smiling from ear to ear

I went to undergrad at a small liberal arts college on the East Coast, and I graduated within the last 10 years. It’s a pretty obscure place, but I think that like most of those institutions, it was filled with young people who felt the tension and the urgency of the moment, who wanted to change and fix every injustice in the world right this instant, and who, by all accounts, really weren’t aware of what college was like compared to the rest of the world. Most students didn’t realize that we lived in a privileged space by pretty much every measure (I’m willing to admit, I didn’t until somewhat late in my time there), and those of us with left leaning politics were unlikely to realize how left we were until we wandered out to real jobs and realized that, for example, not everyone firmly believed that man-on-pumpkin sex is a fundamental right that should be taught to children (Thank you, Jon Stewart).

One of the great lies sold to most kids running off to college is that sex is cheap and easy to find for everyone, as long as you show up and have a few drinks. That was, generally speaking, not my experience. What was true, however, was that sexual tension was everywhere, not a lot of people knew what to do with it, and that it was much, much easier to find sex practices that exist on the tail ends of the bell curve in college than it would ever be after. Also true: a reputation was easy to come by, even if it was based entirely in conjecture and misunderstandings: I had a trashy reputation because the girl who lived in the room under mine heard the couple who lived next to me having sex pretty much constantly, and knowing that I didn’t have a boyfriend, she concluded that I was spectacularly easy. Whether or not that last part is tru, confronting this classmate about the fact that if I’m going to have an easy reputation, I’d prefer to have the sex that earns it remains one of my favorite memories.

Anyways. You’re not here to read about the things I did or didn’t love about undergrad.

Going to a small liberal arts college filled with people age 18-23 who really wanted to be having more sex with more people than they actually did always affords a certain amount of hedonism whenever that tension is allowed to be released. I left my school to study abroad for the first half of my junior year, and I came back caring considerably less about what my classmates thought of me and considerably more about getting what I wanted. This played out in my favor, especially on the night of one of the bigger parties on campus. The party was school-funded in a way that seems totally crazy now, but then it only made sense that my college would give money to a group that wanted to celebrate non-binary gender and the full spectrum of human sexuality in the form of a giant party filled with people in, at most, underwear and ridiculous accessories.

I had never gone to this party before. I was always too self-conscious; too concerned that people would judge my body the way that I had judged myself instead of realizing that when presented with a young woman in lingerie, boots, and a silly hat, most people who want to sleep with women are less judgmental and more carnal. By the time I came back from overseas, I had figured this out. I went to the party that spring wearing a deep purple-red lacy bra, purple lace boyshorts (not actually a matching set, but in the dark it was just fine), a fedora, and leather boots. I wore a long coat over this ensemble to protect myself from the mid-March east-coast weather, and stuffed a flask into my boot to warm me up.

Upon arrival, I found the basement room that was functioning as a coat check and had a beer from the free keg. There were a few nervous minutes between arrival and shedding my coat, and then a few more between feeling exposed and cold to feeling powerful. My friends and I went from tense giggles with sidelong glances to open-mouthed laughter and flirtatious words. I’d like to say that this was all due to the influence of alcohol. It wasn’t.

My friends and I wandered up to the main room. It was filled with college age kids dressed in outfits ranging from next to nothing to completely costumey: there were women striding around the dance floor in garter belts and headbands, men in head to toe leather, women dressed as devils with wings and men wearing leashes while being lead by their boyfriends. The room was hot and rank, the bass so loud my own diaphragm shook. Looking back on this now I could have been a hunter in that room and picked whoever I wanted to be my game.

I found Carl and Elise, two adventurous friends of mine who are protagonists in a story for another time, on the dance floor. We danced together, we ran our hands over each others’ bodies, we pinched sensitive parts and kissed sweaty lips. This was familiar territory. This was both tense and comfortable; it was riding a roller coaster two times in a row.

I felt someone else’s eyes observing us. I turned around. There was a man there—tall, bearded, shirtless, handsome--staring at our scene, and when I turned to face him he wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me towards him while he asked me to dance. Our bodies were solid together. I put an arm around his neck and pulled my hips to his while I said yes.

“Do you go to school here?”

“Yes, you?” My lips are grazing his while I answer this question.

“No, I go to a school out west, I’m visiting a friend. What’s your name?” His hand travels firmly from the back of my waist to the fullest part of my ass.

“Margot. You?” I throw my other arm around him, and wrap it around his chest, and trace his back with the nails of my index and middle fingers.

“David.”

We are done with small talk. I may or may not have asked him his major, he may or may not have asked me mine. That part of the story is unimportant and I only vaguely remember it.

We dance to the beat. We sweat down our torsos—his naked and mine nearly so—and press ourselves together such that when we part, our skins peel away. We start to kiss and we skip the gentle steps. He is kissing me with an open mouth, I reciprocate and lick his teeth. He pulls my lip. I scratch his back. He pulls to the side and sucks my earlobe. My insides surge. I kiss and bite his neck.

He pulls me to the side and presses my body against the cold, stone wall of the room. The carved rock that the building is made of is rough and uneven, it presses into me but I don’t feel any pain. We kiss in between biting and sucking. He is rough. He gets me wet with his aggression. He pulls down the front of my panties and presses a finger into my pussy while his thumb discovers that I have a piercing through the hood of my clit. I moan deeply as he gasps in surprise.

“Is that what I think it is?”

I don’t use words when I respond: I sigh and grunt as I work my pelvis across his thick hands. This answer appears adequate as I reach down his briefs and pull out a solid, thick cock.  I run my hand from base to tip. He responds in kind.

We find the words to discover that as neither of us has a condom, certain practices are off the table. I scan the room across across his shoulder and notice that women and men stare at us, some with a look of proud disdain and some with a look of arousal. Carl and Elise return my gaze and wink. I return my attentions to David.

He rips down the cups of my bra. My exposed nipples are hard and sensitive when he takes one in his mouth, puts his left hand on the wall behind me, and bites and sucks my breast while his other hand works my snatch.

My left leg is high around his waist, my right hand feels him leaking across my palm as I run it over the length of his cock. His sweat and secretions make an excellent lube.

I am pressed into the wall, I feel it scratching against my back. I smell his saturated hair. My tiptoe is my only contact with the floor: my partner is practically holding me up by my pelvis. My nails give him red marks across his broad back. I am coming, he holds me up in suspension. His fingers are thick inside my contracting pussy. He presses his face into my chest and moans deeply when he orgasms into my hand.

We are still for a moment. He slowly pulls out of me, settling my foot on the ground. I unwrap my leg.

He takes my hand from his briefs. He licks it clean of his own semen. He kisses me. We smile. He wanders off into the crowd.

There may or may not be people staring at me, I don’t care either way. I wander down to the coat room and meet my friends for a beer. The photos taken right after this encounter, with my hair long and free and a hat perched on my head, grinning from ear to ear with my friends smiling and laughing and all of us nearly nude, are some of my favorite pictures from undergrad.

I somehow get home. I am exhausted when I flop into my twin bed. My roommate is snoring across the room.

The next morning, I awake with a wild hangover and a dry mouth. I stumble to the bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror. My nipples are purple with bruising and my back covered in scratches from the uneven wall. I wonder if my partner’s body shows similar signs. The shower I take ranks as one of the top 5 showers of my adult life.

I find Carl and Elise for breakfast and we go over the previous night’s events. We laugh about it; they congratulate me. I run back to their rooms and show them the battlescars.

One of the great lies of college is that there is sex anywhere and anytime you want it, from anyone. College was, on a romantic level, one of the loneliest times of my life, but I was able to share it with some wonderful people and punctuate it with events that are hard to find as an adult. I’m not sure if the best part of this story is my encounter with David, the marks on my body from after the fact, or experiencing it with Carl and Elise. Everything is wrapped together. Everything is one experience. I am a lucky one.

sand dunes

It’s May, 2008. I am working as the plankton of the scientific food chain, which while it did not afford me much in terms of upward mobility without the acquisition of another degree, it did provide me with a regular income, vacation days, and free evenings. I was taking advantage of all this spare time by being on vacation with Simon in one of the gayer spots on the American coastline.

We spent four days enjoying our unfamiliar surroundings. We explored some beaches, saw some flea markets, walked miles and miles in quaint villages, ate some delicious in-season seafood, and purchased some high-quality leather goods (which is a story for another time). 

Simon and I had a little thought that we wanted to realize on this trip.  Our last night, we set out for a walk along the beaches well after most of the sleepy vacation town had gone to bed. We walked along back roads, him in jeans and me in a knee-length A-line linen skirt with no panties. We walked hand in hand; seeking out a spot that we weren’t sure was real. We had a beach blanket and a pocket pack of tissues in tow.

There were few cars out that night. We walked out of the town, and wandered and wandered until we came across a beach that was made of sand and patches of grass that was situated away from the road by 25 feet and dunes. We slinked out into the moonlight, spread out the blanket, and laid down, side by side, on the oversized terrycloth.

His familiar touch across my thighs was magnified by the openness of the beach: his hands were firm on my muscles, kneading them and heading up to my hipbones, then spreading my legs apart with his knees and my labia with his fingers. It was not a warm night. We both had our hoods up as we writhed, with gooseflesh appearing on the outsides of my legs and the heat from my partner’s body warming their more medial aspects.

There was a zip, a fumbling of buckles, and the insistent pressing of Simon’s cock against the aching opening of my pussy. I raised my hips into his, my legs wrapped around his waist and my arms around his neck, and I felt the satisfying stretch of him entering my body.

We rocked back and forth, tangled in each other, feeling the sting of sand whipped up from the beach and listening to the sound of waves overcoming our heavy breaths. I looked up into his face to see him surrounded by nothing but stars.

When a rare car drove by from the north, the headlights would trace out over the dunes, and we were hidden in their shadows. If someone were to drive by from the south, they would be treated to the sight of pale, muscular calves and thighs—mine—wrapped around a slender man’s frame.

When Simon came, he thrust into me, moaned into my ear, and wrapped his hand under my head between my hair and the sand. My pelvis is tilted up, his orgasming cock is pressing against my swollen g-spot and pushing me into my own climax. I cry out, I bite his neck over his pulse to stifle the sound, I run my hands under his hoodie and leave scratch marks across his back that I discover when we get home.

When we are done and coming down, we pant and wrap the blanket close in around our bodies to keep out the slightly too-cool air. Simon kisses my forehead. The air is crisp and salty, there is a car driving by and the dune’s shadow lengthens, shortens, and disappears. After a time, we separate, we grab some tissues to clean ourselves off, stand up, and dust off the sand from our bodies. We pick up the blanket and wander across the dunes.

There is a trace down the inside of my right leg of Simon’s semen leaking out of my pussy: our tidying attempts were clearly incomplete. I didn’t protest: the viscous fluid helped my thighs slide past each other as we walked back to the bed and breakfast. We stopped by the ice cream shop on the edge of town before going back to bed.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Basement

There are a number of things that I've always wanted to do that I've never had the occasion to accomplish. Most of them involve strangers, public places, and variable degrees of nudity, but my desire to do all of these high risk things is always beat out by both the knowledge that these things are high risk and my seeming inability to find suitable partners. In this story, I pretend that none of these barriers exist.

********

It is the summertime, and in my fair city the summer heat isn't dry at all. It's a sticky, wet, humid heat; it glues my clothes to my body and everyone smells a little bit earthier. Owing to the climate, I have a tendency in the summertime to eschew pants and shorts and wear skirts as exclusively as possible. When I walk places, my thighs slip past each other. When I ride my bike—which is my preferred mode of transportation—my skirts always end up either hiked up to the tops of my thighs or blowing freely in the breeze I generate. My mount and dismount mark me as a graceless exhibitionist, and my thighs become strong and thick, and there's always something appealing to the thought of riding bent over through the city streets.

It's delightful.

I am riding my bike to a concert. The night's act is a DJ that's well known within circles that would care at all and is otherwise widely ignored. The show is in a basement venue. There are a surprisingly large number of places like this: they are dark, cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter, and the acoustics are always deplorable. There are many corners, and the temperature regulation that comes from being underground is lost when there are too many people enjoying themselves.

When I arrive at the venue, I ride through a cut in the sidewalk and in one motion stop my bicycle, pull my leg over the crossbar, and walk over to the nearest parking meter to lock up. I wear my lock and cable across my body like a messenger bag: the cable presses my tshirt against my skin and highlights the valley between my tits. In this story—as in real life—they bounce and sway as I dismount the bicycle and walk down the street. I carefully bend and squat to lock up: knees together, bending there first so as not to overexpose myself in the midthigh skirt this disgusting summer requires. There is sweat running down my legs and spine. A pair of friends meets me and lock up on the same post. We meander down the stairs to the basement.

We give our tickets to the ripper at the door, present our wrists to a young man with a stamp of something absurd in bright blue ink, and he opens the door for us to the show. Heat and evaporated sweat rolls out of the room, and the sounds that were dull suggestions of music are intense and melodic. Once inside, I fish a flask of whiskey out of one pocket, take a sip, and pass it to my friends. They refuse and take out their own.

There are about three hundred people in the basement: most between (presumably) 21 and 35, with a few exceptions. There are people suffering in jeans, men with shirts unbuttoned, women with short skirts and plunging necklines. Everyone is glistening and swaying with the beat. My friends and I push through to the crowded center of the audience to dance. It's dark but not pitch black, with enough light that I can see who admires me as they pass, and who admires my friends, as we sway our hips and bounce our bodies to the beat. My breasts are chaotic with the rest of my body, and every motion of my torso is amplified in how they shake. I notice a man who notices me.

There is a dance that people do when they may or may not have the attention of an attractive stranger. I take the first step: I look at him for just an instant with my chin slightly lowered, directly into his eyes from the sides of mine, and then blink and look away. I keep dancing. He keeps staring. He is tall, square-jawed and -shouldered, with hair a length that suggests a profession where appearances aren't important. He is not the oldest or the youngest person in the room. We keep at this for the next half hour: I look at him, he looks at me, we catch each other in the act, I smile broadly and continue dancing. My friends dance with me; lights and music swirl around us.

I feel a hand lightly touch my arm. I turn around. My flirtatious dance partner's face is six inches away. His eyes are hyaline blue with a ring of yellow in the middle, his lashes are long and languid, and his gaze is focused squarely on mine. The corner of his lips turns up in a half-grin, I reply with open-mouthed laughter. At the same instant as he asks me to dance, his hand slips from my arm to the curve at the small of my back, and I put an arm around his neck.

We dance like this for a time, his eyes locked into mine, our mouths make small talk while our hips skip pleasantries altogether. When he asks, I tell him my name is Michelle and that I am a journalist from some city 500 miles away, and I assume that everything he tells me—his name is Anders, he's a research technician from the neighboring county—is equally false. His other arm is around me now, pulling me closer in to him. He is strong, his hands are large, his frame is lithe and muscular, and a little bit of sweat-soaked chest hair creeps over the edge of his tshirt. My tits are pressed tightly to his chest, his growing erection is pressed tightly to my pelvis. My friends have scampered off somewhere else, potentially with other men and potentially with each other. The music is loud and the beat pulsing as our lower bodies become more and more entangled.

Our faces are barely an inch apart, and with eyes wide open, he presses his mouth to mine. His face is scratchy with 36-hour-old stubble, my lips part for his tongue as he explores my teeth. I sigh and run a hand to the nape of his neck, he laughs and moves his hands southward towards my cyclist's ass. He tastes of whiskey and sweat. It is delicious.

His hands roam up and down my back, now squeezing my ass, now making a grab for my breasts. We edge towards a darkened corner, and as we dance I feel his cock swell against my thigh as my pussy starts to seep underneath my skirt, which his eager hands have managed to pull up to just shy of the fold where my thighs join my body. His knee is between my legs, my crotch grinds against his hip. His kisses are slow, measured, and deep, and I rut against his body with the beat of the bass. When my back presses into the wall, it's the first time I've felt anything cooler than body temperature in the last hour and a half, and the sudden relative cold combined with dancing makes my nipples ache.

In the relative privacy of the dark, Anders slips his hand under my skirt and kneads my left cheek, while he pins me to the wall. I am wearing a minimal thong—just enough material to not break laws on my bicycle, and not so much that it's anything less than thrilling under a short skirt. His dick is pressing insistently at my pussy, my clitoris is engorged and every grind gives me shivers. We kiss like we're starving, and I lick the salty sweat from his neck and nip his earlobes. He moans and thrusts against me. There is another couple a few feet away from us engaged in nearly the same activity: one woman is a petite, voluptuous black woman in hot pants and a tank top with a shaved head; the other is a a blonde Amazon in a tube dress. Their hands are not immediately visible, but their smells are potent and their muffled sounds intoxicating. They are either completely unaware of, or completely disinterested in, me and my stranger. Out of the corner of my eye I can see that the both the top of the tube dress and the tank top are failing at containing their breasts.

I take my hands away from around Anders' neck, and move them towards his belt. He inhales sharply as I slip my right hand down the front of his jeans to his hard, longsuffering cock. He lets me pull it out: it's impressive in size and girth, and deliciously uncut. I work my hand up and down his firm shaft as his breathing quickens in my mouth and his hands move from my buttock to my pussy, where he pushes my thong aside and slides a finger between my lips. With his other hand he roughly pulls up my shirt and pulls down my bra and begins to run his hand across my nipple, which responds promptly to his touch, and I moan and writhe against him. He pushes through the opening of my body as my hips thrust against him; I kiss him deeply to keep myself quiet.

His cock swells in my fist, and he starts to groan. He pinches my nipple and fucks my pussy harder with his hands, slipping in another finger as I tighten up around him and liquid mingles with sweat as it slides down my thighs and onto his jeans. His glans is hard and swollen as he moans and starts to come on my exposed right thigh, our bodies pressed together and grinding to the beat. His come lands a few inches from my vulva. I shiver around his hand. He picks up my fingers from around his penis and licks the come out from between them as my eyes widen and my clit swells. He has three fingers inside me and his thumb pressed firmly against my clit and I am grinding against him, moaning and sweaty and hoarse.

As his come is starting to slowly trace down my thigh, he pulls his torso away from mine. I'm suddenly cold and surprised, and before I have the time to become annoyed that this stranger would let me get him off without bothering to return the favor, he is kneeing in front of me, turning his hand palm up and pressing against my g-spot as he starts to lick my clit. I gasp, and grab fistfulls of his thick hair to steady myself in my shock. As he fucks me with his hand, he gently sucks and flicks his tongue against my snatch. The couple next to us is paying a little bit more attention now through their own lust-filled groping, as are a few other faces in the crowd. I don't care, and neither does this surprise lover.

As he moans into my pussy, I convulse around him. My hips buck against his hand press back against his mouth, while my hands pull his hair and I moan and cry out indiscreetly. He presses back against me and sighs against me, and with his free hand holds on to my ass to help keep his face anchored between my thighs. I come in waves around him. When my gyrations slow down, he gently pulls his hand out of me, and moves it over to my left thigh. With his face wet with my own secretions he runs his tongue up the opposite thigh, licking up his own come mixed with my sweat. When finishes, he stands up and kisses me deeply with his salt-flavored tongue, and I taste myself mixed with sweat and come in his mouth. I fumble to do up his belt while he pulls my skirt back down again over my hips, and I pull my bra back and shirt back over my now-cooler breast. We look almost put together.

The show is nearing its end, and my friends have materialized in my peripheral vision, and their faces are covered in smirks. I look at Anders. He slips a piece of paper—the back of his ticket stub—into my hands, with a phone number and the name Miles scribbled across it, and winks as he wanders back to the crowd.