Two Hauntings and a Lovely Monsieur, Part Deux

Last Monday was my first pool day of the summer. It was a glorious, shining day to read a mystery book on a blanket under the tall trees, listening to the chatter of the families nearby, but the water was too cold to go in. I went home for a nap but before I dozed off, emboldened and about to be rested, I asked Le Monsieur if he wanted to come over that night for a walk. Maybe we could hold hands in the beautiful mild first moments of summer, beneath a waxing half-moon.

Le Monsieur came up my driveway more beautiful than his picture: tall, angular, bespectacled. He was wearing a pretty orange-gold woven print shirt and pants that matched. He looked cosmopolitan and assured, if a little mystified to suddenly be here.

As we walked along my well-worn woodsy neighborhood route, his first touch beyond handholding was to gently grab the back of my hair, right there in front of the moon and everybody. When we sat down in my favorite little park to chat, he delicately took off my shoe and rubbed my foot. I was glad I’d done a pink and gold pedicure the day before.

When I brought him home and to bed, he taught me the word chateullement,tickle. He thrust his dick into my mouth and his hand deep inside me, my legs up the wall. Beneath him, sucking him happily and deeply, I felt an oasis of unselfconsciousness, just me and the beautiful dick and the smell of summer and sandalwood and subtle cologne. He came easily for me, saltier than the sea.

Since then, I’ve put Duolingo back on my phone, re-taking-up not just French but Spanish too. I’ve even started learning the Hebrew letters just for fun. Oh, the languages, les langues, the tongues. I’m picturing Elizabeth Gilbert practicing Italian in the tub at the beginning of Eat Pray Love and hoping for a summer of pleasure, one way or the other. All the ways.

Perfectly 1993 Guy Part Six: Learning to Love a Blowjob

Eventually, it became clear that I was gonna have to go home. The guys were starting college and Last Bitchy Gay Guy’s dad wasn’t renewing the lease on the spare apartment. In the last days before I went back home, Perfectly 1993 Guy and I decided to tackle another block of mine: blowjobs.

 

I’d done a couple that didn’t feel too onerous, but a particularly harsh night of casual sex when I was younger had made me associate going down on a guy with contempt, with being treated harshly. Nothing in the universe was harsh about this guy though, so why not give it a whirl?

 

He stood to the side of the couch arm while I sat looking up at him. His face was beatific, he looked so vulnerable and patient. Kind. His penis was truly the most lovable of all, medium-sized and always friendly, just a perfect companion.

 

It didn’t take too long! Just a few minutes of tentative, teeth-minding learning on my part and he was groan-whispering “I’m gonna come.” And he did. It was another in a series of momentous exchanges of love and warmth.

 

Swallowing was then, and for some reason remains, a point of pride for me. We had planned out that part in advance, so he had a Peppermint Patty ready to counteract the taste. (Which wasn’t so bad of course!) So lovely, so thoughtful.

 

We literally brushed each other’s hair after that. I explained, in the way that one explains something one knows absolutely nothing about, that this was “a lesbian thing.” I think I got the idea from “artistic” nudes in my dad’s photography books that I used to sneak (lengthy) peeks at when I was little. Whatever the inspiration, the mutual hair-brushing was very nice.

 

In the parental back-and-forth of those years, it was arbitrarily my dad’s turn to house me. I packed almost everything I had into dad’s small car, heartbreakingly leaving behind the Popples knapsack that contained (Among, I assume, other treasures) my senior year book, never to be seen again. (Remind me to borrow my sister’s copy  sometime for that pic of me and my friends’ legs, all in black and white striped stockings and lug-soled Mary Janes.)

 

I don’t remember the ride home with dad, aside from the relief of being on the way home and the hope for future mail. I had to get some kind of job to pay for the long-distance phone calls. I had to figure out my post-graduation life. I felt loved, wistful, dreamy. I knew I would miss Perfectly 1993 Guy so much, and that our story wasn’t over yet.

Gilmore Guy Part Four: Your Arms Make Me Wish I Was Still a Poet

I'm not saying this night was about love, oh wait, maybe I am. Not about couple-love, that still feels a million miles away, but the love of bodies, of luck, of my neighborhood, of the rhythm of Amy Sherman-Palladino's writing. It was a night about the love of LIFE, and I'm so glad I indulged in it. Gold stars all around.

            As we kissed on Gilmore Guy’s couch, the magic of desire took me over like a fluffy pink cloud. The comfort and pleasure of him was making me feel woozily submissive. (In my favorite book-I-didn’t-finish-because-it’s-too-triggering, The Body Keeps the Score, I learned that the impulse that makes us freeze when we’re scared is the same as the one that holds us still so we can bond with someone. This is my favorite romantic-but-horrifying brain fact!)

           

            Rather than totally succumb to the blissful frozenness, I remembered that he’d said he’d like to try a little submissiveness himself. I took a deep breath, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shoved him away from me, back against the couch. I straddled him (aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh like a horny homecoming) and immediately felt a Wonder Woman jolt of confidence. He tried to put his arms around me, but I pressed them back, held his wrists as tightly as I reasonably could with someone I JUST met.

            “How does that feel?” I gently growled into his ear.

            “Good.” He gasped, “It feels good.”

I reached to the nape of his neck and pulled his hair. I was worried it might be too much, and it was.

            “Don’t pull my hair,” he said a little reticently, and I let go.

            “Okay, thanks for telling me. Do you feel okay?”

            “I’m okay. Just…don’t pull my hair.”

            “Okay. Meanwhile, you are freeeee to pull mine!” I said, placing his hand in the right spot.

            Oh my GOODNESS I needed my hair pulled! It’s always such a relief. I arched my back, squirmed in his lap, and moaned, semi-realizing that I was giving the revelers downstairs on the sidewalk and earful. I hoped nobody I worked for was down there. Downside to geographic desirability, I guess. Totes worth it.

            He helpfully noted that the futon perpendicular to the couch was easy to fold out, and I was all “Yes please!”

            I was in such a happy haze (I feel like I should assure you that I only had half a drink, this haze was pure hormones) that I don’t really remember how my pajamas and sort-of-pretty underthings got strewn about the floor and coffee table. He took a moment to catch up with me in the nakedness department. Is there anything happier than meeting a new penis? This was a GOOD one, big and ready and delicious-looking.

            But no time for that yet, because his eager talented face was already between my thighs. I came easily and repeatedly, in giggling jolts until I pushed him away by the forehead.

            When it was my turn, though, I felt stunned with self-consciousness. It had been almost a year since I’d had a dick in my mouth (Season Two of Stranger Things with The Socialist—ah, fall.) and I suddenly felt like I’d written exactly NO paragraphs about blow jobs. It felt too big to manage, I was paranoid about teeth, I couldn’t get my head at the right angle

            No matter about my precarious blow-jobbing, he pulled me into a kiss, and our bodies wrapped back up into a snuggle. He ran his hand over my ass and I said “You know you want to smack it!” So he did, hooray!

            The intercourse part just…sigh…fit. It was as natural and as easy as the kissing. In concert with his strength, I found my own lovely rhythm, pausing to realize how transcendent this moment was—a near-stranger and me, making something lovely together. A glow as lovely and golden as the fall sun.

            There was this little dip between his shoulder blades that I could have spent weeks caressing. His body was glowing perfection to me, and so, in that happy haze, was my own.

            “Your arms make me wish I was still a poet,” I said. He’s yoga-strong, like a huggable sculpture.

            “Well, you could always put pen to paper…” he said.

            It’s helpful to have permission to wax poetic about the deep, glittery waves of release and joy I felt as we cuddled, then fucked, then cuddled some more. He spent a long lovely time with my left nipple that I will use (and have used many times already) during personal time. When I come from the inside, there’s rarely any big finale, just waves and waves and waves til we both get tired. I yelped and giggled. “Welcome!” I wanted to say. “THANK you!” I probably did say.

            Afterwards, until we eventually put back on the Gilmore Girls, we lay listening to a mix of silence and street noise, breathing and heartbeats. He put his hand on my heart, I lay my head on his chest. There’s just as much romance in short-lived flings as in more serious stuff, I think. Maybe that’s why I keep revisiting the casual—these brief sparkles of connection are no small thing. They’re important to me, and they give me hope.

            There was talk of sleeping over, but I wanted to go home. Not just because they have a no-other-partners-in-the-bed rule. (Though it did bring to mind a piece of Cunning Minx’s advice from years ago that still chimes like an old friend in my head: “You got all these rules? You don’t get me.”) (Also, in fairness, Sweetie and I had that rule as well. I was soooooooo happy when I got my own bed.) It was more that I wanted to go home and be with myself, to honor and process what had just happened.

            He put on his shoes to walk me out (It was around then that we finally exchanged last names. I wonder how/if he ever spelled my last name in his phone) and I thought he was walking me chivalrously to my car.  Instead, he gave me a quick peck at the door, looking around exactly like somebody who’d done something wrong. While I later wondered if he was being secretive or ashamed of me, I also do enough thinking about weaponized white womanhood to wonder if he just felt unsafe being seen with me at night.

            Whatever the reason, his furtiveness didn’t register until later. I went home well-fucked and starving, ate some night cereal, and slept the best I had in a long time. There are more Gilmore Guy paragraphs to come, and I’m so glad I gave us a chance.

Oh, My Urgent Mouth

Yesterday while I was taking a nice bath after personal time I felt a warm, tingly feeling spread across my mouth and the lower right of my face. I ran my hand over it and knew exactly what it was—the urge to be slapped and to try a hand over my mouth, things for which my own hands just won’t do. Sometimes my body is absolutely humming to get along to the next phase, and I honestly don’t know what to tell it.

Adding the new fetishes to my Fet page only fanned the flame of it. I want to push forward and let my body have what it is so hungry for. Maybe there’s a way, but I know what’s in me besides that physical urge—the part of me that wants love so badly that it will imagine love where it isn’t. But holding myself back doesn’t seem natural or right either.

My poor mouth wants so very many things to happen to it, is dying to be kissed and smacked and fucked so hard I can’t breathe. I know there are other things that need to be taken care of right now, but 50 to 75 blow jobs doesn’t seem like too many.

I can take care of my hoo-ha and ass. I can feel myself up all night and day if I want to. (That’s one of the benefits of being out of work, I guess.) But what can I do for my poor, pining mouth, friends, while I wait for this break to be over?

Oh, mouth, I’m sorry. I wish I could give you everything.

Real Date/ Car Sex With Steampunk Guy Part Three: Thanks, Pal

As I was on my knees next to him kissing him in a fit of post-panic second-wind lust, his hand went up my skirt and inside the back of my underpants. “Hmm, let’s see, how’s your ass doing?”

“Yes. Yesyesyes,” is how it was doing. This time I wasn’t self-conscious, just gave over to the sensation of it and tried not to exclaim too loudly, but jeez, goodness, he was hitting the spot. Let us now praise the summer of my ass.

He told me to face away from him and sit in his lap so I maneuvered myself behind the passenger’s seat and did so. Car sex with a guy is just as awkward as I’d imagined it would be, but also just as hot. I sat down and pushed his cock into my pussy and groaned and sighed. It was hard to get a good angle to push back against him but I stopped caring about that for a little while because oh my goodness his finger was in my ass, further and further in and oh the catharsis of it, the absolute happiness. He pushed into me hard and I bent all the way over and braced myself against the passenger’s seat, hugging it, almost bent in half. Jesus Christ, I was thirsty and sweaty and tear-stained and newly divorced but this? This was exactly right. Sometimes I’m awesome at life in spite of myself.

I pulled away to take a breath and my head got pushed down to him again—more of him being too big, pushing the limits if what my throat could handle, making me feel full and debased and whoreish and scared and wonderful.

He put the seats down so that I could lay down on my belly the way I like, held my shoulders down and fucked me, the car bouncing cartoonishly, the whole world back-and-forth, sweat and fireflies and hazy suburban stars.

Afterwards it was too hot to cuddle much so we lay back and chatted. His hand wandered over to my boob and it felt so good that I almost reached down to finish myself off again (I did that when I got home. Twice.) (Note to Steampunk Guy: More good old-fashioned feeling-up, please. If it’s not too much trouble.) but he was getting his clothes back on. He helped me find my very damp underpants and I wriggled back in to them and lay back down. My sweaty hair was hanging off the end of the pulled-down seats. I was all flushed and content like I’d just been in the ocean. I asked for one more hug and he laid on top of me and smushed me instead-perfect.

Then we drove around. This was a town he used to live in. He drove me past his old barracks and told me about the family of ducks that used to live behind his old apartment. When we stopped at a convenience store for water and Junior Mints, I realized I was having trouble walking and that my hair was a spectacular mess.

I told him the story of why I’m protective of my voice, but it didn’t hold much power in that moment. Now that I knew I was capable of fighting back, of a well-placed “Fuck you,” I had a little more faith in myself and the trauma of all those years ago seemed like the tiny part of my life that it is. Thanks pal.

Awesome Thing I Wish I'd Written

Heard this at the local erotic reading last night and it made me so happy.

First Date With Steampunk Guy, Part Four: His Huge Life Force

In the course of writing this, I’ve realized that I’ve had an awful lot of first-date sex for someone who keeps saying she’s not casual. I guess the two things aren’t mutually exclusive, but it’s time to acknowledge that some of the things I want fall outside of my lovely-dovey dreams. Some of my favorite adventures have been off to the side of romance and some have been nowhere near it. I’m pretty much in crushtown about Steampunk Guy, but not in the same way that I am for my more romance-oriented partners. Maybe I just want to climb all over him a whole bunch more.

Anyway, back to the couch. As we snuggled, I told him that I was really enjoying the enormous amount of Chi thrumming through him—he thought “You have a huge life force.” was hilarious and worthy of a Fet status, but to his credit he did not stop and update. Anyway, the man has a lot of oomph, and I think it’s contagious.While we were cuddling and chatting, I felt this amazing warmth come over me; heat, well-being, life just simmered through me—he must’ve felt something like it too, because on went the condom. 

He took me by the hair and pushed my head toward his dick, pressing and thrusting--I believe one would call this getting fucked in the face. I pushed him down my throat as far as I could, taking as much gagging as I could stand. I squeezed, licked, sucked. It turns out that the taste of a regular comdom’s okay, but I did miss the taste of the thing itself—it’s a little harder to know what to do with a blow job without the taste to make me all ravenous for it. But I was ravenous for it in other ways.

He put me on my hands and knees and pushed in from behind, hitting new spots inside me and bringing forth more yowling. I got pushed down over the edge of the couch so that my face was almost on the floor. I tried to stifle the screams with a couch cushion.

Then he turned me over, put my legs over his shoulders, and went in so deep that it hurt again, but I decided to take the pain—I really didn’t want him to ever stop. His expression was angry/gleeful, especially when my screams turned into something like sobs—no tears came but it was close enough to crying to put him over the edge. (I know I got mad at Bill way back when for getting turned on by tears. I’m not sure why this is different.)  Again, he came and just kept fucking me until I absolutely couldn’t take it anymore.

During afterglow/aftercare The National started to seem too moody to I put the songs back on shuffle. I was going to skip “You Get What You Give” (given to me by a dear friend whose road mixes have no rhyme or reason except that they are in alphabetical order) based on its general not-hotness, but he liked it so much that I left it on. He went on so ebulliently about the movie-montage moments in life that I have no choice but to love the song now. If we were a thing, it’d be our song.

Some of the things he said made me think that night was a one-off, and ever since Mr. Popular I’ve assumed that overbooked guys might see it as a one night thing. I guess since he texted the next day to see if I’m interested in his partner as well there’s a possibility that more things might happen.

We kissed some more, had pie, and then all of a sudden he was ready to go. He did have a pretty long drive back but I felt a little sad about how quickly he had his shoes on. If there’s a next time, I think I’ll ask for praise and more snuggles. I felt a lonely ache between the time he left and the time Sweetie got home.

However, over the next few days the lonely ache gave ways to such a wonderful feeling of confidence and centeredness—my favorite side-effect of submission. There’s something good there. I don’t know what the heck to do with it, if anything, but it’s good.

Naughty Birthday Wishlist for the Coming Year

1. I wish for a lot more time with Sweetie, both vanilla and otherwise. We haven’t been connecting as much as we’d like lately, and I’d like to have my pretty pink ropes rubbing up against my stuff very soon. Holding her, petting her, and reading library books with her would be good too.
2. I wish (for like the millionth time) for my gentleman rope top. I want to spend a lot of time in a collar, being his. I want to be over his knee, in ropes, struggling or forgetting to struggle, feeling loved and breathless and anchored and warm, and then later, pretty sore. And then I want him to make me mixtapes and tell me I’m adorable and come hang out with Sweetie. Of course, this might be a job for more than one guy, oh darn.
3. I wish to continue the love affair I have been having with my ass. Earlier this year I discovered just how much I like to put things in there when I’m alone, and now I would like others to please put stuff in there as well. “Start with a finger and work your way up, Sir” would be a wonderful thing to say to somebody someday.
4. I wish for no more tanlines next summer, and I nice naked man to go to the beach with, who can throw me around and kiss me in the waves.
5. I wish to go to Floating World with my friend Angelface and see what kinds of hijinx we can get into.
6. I wish for lots and lots and lots of PIV sex. Somehow it tends to get neglected. I need to be held down and fucked silly, I need my head banged up against the headboard, car window, whatever. I want to be so loud that I wake up all of the neighbors and metamours. Also I would like to have a dick in my mouth a lot more often.
7. I wish for more teenage-style making out at concerts and more spankings in parking garages.
8. I wish for many different scenes with many different combinations of people. I’ve been remiss in my unicorn practice, but I’m sure there are a lot of lovely wives who could hold me down while their husbands do god-knows-what to me.
9. I wish to continue falling in love with my body, discovering all the miracles it has to surprise me with.
10. I wish to be set on fire some more, literally and figuratively.