"Your hands. Here."

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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.

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.

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.