Thursday, March 31, 2011

springtime

It is spring here. There aren't leaves on the trees yet, and the wind is still cold, but the sun lasts later into the evening and I am starting to shed my layers. In the deepest parts of winter I will wear leggings under jeans, with knee socks and boots, and a tshirt under a tshirt under a sweater under a coat. I am not fucking around when it comes to preserving warmth, and I have figured out over the 10+ between me and puberty where the intersection of loathing winter and how to look like a girl with a figure—and not like a potato in shoes—while maintaining body heat lies.

In spring, my city wakes up. We shake off six months of extra layers and shimmy into skirts; we shed cold nights indoors for cool evenings in parks. Men and women eye each other up as they pass on the street because the light jackets of spring and the faces not obscured by hats and scarves are novel, and we notice just how beautiful our neighbors are. We peel back the dry onion skin of december into the flavorful moistness of march.

I am a person who opts to ride my bicycle year-round, in all instances except for when the roads are impassable due to ice, snow, or slush. My boots keep me warm and protect my clothes, and I have been known to wear a wool ski mask that hides my face. In winter, when I ride the wind stings my eyes and tears stream out of their corners, when I arrive at my final destination and take off my bag steam rises off my back. Spring is a welcome change. My hair flutters behind my ears, and I wear a single light jacket over my dress. Before summer, I still wear tights under my skirts, and their hemlines float behind me.

I love riding in the spring: I love the fresh air across my face, and I love being able to ride fast without the wind biting my ears. I race myself through my city: I stand on my pedals and lift myself off of the saddle for bumps, and shift my weight to accommodate uneven roads. I dismount my bicycle and my thighs are the same jelly as when I have been riding a man.

I wear skirts on my bicycle. They stream behind me, flying up or down in the breeze, showing off my thighs as I pass. It is thrilling to me that my disorderly clothing might provide a show to some passers by: I am quick enough that any flash is an accident and soon rectified, but the shape of my lower half is unmistakeable. I wear shirts that plunge in the front and my breasts bounce and sway with the unevenness of the perpetually badly maintained roads of my city. At the end of most rides I am acutely aware of the smell of my body, of the flex of my legs, of the bend of my back, of the soreness of my groin. It is not lost on me that a bicycle ride is not wholly unlike sex.

There was a period in my life when I had a piercing through my clitoral hood, which lasted for about a year and a half and that I then removed because it interfered with the sex I preferred to have. In spring, I will sometimes replace the jewelry for a bike ride. It has happened that I swing my leg over the top tube, hop up on my saddle, and lean forward as I start to pedal, only to notice a newer sensation. I ride to my destination, aware of a more vibratory sense in my vulva, riding faster and choosing routes that I know may be more stimulating. I avoid roads with lights and pick straightaways. I lean forward and give my quads a workout. The speed, the texture, and the public-privateness of my adventures are exhilarating: the wind over my skin and the work that I do makes me fully inhabit my body, and my ride allows me to have moments of truly unbridled happiness.

I arrive at my destination, flushed and serene. I am smiling, calm, and relaxed. My thighs quiver with every step, I am aware of the way my body moves in space and the way it feels in the world. Thoughts of things I plan to do later with a lover slink through my mind: those thoughts are simultaneously more urgent and more fantasy. The prospect of the ride home brings a tingle.

I leave my jewelry out most of the time: I don't want to become desensitized to this particular stimulation, and springtime, with its freshly uncovered skin and bold glances, is the best time of year to enjoy it.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

the size of the friend zone is variable

Some friends of mine and I were talking about the fundamental problem, and we came up with a corollary:

Of course, there are outliers and exceptions, and I'm pretty sure the integral of this function is directly proportional to how wet I am around the object of desire/affection.

I'll get back to a regular schedule of smuttiness shortly.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

contrat de mariage

This isn't a pickup line so much as a pickup story.

I very briefly lived in France as an undergrad. I wasn't, strictly speaking, studying abroad because I was not affiliated with any French institution and I was not taking classes, but I was living in Paris and conducting some independent research that was funded by my home university. I lived in a neighborhood populated primarily with North Africans, and I am a tall, voluptuous blond (my measurements aren't for public consumption, but my dress size would be an 8-10 if it weren't for my shoulders and breasts). French women do not, generally speaking, look like me. I stood out in that crowd.

CONTEXT: I am walking home to my apartment after buying vegetables. It is sunday afternoon. I haven't showered, I'm more than a little hungover, and I feel like I smell. I am wearing a navy blue dress with a cache-coeur neckline (my favorite). A man sees me in the crowd and aggresses his way over to me.

THIS DUDE: easily twice my age and then some, easily four inches shorter than me and then some, easily 50 pounds heavier than me (I'm not a lightweight) and then some. He is wearing a linen suit. He is not beautiful.

THE EXCHANGE*:
Him: “Miss, you are so beautiful, would you happen to be in need of a husband? I have the papers right here!” and he pulls out a large document labelled, somewhat comically, “MARRIAGE CONTRACT.”
Me: “No thanks, but good luck with that.”
Him: “Well, if not a husband, how about a fuck?”

DID IT WORK: I am not now, nor have I ever been, married.

*En français, pour ceux qui en ont envie:
Lui: “Mademoiselle, vous etes si belle, est-ce que vous avez besoin d'un mari? Voici mon contrat de mariage!”
Margot: “Non merci, bonne chance.”
Lui: “Si vouz ne voulez pas m'épouser, puis-je vous baiser?”

Thursday, March 24, 2011

by the river

There are two rivers in this city: one that divides us from our neighbor to the east, and one that divides downtown from the west. The river to the west is scenic and lovely, with a well-planned and meticulously maintained stretch of grass and trees on a path that cyclists and runners enjoy in abundance. The river to the east is primarily utilitarian, with shipyards and bridges out to another place. It is punctuated with small, manicured areas, like the city government came out of its stupor once every half mile and realized that people who live here might occasionally want to enjoy that waterfront, too.

I live closer to the river to the east. I've definitely enjoyed the path on the river to the west, but when I want to go for a quick run—usually around five miles, sometimes as few as three and occasionally as many as eight—I head east for large stretches of sidewalk with nobody else on them. There is a half-mile stretch of a riverfront park, with recessed benches for looking at boats floating by and for enjoying the pleasure of being outside. When I run through here, I'll sometimes stop, stand on one of the wide concrete berths between the immediately-riverfront, hidden benches and the pedestrian path, feeling the wind and sun over my body and allowing myself to be, momentarily, somewhere else.

The benches are recessed away from the path, such that when I have taken the occasion to sit on one, my head is about at the same level as a passerby's ankle. The concrete barrier that I sometimes stand on is about three feet wide, and spans 80% of the length of a bench, with a gap in the middle and some steps for easy entry into one of these cubbies. I have an imagination about this slightly recessed, hidden space: it's outdoors and public, yet hidden.

**************

It is May. I am walking down the riverfront path with a date: a man near my age or slightly older, with broad shoulders and healthy build; darker skin than mine and with a short, full beard. I am wearing a headband in my hair, a knee-length apricot dress with a cache-coeur neckline with a loose skirt and a tighter top, two inch heels, and black boy-short panties. We walk by the river, with a cool early-summer-late-spring breeze on an otherwise warm night, after an otherwise uneventful dinner and a bottle of red. The wind stirs the edge of my dress. My breasts shake and my thighs slip past my labia with each step. My date tells a joke. I tell a rejoinder. We laugh.

He takes my hand and pulls me to him, and still laughing, still teasing, kisses me lightly. His hands are around my waist, and when he pulls away he pinches and tickles me. I jump and giggle, he pulls me in again, and kisses me again, tickles me again. He suggests that we sit on one of these benches and watch as boats lit up with revelers glide down the river, and takes my hand and leads me down the steps to the recessed seats. The bench is cool concrete. We can hear the clip-clop of people walking by, oblivious to us as we settle in and the night air shrouds us away from prying eyes.

He and I continue joking, continue our laughs—a little quieter now—and continue our light exploratory touches. These turn into kisses and him pulling me into his lap. My hemline is creeping up. He kisses me more forcefully, presumably to quiet me a little bit. I am sitting with my back to his chest, twisted around in this embrace, and he starts to run his hands over my arms and thighs. One hand slips through the crossed front of my dress, one runs up my thigh, under the skirt, straight to my pussy.

He whispers into my ear, “Margot, give me your panties.” I pull them down my legs, bending over in his lap, and slip them over my heels, and hand them to him. He slips them into his pocket.

Our voices are quieter and our breathing heavier. He pulls his hand out from between my legs and puts a finger in my mouth. I look him in the eyes and lick it clean. He is getting hard, and I am shifting around in his lap. I turn around and face him, straddling his pelvis, and his hands hide under my dress, gripping and kneading my ass as we start to kiss more deeply. We are writhing against each other; hidden by the height of the berth and shadows it creates.

A woman on the path behind the bench is laughing as she walks by. There is the creak of someone riding a poorly-maintained bicycle.

I lift myself up a little as my date unzips his jeans and pulls out his fully hardened cock, and I lower myself onto it. I kiss him to stay quiet: my knees are on either side of him against the concrete, he is thrusting into me slowly as I ride him; then he is gripping my hips and holding me up as he starts to fuck me faster. My dress spreads out over our legs like a blanket. We moan quietly into each others mouths.

A couple is walking by and chattering away in low voices. I hear their feet as they stroll past us.

I feel suddenly warm and tense yet relaxed; mixed with a certain sense of fear or dread that is quickly overwhelmed with a sense of pure bliss, coming out of my center and going to my fingers and toes. I stifle a cry. My date kisses me, digs his fingers into my flesh, and hardens and spasms inside my body. There is sweat on our foreheads and running between my breasts. We sit like this for a minute, catching our breath, in a warm post-coital embrace with the cool breeze ruffling through our hair. I stir. He pulls my panties out of his pocket and hands them to me, I use them to catch his fluid as I stand up. I smooth my hair, then smooth his. We walk out of our hiding place, and throw my panties in the nearest trash can.

We walk to our bicycles. I ride in front of him, bent over with my skirt flying everywhere. We make our way quickly back to my apartment, where the plan is to shower ourselves clean of the city grime and spend the rest of the night making as much sound as we like while enjoying each others' bodies.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Trends


Some friends of mine have been teasing me a bunch recently about my taste in men (I love them hairy), and combined with my propensity towards nudity, I feel like this is an appropriate graph to explain some of my behaviors.

Things I love: red wine, pantslessness, and hairy men. Yes please.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

The Unicorn

I was two months out of a serious relationship. It was September, grad school was back in full swing, and I was categorically undersexed and overextended. My skin felt tight around my viscera, and when I thought about sex, or love, or Simon and how things ended, it felt a little bit like pulling the scab off of a wound that wasn't nearly as healed as I thought it was. I was wound so tightly that the smallest stimulus would make me spring into pieces. It was unsustainable. My roommate told me, as I sat on the radiator in our kitchen, bouncing my knees up and down with nervous energy and drinking a beer, that I obviously just needed to get laid. I decided she was right.

A friend of mine is a DJ here, and that night he was performing at a cramped basement venue. After feeding them sufficient amounts of whiskey, I dragged three friends (Including the delightful Liplicker) with me for a night of overpriced drinks and the very best of 1970s funk-soul and 1990-2000s hip hop in a room with horrible acoustics and murals on the stone walls. I wore my tightest jeans, black riding boots, and a cream-colored shirt with a low-plunging front and back. I wore a purple ribbon in my short blond hair to keep it out of my face.

When we walked into the bar, it was not particularly crowded. The room itself is maybe 12 feet wide by about 20 feet long, with a bar at one end, the DJ booth at the other, and everything else in between for dancing. There are a few tables near the entrance, but they mostly get used as a coat rack. My friends and I shed our outer layers and started dancing. There were some young men who tried to impress us with well-executed but categorically ridiculous dance moves, and the four of us soundly ignored them.

About 45 minutes in, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around, he asked me to dance, I said yes. He was tall and slim, little bit of an accent, very plain in the face, with dark curly chest hair creeping over the edge of his shirt. He put his arms on my waist and pulled me close.

“My name is Buddy Holly,” he told me.

“Is it really, or is it actually Brian and you're just trying to get in my pants?”

“No, I'm from Texas,” he said.*

We danced together some more. His hands spread firmly up and down my back, searching to get under my belt and rub the flesh of my ass, and I rebuffed him. I had never slept with a stranger before, and I was wary of this man who pulled me in, felt me up, and whose face was so close to mine I could nearly taste his breath.

After dancing like this for a time, he told me the greatest pickup line I have ever heard, before or since: “You are visually delicious.” I laughed in his face and danced closer, shocked that someone would try that on me and even moreso that I didn't hate it.

There was lots of small talk. I discovered that he worked at a local large university in their political science department, putting the brand name MBA he had earned at a young age to work figuring out how nonprofits should spend their money. I told him my name, and my desire to work in a research-heavy field of healthcare. He was unphased. People who spend all their time at Big Name University in my city expect nothing less from their dance partners than a bachelor's degree and a large vocabulary.

We danced. We chatted. Our faces were close, our lips were close, our breathing was labored. I didn't know his last name. I was rubbing his back under his shirt and letting him squeeze my body. My friends winked at me from across the room. I leaned forward half a centimeter and Buddy Holly and I were suddenly kissing deeply, pulling each other in, while I slipped out a small, surprised moan. Our hips had long ago skipped over these pleasantries, and twenty minutes later my pussy was totally slick, and I could feel him pressing insistently against me. He was a stranger. He was exciting. This was exciting. This was terrifying. This was a bad idea, and such a good one.

“Margot,” he said, “I feel a connection with you. I would love to take you home and drink a bottle of wine with you and get to know you better.”

“You can buy me a drink, but I'm not going home with you.” I was firm. I believed it. I had never gone home with anyone before and I was nervous about taking my chances, since I believed pretty strongly that there was a good chance that he was, in fact, actually an axe murderer who preyed on the large-busted and recently single.

He acquiesced and bought me a drink. He said he wanted to know everything about me. I was cagey and told him very little, except that if he had met me six months ago I would have told him that I was getting ready to marry Simon. That was true.

As he and I finished our beers, he pulled his arm around my waist, and asked if I wouldn't mind leaving with him to grab something to eat. If I was uncomfortable at any point, I could back out, and leave, and he would respect it. I agreed. We ran out of the bar, his friends giving him high fives and mine frantically texting me that I can call them if things went sour.

The next half hour or so was a blur. He pressed me against an SUV in the street and kissed me like he was going to fuck me right then. I pressed back. We stumbled down the sidewalks. He told me all about nonprofits. I impressed him with my French, and I discovered that while his English is nearly impeccable, that accent was authentic and he was not a native speaker. We ate pizza and talked about feminism. This is truly the way into my heart/pants.

When we crossed the threshold of his apartment, he offered me mescal: “I have the normal kind, and I have something a little bit more fancy. You can have whichever you like.” I took some of the nicer one. I sat next to him on his white couch, on the white rug, next to the black coffee table: his apartment was clean and minimalist; the living space of a young person with not a lot of money but enough taste to know what to do with it.

On the couch, he leaned into me. My drunken mind was racing: will I or won't I? Will he or won't he? Do I want to? Why? Why not? What am I going to do? Is it so bad? It could be SO good. Will I or won't I? He was saying words and I was not paying attention. And then we were kissing like teenagers, with his hand around my waist and his chest pressing into me. He asked me to come back to his room.

“I want to make you feel good,” he said. “I want to make you forget about all the bullshit that troubles you. I just want you to feel good.” Buddy Holly fed me lines about sex and feminism that I am, even now, completely sure that he meant with all honesty.

Then we were naked, him running his hands all over my body. He smelled sweaty and masculine and hot. His chest and abdomen were covered in dense hair, his body was lean and muscular and far stronger than he looked, and he was on top of me, kissing my breasts and squeezing my ass. The light was on. I wrapped my legs around his waist. His penis pressed against the inside of my thigh, he kissed down my stomach to my mons, then to my clit. He licked it indelicately, and I moaned.

In about 30 seconds I asked him to get a condom; he agreed. I finally saw his dick: it was impressive. Probably about eight inches fully hard, not particularly thick but slightly curved. He rolled on the condom, threw my ankles over his shoulder, bit my neck and slid into me fully. I arched my back and moaned, he felt amazing inside me and I felt like I was waking up.

We fucked like this for about a minute and a half, and he asked me to roll over onto my stomach, which I was happy to oblige. That slight curve made this perfect: he grabbed the space between my ribs and my waist and entered me while I was on my stomach, pushing my hips into the air at a sharp angle. We were like this for approximately a minute before I came, hard, with him inside me and in a flood all over his (white) sheets. I was shaking. He sounded a little sad as he asked me if I was done for the night.

I told him no, don't be ridiculous, give me a minute.

He held me to him. I was quivering. I told him—truthfully--that he was the first man I had come with like that since I left Simon. He stroked my hair and kissed me, he pulled off the condom, and whispered kind words in my ear. He laid me on my back, and we made out in his bed while his still-hard penis pressed against me. I was still wet, I still wanted him, I was grinding my hips against his thigh like we had done on the dance floor, and he held my arms down over my head. He rolled on another condom.

When I have already come once, my vagina is much tighter afterwards. I am not sure if it's like this for other women, but my lover seemed to appreciate it. He fucked me slowly, through another orgasm and another, and he put me on top of him and I rode him while I came. I was shocked by how well he fit into me. We were at it for hours: he stared intensely into my eyes, we tried every position I know, I lost track of orgasms. It was wonderful.

I asked him if I could make him come.

He hesitated.

“I can't.”

“I want to make you feel as good as you make me feel.”

“I can't, unless I know this is real, that this is a real connection.”

“This connection is absurd. I've never felt anything like it. You've made me feel so good, it would mean so much to me if you would let me make you come.”

“Ok.”

I slid down to the foot of the bed. I parted his legs. I kissed the insides of his thighs, and licked one of his balls, before I took him into my mouth. He sighed. He started to mutter, and he wasn't speaking English while he played with my hair and raised and lowered his pelvis to the rhythm of my mouth. I played with his scrotum with one hand and ran my other in a fist up and down his shaft with the other.

He collected himself, and sputtered out, “I want your pussy on my face, I want to taste you, please.”

I was happy to oblige. We 69'd for a good while: he moaned into me and I took as much of him in my mouth as I could. After a few minutes, he switched from eating my pussy to licking my perineum, and then to rimming me. I had only done that with Simon, it felt wonderful with him and it was stunning now. I was having a hard time sucking his cock with any skill from how good it felt, until he pressed his hips to my face and thrusted harder, and ejaculated into my mouth. He tasted like a man who had spent the past several hours drinking and dancing with a strange woman that he had fucked senseless a half hour earlier.

I dismounted. He was in a daze.

“Margot, you are an excellent cocksucker.”

He asked if he could hold me while I slept. I fell into his arms, he spooned me. I believe him that he fully intended to sleep with me this way, but I felt his cock harden again when I pressed my ass against his pelvis. He reached between my legs, kissed the back of my neck, and asked if he could get a condom. I agreed.

We were awake until about 5:00, and we collapsed into a sweaty sleep after: he held me tightly just as he said he wanted to. We awoke some hours later, and repeated the previous night's events. All told, we used maybe eight condoms, I sucked him off three times, and I have absolutely no idea how many times I came. In the morning he kissed me gently and saw me out the door.

He and I texted back and forth briefly. I never saw him again. He's my Unicorn: the man I slept with, who was exactly what I needed at the time and who I don't know if I'll ever see again. He was absolutely the best sex I've ever had—and I've had a decent amount of sex—and he was extraordinarily kind. I don't need to ever sleep with him again, because the memory I have of the man who, essentially, fucked the memory of my ex-love, my ex-almost-fiancé, right out of me with skill and aplomb, is perfect.

EPILOGUE:

Buddy Holly belongs to a very small population of people of a certain ethnicity in my fair city, and he works at one of its largest employers. Some number of months later, Liplicker told her girlfriend, in jest, that she was “Visually delicious.” In between fits of laughter, the girlfriend asked where on earth my friend had heard this.

“Buddy, Margot's unicorn, said it to her!”

“Buddy HOLLY?!” she replied.

As it turns out, this girlfriend knew my unicorn through a series of other friends. She told me later that he has a girlfriend (or two?) now, and that he is, in fact, a prodigy at work and a feminist in real life, and that he never takes home women from bars. When she asked him about me, he said:

“Margot? Margot la Ravaudeuse? Yes, I know her. I took her home, and we had epic, marathonic, earth-shattering sex.”

As it turns out, I'm his Unicorn, too.

*In truth, Buddy Holly's real name is very distinctive and also the name of a pop song, so this story is considerably less funny when the names are changed to avoid any kind of detection, ever. Trust me, it was awesome.

Friday, March 18, 2011

Simplified displays of information

Graphs are way more effective than bitching:


NB: you can substitute "interest in breathing," "desire to sleep," or "amount of non-grad school obligations" for "Interest in sex," and this graph would still be true.

Today, we're starting at the y-axis. This means that, sad as it is to me, I will not be posting anywhere near as often as I'd like, but I'll still be around.

There just might be more graphs.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

pay attention and be enthusiastic

I have noticed that this blog features a lot of cunnilingus. I'm totally fine with that. I love it when cunnilingus is a prominent part of my life. But, of course, there's more to my sex life than that.

It has happened recently that the past several men I've slept with—Louis, Buddy Holly, and Adam—have all commented that I'm pretty much their Liz Phair-esque blow job queen. I've always maintained that the key to doing these things well is paying attention and being enthusiastic.

With Adam, a man I don't talk about much because he was unremarkable at best and didn't eat pussy at worst, fellatio was the best part of our encounters. I was with him very, very briefly. He had a spectacular beard—I love a hairy man—and when he came he would squeeze any part of me that was within his reach and say that my body was perfect, or that when my hair was in my face I looked unbelievably sexy.

The first time I slept with him, I took him home with me after a second date because making out in the car seemed particularly inelegant, especially since it was December, it was very cold, and there was, miraculously, parking available. I took him into my apartment, he marveled at my art collection, and then he was turning off the light—I prefer it on, thank you very much—and throwing me on my bed. I wore boots, black lacy wool tights, a black silk miniskirt, and a purple Tshirt tucked into it. He wore jeans, a flannel, and a white undershirt. I was on top of him in short order, one hand on the bed to steady myself and one on the back of his neck while we kissed; both of his hands under my skirt and over my tights and gripping my thighs hard enough to leave marks. He moved one hand under my shirt to feel a breast; I pulled my shirt off over my head and immediately undid my bra. He was both surprised and approving. I continued to kiss him and press my breasts against his shirt—he was less willing to disrobe—while he pulled my tights and panties down under my skirt, cupped my vulva with one hand and slapped my thigh with the other. He worked his fingers between my labia and rubbed my clit for the entire five minutes it took to make me come with a gush of fluid. He seemed both surprised and proud.

We had previously agreed that penile-vaginal sex was not on the table this evening. He asked me how I felt about handjobs. I said I felt fine about them. I pulled off the remainder of what I was wearing, undid his jeans, and revealed his hardening cock.

“There are other things I prefer,” I told him, and I ran my tongue along the underside of his cock from the cleft between his balls to the tip of his glans. My tongue was flat, wet, and firm; he gasped and gripped my shoulders. “You can do that, too,” he stammered.

There aren't a lot of things that I love more than feeling a penis get hard in my mouth, or finding the spot that when I lick it, he involuntarily swells and his cock presses back against me. Every man has this spot: its location is variable, but its existence isn't. All you have to do is pay attention and it will reveal itself in short order. With Adam, his was on the very tip of his penis. I flicked my tongue against it, and then took the whole of him in my mouth while holding his balls in my hand with a knuckle pressed firmly against his perineum. He was moaning deeply, with his hands fondling my breasts while I rhythmically sucked him off.

Between licks, I asked him how he liked it, and I moaned around his cock when it was in my mouth. He was having a hard time with words, and bucking his hips with me. I wrapped my lips tightly around the base and pulled him out to the tip; I massaged his scrotum at the same speed, and I help myself up with my other arm with my ass gyrating in the air. I was wet again.

Adam squeezed my breasts hard with both hands, arched his back, and groaned. The ridge around the tip of his cock puffed up on my tongue, and I felt his come hit the roof of my mouth in spurts: one, two three. I kept my rhythm through his orgasm. He sighed when we stopped.

I flipped my head up and slid up next to him while he stared at the ceiling. Our legs entangled as he put his arm around me.

“Margot, you must really enjoy sucking dick.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You are amazing. That was amazing. How did you get so good?”

“I'm pretty sure all you have to do is pay attention and be enthusiastic.”

He was still fully dressed, and he rolled on top of my naked body and kissed me deeply. We did not go to sleep for another three hours.

Monday, March 7, 2011

buddy holly

Not too long ago, my off-again-on-again running partner told me that I need to start writing down the awesome pickup lines that I've been on the business end of. I feel like this might be the perfect forum, especially for when I want to tell a good story but don't have the time to write something quality.

THE LINE: "You are visually delicious!"

Setting: a basement club, not wholly unlike this basement, except maybe 10% the size of the one that inspired that story.

Context: dancing with a young man who keeps grabbing my ass and staring at my tits. I'm two months out of a serious relationship.

Did it work: you betcha. That young man's name is an integral word in a popular song, and every time I hear it I laugh at the same time as I get wet. That's a story for another time.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

meet louis

My current lover's name is Louis. He and I have an agreement—in writing, no less—that we are very interested in each other's well-being, but that exclusivity and seriousness are not on the table. It's perfect for both of us, as our professional lives have a terrible tendency to impinge on time set aside for a sex life. We see each other once every week or two, and in between there's a steady supply of dirty texts and emails. Some of those communications are what inspired me to write a sex blog in the first place.

Last week Louis came to visit me for the first time in a little while, when I was at my zenith. The combination of infrequent fucking and ovulating set me on edge, and when he and I solidified plans I spent the hours waiting for him with a wet pussy. I went to dinner with a friend and could not keep up my end of the conversation as well as I normally would due to periodically receiving filthy text messages about cunnilingus. He has excellent word choice.

When he arrived at my apartment, I shut the door behind him, he wrapped his arms around my waist, and pulled me in for a long, forceful kiss. I lead him by the hand back to my bedroom, where he kissed me again, then spun me around, roughly fondled my nipples, and pulled off my shirt over my head and removed my bra. He ordered me to bend over and put my forearms on the bed. I complied and heard him undress behind me.

Louis makes it abundantly clear that my body is his ideal. He ran his hands over my back and back up again to my waist, and pulled my clothed hips to his naked groin before he stepped back and slapped my ass hard through my jeans. There was a resounding clap. I writhed. He did it again. I became wetter.

He reached around and undid my belt, opened my fly, pulled my jeans straight down my legs to the floor, and told me to step out of them. I wear panties I know he likes partially as a courtesy, and partially because I love it when he asks what kind of slut I must be to wear such a tiny red g-string. He parted my thighs with his broad right hand, pushed aside the fabric, ran his fingers over my labia and complimented himself on getting me so wet. I moaned and ground over his hand, while his left hand's fingers pinched and rolled my nipple and his cock pressed into my hip. He pulled his hand out of me, spanked the fullest part of my ass, and told me to get on my back. I obeyed as he pulled off my thong.

Louis is a good Catholic boy. He grew up with a more than healthy fear of God, of women, and of sex, and as a result he may be the better part of a decade older than I am but he has fewer years of sexual activity under his belt than I do. He was a particularly late bloomer when it came to vaginal intercourse, as he mostly dated good Catholic girls who were saving it for marriage. Their cunts, though, were apparently out of the virginity equation when it came to oral sex and so he cut his teeth—so to speak—with cunnilingus. He is extraordinarily talented and I describe him to my girlfriends as a pussy-eating hobbyist. I'm reasonably sure he'll never say it, he is also very fond of being degraded and roughed up while he drinks me in. I digress.

Louis pushed me back on the bed, held my thighs apart, and licked me from perineum to clitoris. I shivered, moaned, and pinched my nipples as he looked at me with widening eyes from between my legs. He sighed into my pussy as I pressed back into his face. He put two fingers inside me while he begged me to pull him into my body by pulling his dark hair in fistfulls and wrapping my thighs around his neck. My hips rocked back and forth while I rattled off a stream of vulgarities about how amazing he felt and about how I make myself come to the thought of sixty-nine. He ground his hips into my bed and and growled his approval into me. He shortly reduced me from words to cries, to panting, and to full-throated moaning. He gave me permission to come before I arched my back and my hips snapped back and forth, gripping his hand inside me while I shouted gracelessly.

When I was calm, he laid on top of me and kissed me deeply. I tasted myself on his tongue while I felt his penis press against me. It required immense willpower not to push my hips into him and take him into my body, but because of the nature of our agreement condoms are a necessity. We were wet with sweat and tense with anticipation as we kissed and rubbed against each other, and to my surprise this made me come again, this time with a gush of liquid from my body that coated both our thighs. Louis moaned and bit my earlobe; I raked his back with my fingernails. He rolled me over on top of him, grabbed a condom from the bedside drawer and rolled it on.

“Margot,” he said. “I want you to ride me.” I lifted myself onto him and wrapped my arms around his neck. His cock is of average length but above-average thickness: as I slid him into me I moaned to feel him stretch me out. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as my tightened, post-orgasm vagina accommodated him. I slowly start to fuck him as he plays with my ass.

I am historically not a fan of lady-on-top sex and apparently neither was my lover, but I have discovered with Louis that there is something about our geometry that makes it amazing. I sat up and started riding him faster as he grabbed my hips to guide me. I leaned back while I thrusted on top of him, running my hands through my hair and smiling broadly as he grabbed my bouncing tits at my request. I moved faster, until I felt that I was about to come again, and I backed off a bit. Louis begged me to be greedy; to use him for my own pleasure. I told him I didn't want to come quite yet and that I wanted to draw it out. I pressed my breasts into his face, he inhaled deeply and moaned while he squeezed them and I gripped his hair. I asked him if being between my tits felt nice, he told me it felt like heaven. I fucked him faster, and came with his face pressed into my chest. My come ran over his thighs as he groaned between my breasts. I refused to stop.

After slowing for a moment, I picked up speed again and sat up straight. He sank his fingers into my thighs and informed me that my pussy was so tight and wet around him that he thought he might come with me on top. Shortly thereafter, he bucked his hips under me and slapped my thighs. I rode him hard and fast through his orgasm as he moaned deeply with a surprised look. When he asked me to stop, I got off of him, he beatifically stared at the ceiling while I rested my body against his with my head in the hollow where his arm meets his chest.

“Margot,” he sighed. “I've never come with a woman on top before.”