weights

I have a crush on the gym. The gym at my school is windowless and a touch dank, with a variety of machines that are fully functional about 80% of the time. Because this is a gym associated with a grad school and it is not frequented by undergrads, most of the population to be found here are less interested in checking others out and more interested in maintaining either optimum health or blowing off excess steam. It is full of beautiful, distracted people; all of them in their own worlds and forgetting their stressful careers in favor of the treadmill, the weights, or pickup basketball.

Athleticism and sexuality are deeply intertwined in my psyche, and I'm fairly certain I'm not alone in this. It's not a great leap to start at spandex on the stationery cycle and a sweaty acquaintance’s grunting with weights. At a zenith it is almost impossible to complete a workout without salivating.

**********

2:00pm is not a busy time at the gym. The people who manage to come then are people who take a late lunch, who have irregular schedules, or are students. People at the gym at 2:00pm are in the habit of sweating. They are acclimated to old tshirts and short shorts in a kind of exclusive public that is limited to only other people like themselves. The early afternoon is my favorite time to check a workout off of my task list. I walk in, exchange my membership card for my locker key and a towel from the extraordinarily bored clerk, and walk across the stationary bikes to the locker room. I stand in front of my locker for a minute, collecting myself before I strip and costume in black spandex shorts, a grey tanktop, a headband, and running shoes. I gather my water bottle, my key, and my ipod, and I head over to a stairstepper.

Exercise equipment forces a certain posture: eight inches taller, hips thrust backwards and shoulders pressed forward, a rhythmic, complimentary flex-and-release of the buttocks is a hypnotic undulation. Everyone is on a different tempo. I pick a machine and settle into my own pace*. I start to sweat. From here, I can watch people enter and leave.

There are two gentlemen who never fail to catch my eye.

They are both about four inches taller than I am. One has a darker complexion, with dark eyes that crinkle at the corner when he smiles. He has transformed over the past few years from slim and willowy to solid, with the same narrow hips and waist but with a new broadness to his back. The other is larger and square: he shows off his chest hair with a tank top and sways when he walks. His stubble perpetually offsets the apparent youth of his rounded face. They are workout partners. They are friendly. They laugh loudly in between sets and stifle grunts during reps.

They always smile and wave at me when they come in: “Hey Margot! I see you're giving it hell today!” the crinkle-eyed one says to me. He teases me like this all the time.

“I do my best, Jack!” I grin back at him. He and Ted meander over to the weight room.

I finish on my machine. I am bright pink, my hair is dripping, and my shirt sticks to me. I clean the equipment off and go to the weight room for the second half of my workout.

I am on autopilot: the routine of sweating is comforting and helps me dissipate the stress of my day to day. The moment after a normal workout is, for me, not altogether unlike a moment after an orgasm: there is clarity, tranquility, and a very particular odor. I am almost there, but not quite.

I walk into the weight room. It is empty except for me, Jack, and Ted. They are ignoring me, and spotting each other: Jack lies on the bench and Ted is over him. I get an exercise ball and some weights. As I lie on top of it—hips pointing towards the ceiling, knees spread apart for stability, chest opened with my arms at my sides, toes pointing towards the only other two people in the room—I am made acutely aware that I am ovulating by both my posture and the sounds coming from my companions.

I lift my weights. I put them down again. I do this again, with a moaning, grunting sound at the peak of exertion. My eyes are closed and I am focused on the tension in my muscles as I complete this self-assigned task.

Up. Down.

I do not immediately notice that my friends are now silent. There is no more clanking and ringing from their side of the gym, there are no more grunts, and there is just some faint chatter between the two of them. I am focused.

I complete my set.

I open my eyes and sit up.

I notice that from across the room, my two friends have barely changed posture, but they are no longer focused on bench presses and are instead focused on me. I am suddenly aware that gym shorts are an extraordinarily revealing garment on a sexually aroused man. I smile at them, and bounce a little on the  exercise ball.

“I didn't know you lifted weight like that, Margot.” Ted is half-smiling. “I didn't realize you were that strong. Would you mind coming over here and help me out with spotting Jack? I can show you how if you've never done it.”

I have spent a considerable amount of time moaning into my pillows and bringing myself to orgasm to the fantasy of this moment**. The gym is cold; my nipples harden as I step over.

I stand at the head of the bench. Ted is behind me and off to the side. He and Jack are both covered in sweat: I can smell them as I approach and now that we are so close it's overwhelming. The smell goes straight from my nostrils to my gut to my vulva.

Jack unracks the bar. There is clearly more weight on it than I can be expected to spot. He does a rep, then two, then starts to falter. I lean forward like I am useful here, and so does Ted, both his arms around me. This is completely ineffective for spotting and absolutely perfect for getting me wet. The two of us grab the bar and rerack it for Jack, who is panting heavily.

Ted pulls one hand off the equipment and puts it on my hip, pulling me back to him and breathing on the back of my ear. I inhale sharply as my lower back angles itself of its own accord to his touch. I am frozen for a moment as he puts his other hand on me and peels down my spandex without saying a word.

Jack is still panting, but now he is paying attention. There is a characteristic bulge underneath the shiny nylon of his shorts. He runs his reddened hands down his body to his pelvis, under the elastic to his growing penis, which he pulls into view.

Ted is kissing my neck and rubbing my clit as he pulls down his shorts. I grind my hips into him with a rhythm from earlier in the afternoon. He asks me to turn around. I do. He pulls over a second bench and sits down.

Jack puts one hand on my thigh, and asks me to step back a little. No, a little more. He asks me to straddle his face, knees on the racks on either side of the bench. He continues to stroke himself as he guides me down. I sigh. My hips sway back and forth over his face while he sucks on my labia and clit.

Ted is staring straight through me and stroking his cock. I return his gaze, put my hands on his thighs, and bend forward. His salt-tasting erection is in my mouth, my hands are still on his legs for balance and one of his hands grips my sweaty hair, the other cupping his testicles. Jack and I make the muffled sounds of people who love the taste of orgasms, while Ted sighs and squeezes my body.

We continue like this until I cannot form a tight seal when I try to silence the moans of my orgasm. I am shaking as my pelvis gyrates at a frequency faster than the one I consciously set, despite Jack's firm grip on the bend where my hip meets my thigh. I whimper and am still for a moment.

 I stand. I take Jack's hand off of his penis, and as a gratuity for the service he just provided me, I straddle his hips and fill my pussy with his erection. I am tight from the orgasm he gave me. He gasps,  grabs me and digs his fingers in. I ride him, facing his feet.

Ted walks over, swings a leg over his friend's lower half, and feeds me his cock. I wrap one hand around his waist and pull him in and the other forms a ring that follows my mouth. His hands are in my hair. He groans and fills my mouth with come. Everything tastes of salt and musk.

My pussy starts to tighten around Jack. My thighs burn as I ride him through climaxes: first mine, then his. His fingers leave small, red bruises over the crests of my hipbones.

I stand, my legs shaky from exertion. Jack sits up and pulls me down next to him, as if he were spotting me in my unsteady stance. Ted collects my shorts hands and hands them to me with a towel. The three of us are flushed and grinning. Jack, who is so very considerate of the needs of others, grabs a rag and the bottle of spray cleaner for the bench, and wipes it down.

“Do you have plans after your shower?” Jack asks me. His voice is the same as half an hour ago, when we were friends who went to the gym at the same time.

“I was going to grab a coffee and maybe a sandwich.”

“Mind if we join?”

“I'd be delighted.”

I kiss them each on the cheek. Ted slaps my ass lightly as I walk away. I half-smile at him; he half-smiles back.

The receptionist is completely asleep at the front desk.

*Recently, this pace is almost, but not quite, entirely Girl Talk, Robyn, and Cut Copy-based. You know, if you're interested.

**How meta.

other people are also into charts.

So I have my google reader full of porn, and then I have my google reader for my real life. This chart showed up in the latter from a blog I absolutely love, copyranter:

The copyranter loved this chart way less than I do.

To see the big version, mosey on over here.

Thank you, google analytics!

I have one Mr. X over at The Sex Experiment to thank for the idea for this one, after a series of emails about how it is that people seem to find our respective blogs: 

I'm preparing a post to elaborate on this fact in the near(ish) future.

All y'all are the best readers ever, and also clearly huge, huge pervs. I wouldn't have it any other way.

bones

“Osteoclasts acting together in a small group excavate a tunnel through the old bone, advancing at a rate of about 50 µm per day. Osteoblasts enter the tunnel behind them, line its walls, and begin to form new bone, depositing layers of matrix at a rate of 1-2 µm per day. At the same time, a capillary sprouts down the center of the tunnel. ...Typically, about 5-10% of the bone in a healthy adult mammal is replaced in this way each year”

Alberts, et al. Molecular Biology of the Cell, 4^th edition, Garland Science, 2002. pg 1306.

“Constant remodeling of bone is a normal part of skeletal maintenance. ...[Bone] remodeling involves replacing old bone with newly formed bone via the functional coupling of osteoclasts and osteoblasts. ...Bone remodeling enables bone to adapt to mechanical stress, maintain its strength, and regulate ...homeostasis.”

Rubin and Strayer, Rubin's Pathology, 5^th edition, Lippincott Williams and Wilkins, 2008. pg 1088.

I am 100% aware that probably none of my readership here is deeply interested in the physiology of bones. I don't really care. It occurred to me the other night that bones, bone remodeling, and the cells that accomplish this task are a physical metaphor of emotional structures and growth*. The osteoclast breaks down what the osteoblast regenerates. The skeleton appears unchanged from the outside but it is ultimately one of the most dynamic structures in the body.

A year ago, my skeleton was fragile: too much breaking down without enough building up leads to a delicateness that lends itself to snapping. The turnover of my physiology was more rapid in degeneration than in growth. I was unable to get from my environment the nutrients and support necessary to maintain myself. The cracks in structure only show when the imbalance has gone on too long.

When the diet does not contain enough calcium or phosphorus, the bones begin to degrade. Calcium is used in other parts of the body for the immense tasks of regulating the functions of essentially all cells, and in the name of maintaining that ability the skeleton will be sacrificed. The osteoclast will break the bone and release the ions into the blood. The skeleton will waste.

A year ago, I gave away more than I had to take up. I poured calcium into the blood; I sacrificed my matrix to maintaining the integrity of other structures. I weakened under a demand that I felt I had a mandate to fulfill.

Tiny cracks began to form in me. I was not strong enough.

In order not to break, there must be a change: either the body demands less from the skeleton, or there there is more calcium made available to the bones. The alternative is unsustainable: the skeleton weakens, and there are new, crush fractures: the spine compresses; the pelvis thins.

A year ago, I had to make a decision: I could either give up less, or try to get more. I was breaking apart and all the structure that made me I was giving away.

My bones and his bones. We wore ourselves down to our ions. We let our osteoclasts work overtime, but skeletons in two separate bodies can't share. We eroded ourselves to the marrow and there was nothing left to do but break.

And we did.

And it hurt.

But a miraculous thing lives in a skeleton: the osteoblast. They wait for a signal and collect calcium; laying it down in giant woven nets to fill in the holes left over from a fracture. The woven bone is weak and can break again easily, especially if perturbed, but with time and support—from a cast, from collagen-making cells, whatever—the structure strengthens.

My osteoblasts are working. They lay down tissue, my blood nourishes it and I take the best care of it that I can. I feed and strengthen my body. I know more now about how to do this.

A year ago, what I thought was taking care of myself actually lead to wasting. I cleaved myself to a love that had become dysfunctional, and so did my partner. We tried so hard. The fracture that we were trying to fix would never heal, its ends were too far away to fuse. Two skeletons in separate bodies cannot repair each other.

I lead a life now that requires that I pour out almost my everything every day. What I take in must be restorative, or else I can't make this work. By necessity, I have learned when to give more and when to give less. I have learned what I need to take. I have discovered that other appetites and other drives sometimes serve me better.

When I open my body to a lover, they give me as much as I give them. We use the same currency. We trade the same ions. I have to pick then with some level of discrimination so that this trade is fair. The weight of another strengthens me.

Weight-bearing activity increases the functionality of the osteoblast. This increases the strength of the skeleton.

I learn new things about my skeleton with every encounter: I learn where old scars make me weaker, and where my remodeled bone is stronger than I expected. I learn where the limits of my strengths are and how the role of a new lover in my life contributes to that. I learn that I make the decisions about what to give myself and what to give away.

My skeleton looks the same on the outside.

For me, it is all newly made. I have turned over my bones. I am rebuilding. I am destroying. I strengthen and adapt. My osteoclasts and osteoblasts are in a delicate balance tipped off by breaking. My new strengths are things I would never trade.

*In case the graphs didn't tip you off, this is a sex blog maintained by a deeply nerdy gal.  

resin

A huge component of this exercise in publicizing my sex life is finding words for nameless things. Sex is full of acts and feelings that words are totally insufficient to convey: the instant between when a lover is close enough to touch my body and when they actually do is filled with viscous tension. In that flash everything is encased in resin and anticipation doesn't begin or end; it consumes every aspect of my senses and every path in my thoughts. Anticipation is luxury. Anticipation is agony.

My partner's touch against any part of my body brings a tension and a relaxation. The hand on my face while we kiss is more intimate than the hand on the small of my back: the former feels like a caress over the entire expanse of my skin while the latter has a direct connection to my loins. A lover pulling my body into theirs, pulling on my waist or wrapping me up and pressing my breasts into a receptive torso: warm and engulfing and intoxicating.

I had a partner who loved to kiss my toes, up the arch of my feet, across my heel, up my calf to the back of my knee, and linger before continuing on his travels. His tongue in the unexplored reaches of this fossa was the pleasurable version of a face full of cold water, the sensation traveling from those creases up my dermatome to the sacrum and back out in all directions, making my back arch and my labia engorge. This physiologic response is primal, it is urgent, and it has begun and worked to its end before my mind has the capacity to make my lips gasp.

He used to ask me if I wanted more.

The best response I could give was without words.

He would hold my leg as it dissolved into fasciculations. Sometimes he would kiss the back of my knee again. Sometimes he would travel north, sometimes back south: it depended on how viscous the resin of anticipation was, how deeply encased in it we were, and how much he wanted to see a glistening, shining coat of fluid escaping from my body before he would make good on his tongue's unspoken promise to explore other creases and folds.

It does not matter if he asked me questions. The responses were without words.

Another lover greatly enjoyed stripping the two of us down before a mirror, and caressing the entire expanse of my surface with his hands, wrapping me as close to him as he could. His cock would be insistent against my thigh. We rubbed our bodies together, enjoying the warmth and friction, and having to practice the most difficult kind of restraint to not fuck when a slight change in the angle of our hips would have guaranteed penetration.

The tendons that move the whole of my frame are tense as violin strings when we practice this restraint.

The ligaments that hold my bones together ached for this other posture.

The non-words that escape my larynx are as expressive as any essay; the nature of the way we touch generates profound communication. Making the request for a condom requires switching from my hypothalamus and its primal, animalistic drives to my cortex: practicality in lust is the opposite of the tension we are generating.

When my lover enters my body, there is a sensation not so much of fullness or stretching or warmth, though those are all aspects of it, but more of the completion of an infinite loop. The tension in my muscles and bones is tightened and resolved, the urges that flood my skull escape from my mouth as a sigh. The loop is made of the satisfaction of an overwhelming desire. The loop builds and breaks stress and satisfaction. It trades one type of anticipation for another, cycling back and forth between my brainstem and my pelvis.

When my lover manages to stimulate the right spot on the back of my pubic bone, or deftly massages my clitoris, there is the heat mixed with pressure mixed with clarity and fog. There is a point in this protocol where the strain and release of the infinite loop, the pressure and heat of direct stimulation, and the vibration, humming, tingling, intensely pleasurable paresthesia that derives from their synergy approach overwhelming. This moment, the instant or two before orgasm, the thickest part of the resin, is brief and eternal.

The orgasm itself is variable in nature. At its extremes it varies from an awareness that I am climaxing without much sensation; to a deep, muscular, spasming ache like what lives in my thighs the day after a long untrained run that originates in my uterus and vagina and traveling out in pulses to the ends of my extremities. It is pleasure mixed with the sensation of a muscle that has fallen asleep waking up again, blood flowing as pins and needles through all my circulation and bringing with it relapsing and remitting contraction. My mind ranges between blank and fixated on an image, sometimes sexual and sometimes not, but my voice is disconnected from my reason. It is linked to my basal drives and it expresses the unambiguous satisfaction that comes with a sensation that is completely outside the realm of words. I could shatter, I could break in half with the deepest part of my pelvis as the vertex.

The ratios of all the different wordless components that make up sex change with every partner. They vary with my cycles, they vary with my mood, they vary with my desire. There is no best or worst mixture. Sex here is not zero sum, but an infinite amount of combinations or sensations to be tried on and changed into and out of as my biological and social oscillations dictate. It is the culmination of thrumming, humming urges versus the hyperverbal, hyperanalytical aspects of my psyche. It is conflict and resolution. It is blankness and expansion.

It is trapped in a resin of anticipation, without beginning or end.

signpost!!

Dear Readers (that I apparently have, which is mindblowing in and of itself),

I've been working on a bunch of posts that are less fiction and more essays; a little bit more reflections and a little bit less memories. I've had some friends proofread them and they tend to approve, but one suggested that I publish them as companions, either to each other or with something a bit, oh, I don't know, hotter.

So please consider this a signpost: the actual post that I have to publish today, "resin", is the companion to a post for tomorrow. These are all going to be clumped together under the "essay" tag, along with the post "Pi".

Please enjoy,

Je vous embrace,

Margot


PS: The two posts in question are now up. Please consider "resin" and "bones" to be companions.

A well-balanced existence

I think there's something really zen about dividing my life into three circles and figuring out where they overlap.

The middle part of the chart: that's la Ravaudeuse disneyland.

thresholds

I saw a lover today. I wore a dress with no panties. He picked me up and we went to his place, his hand stuffed under my skirt and expertly fondling my clit while driving through the city streets. I would start a sentence and not finish it when he made me breathless. It was the afternoon, and any passerby who looked in through the windows would have known exactly what we were up to: at a red light a tiny, middle-aged woman walked by--an old work acquaintance-- and I'm pretty sure she knew. I begged him not to make me come in the car at the same time as I gyrated my hips against his hand, taking him into me and covering him in my juices.

We raced into the apartment. I pulled off his jeans in the threshold: we just managed to shut the (glass) door to my floor before I had him in my mouth; the head of his cock pressing against the back of my throat, with his scrotum in my left hand and my right braced against the door jamb. He leaned into the wall, pulled my hair, and pressed me further into his crotch. I pulled my dress off over my head and stuck two fingers in my pussy while I sucked him off. Both of his hands gripped the back of my head, and he pulled my hair and massaged my scalp. He pulled back, stooped down, and pressed his cock to my sternum between my tits, which I squeezed together with my forearms. He fucked my tits slowly, then quickly, and then it was his turn to ask not to come just yet.

We left for the bedroom: him holding up his jeans; me carrying my dress over my arm, naked except for knee-high boots. He told me to leave those on as pushed me onto the bed and thrust his face between my legs while holding my thighs to my chest. I lost my words after two minutes and dissolved into moans while my pussy throbbed.

My partner put on a condom, asked me to ride him, and to hold him down while I did it. It seems that although historically he didn't favor it, he's since come around to loving lady on top sex. I slid myself over his cock and pressed my torso to his while I pinned his arms over his head. My legs were extended with my feet pressing off of his for leverage.

“Fuck me harder, Margot.”

I did. I sweated with effort on top of him, moaning and grunting in pleasure.

“Yes, that's a good slut.”

I snarled and gyrated, hair in my face and my tits pressing against his chin. I cried out as I came.

“Get on your knees, Margot.”

My body still hummed from my climax when he flipped me over. He slid into me easily: both hands were around my waist and he pulled me back onto his pelvis. I begged him to fuck my pussy as hard as he could, and he did. He called me his little whore, spanked and squeezed my ass, his cock hit my g spot with each stroke and I tightened around him. The sounds he made while he came made me shiver and sigh.

He relaxed on top of me for a moment, until I rolled over and he laid his head on my breast. I wrapped an arm around his shoulders and with my free hand I combed my fingers through his hair. His bedroom has large windows that look out to nowhere and afternoon sunlight filtered in. He panted. He smells salty, warm, and a little bit of clean linen.

“I love to please you, Margot,” he said.

I kissed his forehead.

oh dang.

CONTEXT: I was meeting a friend at a bar near my apartment after a long night of learning. I was tired and feeling a bit humorless, and my friend picked a bar that is not exactly my favorite but the drinks are cheap. I walk into the bar and a man looks at me like he both a) is extraordinarily drunk and b) knows me.

THE EXCHANGE:

Him: “Do I know you?” Every word slurred into the next.

Me: “No”

Him: “Oh, because you look exactly like my baby momma.”

Me: “Oh, I have no children.”

Him: “I don't either, yet.”

Me: “I'm out.”

DID IT WORK: Well, since this was a non beautiful man basically telling me he wants to take me behind the middle school and get me pregnant, I'd say the answer is no.

EPILOGUE: I collected my friend from the other side of the room and he accompanied me back to the bar, where I bought a beer. Turns out that when my friend, a very handsome black man, had first come to the bar to buy a round for himself and someone else he was meeting, this guy regaled him with a bunch of his opinions that it's a grave injustice when black men fuck white women.

I'm a sunburn-prone blonde.

Shaming a bigot made that beer all the more delicious.

a study in contrasting temperatures.

Two weeks is too long. It is February.

We walked up the stairs to his one-bedroom. He cupped the fullness of my buttocks in his large chapped hands; squeezing me through my jeans. I had a weekend's worth of clothing in a backpack, which I threw off as soon as we crossed from the front door into the kitchen. He grabbed me around the waist, pressing his abdomen to my back as I raised my arms up around his neck and he kissed my shoulders.

Those hands explored my body: they squeezed my flesh and piqued my senses; they ran over my shirt then under my belt. He pinched a nipple through my bra with one hand while slowly exploring my overheating sex with the other. My hips rose and fell with the rhythm he defined. His erection grew and pressed against the small of my back. We were edging towards the kitchen table.

His hand left my tit and joined its companion at the buckle of my jeans: that was swiftly undone and my pants and panties were immediately around my knees. The edge of the table was level with my mons, and the pressure of the cold wood against my skin raised goosebumps across my body. With his left hand he pulled back on my left hip and with his right he undid his fly and released his penis, then grabbed my other hip. I bent forward stood and on my toes as he penetrated me, the both of us sighing and flushing with the satisfaction of our combined sense of urgency that had percolated over the course of the days that we could not be together.

Everything is hot and cold: the air and the table steal warmth from our bodies and harden our nipples, the heat from my lover's flesh brings a glaze of sweat to my back. The cool smoothness of the wooden table against my outer labia is in stark contrast to the temperature of cock inside me, the tempo generated by the one heightens the sensual-pressure-numbness-warmth donated by the other.

His hands dig into the curve of my waist. I brace myself against the table with mine pressed flatly on its surface. The combined sensation of my partner's aggressive thrusting and the firmness against which I am forced is overwhelming, and when I orgasm I leak fluid down my thighs and leave a small puddle on the table while I whimper.

My lover pulls out of me before he comes. I am momentarily surprised at the sudden departure, until I hear him moan behind me and feel his semen splash against the cleft between my cheeks. He grabs me by the joint between the top of my thigh and the fold beneath the fullness of my ass, pulls towards himself, and licks from my perineum to the top of my sacrum until I am clean. The warmth of his mouth is the opposite of the coolness of his saliva left on my body. When he stands, I spin around and we embrace, squeezing out all the air between our torsos and having as much flesh against flesh as we can. The time without my lover is the antithesis of this closeness.

We shower. We clean off the longsuffering kitchen table. We eat and laugh, I sit in his lap and he pinches and tickles me. These two days are what I spent ages waiting on, and they are always over far too quickly.

the results of many strenuous, peer-reviewed protocols

After a few years of tinkering, I think I've figured it out:

I'm pretty sure this is God's honest truth.

This week is a rough one in Grad-School-Land, so expect more regular descriptions of boning and awesome saturday nights after it has passed.

i suppose that's one good word, yes.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

wildlife preserve

Simon and I were driving through fields in the rural area near where he used to live. It was July. We chattered away, a hand on each others' thigh. I wore a short black wrap dress. Everything was new, and everything about Simon excited me: his tall, slim build; auburn hair, and frank but gentle demeanor. He was immensely talented at reading other people, probably the best I've ever known, and combined with his background trait of honesty, being near him was often a discovery of what things you could learn about people if you just pay attention. He made no effort to hide his raw sexuality, and it was percolating just below the surface in all of our interactions when everything was new.

He always drove with a hand on my thigh, and I normally hand mine folded on top of his. Today, we were driving through the countryside, over fields filled with nothing and through tree-covered hills. The part of the world that he was from wasn't that far from the city where I lived in terms of distance, but in terms of geography and culture it was a separate world. It was beautiful and slow, and a place where you could go to be alone, outside, for miles.

Our conversation turned from whatever it was about before to what it always became: our fantasies. His hand crept up my thigh to the edge of my panties as I told him that I always wanted to fuck outside in broad daylight, and that I had never done it and was sad that I probably never would. As he traced the crease between my vulva and my inner thigh, I moved my hand over to his lap to discover a growing hardness.

“Margot, you know there's nobody here for miles, we're driving through a wildlife preserve.” I looked out the window: we were driving through a field with gently rolling hills, sun everywhere, and far enough out that I couldn't actually see another road. Simon pinched my thigh, and ran his hand under my wet panties. I rubbed his cock through his jeans. “Why don't we stop here?” I pulled my panties down and off my ankles and over my sandal-covered feet.

Simon pulled over, and we both hopped out of his green sedan. We looked and listened: nothing. Nobody. He kissed me, pushed me over the hood of his car, and untied my dress as I undid his belt. The metal of the hood of the car burned the backs of my thighs until he pulled my ankles up to his shoulders and penetrated me. He did not start off slowly or gently: our conversation in the car turned us both on to the point that this sex was the culmination of a fantasy.

We were instantly sweating in the mid-July sun. I was wearing a bra that closed in the front: I snapped it open, pressed my tits together, and played with my nipples while Simon fucked me, lifting my ass up off of the car with the force of his pelvis and forcing me to be almost completely bent in half while his hands squeezed my hips. We were grunting and rutting like animals.

Wildlife preserve, indeed.

When Simon fucked me like this: him on top of me or standing, my knees to my chest with my legs fully extended in a feat of flexibility that I'm not sure I could do without training up to it, I always came quickly and hard. Today was no exception, and I was quickly panting and crying out, with my pussy squeezing him harder and leaking all over our hips. Simon stepped back and pulled out of me, and promptly came in ropes from my pubis to my sternum. He leaned over me for an instant; panting, sweating, and glowing.

He looked up.

“Oh shit, Margot!” he shouted, and quickly threw the halves of my dress over my nakedness before shoving his still half-erect cock back into his jeans, just as not one, but two, totally full minivans drove by. They had decals on them from one of the larger summer camps in the area. They drove past, pulled over 50 feet away, and stopped. Simon and I had thrown our clothes back on and jumped in the car and drove off as quickly as possible as I reined in my breasts and tried to clean myself off with tissues from the glove box while keeping myself covered as we drove past these two vans, full of staff from the camps. If they weren't staff, they were the most twentysomething-looking campers I have ever seen. They were staring at us as we drove past. I was trying not to get ejaculate all over my dress, the car, or the seatbelt, and had pretty much given up. I tied up my dress, and looked at my partner.

Simon was laughing hysterically. My shocked feelings turned to giggles, and turned to belly laughs with him. This was not the end I fantasized about—my exhibitionist streak did not include fantasizing about accidental minivans full of observers—but it's definitely a much better end than anything I could ever make up.  

The Venn diagram that explains everything

I was going to make a road map, but this seemed more efficient. 

Everything here is something I love.

(NB: QC = Questionable Content by Jeph Jaques; SMBC = Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal by Zach Weiner)