story.
