area under the curve

At my undergrad, everyone is obliged to take a math class, which was the result of somewhat overzealous distribution requirements that were essentially a throwback to the Cold War. The thinking is like so: maybe if we make them take science and math, then instead of becoming resentful they will become physicists who will destroy Sputnik and we’ll win over the entirety of Communist Russia. Despite that lofty goal, the unfortunate truth is that there are many things that I am good at, but they don’t exactly extend to differential equations.

By the time I started college, I had figured out a few things about myself, and one of them is that I will never, ever manage to stay awake for an entire math class unless I sit in the very front. Today is just like any other day, so I even though I was about 5 minutes late I slipped into my desk on the second row back from the podium. I sat down and soon enough I settled into my seat: the balls of my feet on the floor, my heels on the legs of the chair, and my knees as far apart as the chair is wide. I am absentminded and think that the skirt I’ve worn to accommodate for the August heat is loose enough that it will demurely drape down between my thighs, and keep all inappropriate views hidden.

It doesn’t. I don’t figure that out until I detect my own odor floating through the air around me.

This classroom is structured so that since I am on the second row, my face is perfectly in line with the PowerPoint—that’s why I chose the spot—but that also means that my pelvis is in line with the TA’s head, who is standing about 15 feet away. When I consider this, along with my scent as it wafts through the room, I am immediately embarrassed. I squirm in my seat and pull my knees together again.

After 10 more minutes, the lecture becomes complex enough, with phis nesting inside of sigmas and more letters than numbers dotting the slides, that I don’t focus on my knees anymore, and simply move everything back to my original most comfortable position. When my TA is momentarily flustered and pink, I remember what I have done and scramble to pretend that I am modest.

I repeat this cycle maybe 3 more times through the lecture. By the end the TA looks distraught, and he can’t mind his rhos and thetas anymore.

A few minutes later, he finishes up the lecture: “That’s it for today. We’ll have our second quiz next Friday, and don’t forget the problem set due on Tuesday. The assignment is on Blackboard. Remember, group work is ok, but you can’t use the Internet!”

There’s some grumbling as everyone is leaving. I have managed to shove my notebooks back into my backpack before I hear the last part of the lecture:

“La Ravaudeuse,” the TA says, “I need to talk to you for a minute, don’t leave yet.”

I stop my motions for an instant and all the blood rushes to my face. I think about all the reasons I could need a talking-to, and most of them range around my palpable boredom, my fear of Greek letters, and possibly my posture this morning. I sit down with my ankles together and my bag in my lap as I await the verdict. I’m aware that the room has become approximately 50 degrees warmer in the last 3 minutes and that I am sweating as profusely as my heart is racing and my skin is flushing.

The TA wanders up the stairs to my desk. He stands beside me.

“Miss la Ravaudeuse,” he starts.

“Margot,” I correct him, with a shake in my voice that destroys all pretenses of composure.

“Ok, Margot.” He accepts my correction. “Follow me to my office, please?”

“You want to have a meeting now?” I’m surprised. It’s 3pm. I should be either hitting the gym, the library, or the bong. I have learned that college is a wonderful time of self-discovery.

“Now, please, unless you have another lecture to attend?”

“No, I guess I don’t have anywhere specific to be.”

I stand up and follow him out of the room and down the hall in this Soviet-era cinderblock building. I marvel at how this fluorescent lighting can make this graduate student—4 years my senior, a genius now 2 years into a math PhD, with the physique of someone for whom health and fitness was not a chore but something maintained with attention and a certain kind of pride—look pale and tubercular. Our shoes clatter and echo.

We get to his door, which he swings open with a flourish that is just as enthusiastic as the creaking sound the hinges generate. The room is covered in books and notebook paper. Three monitors glow in the corner. He gestured to a seat across from his desk. I flop into it.  My knees are together.

“Margot,” he says, sitting down opposite me, “I need to talk with you about your behavior in class today.”

“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” I blurt. My mouth is talking and my brain is only modestly contributing. “I didn’t realize how I was dressed until like 10 minutes into lecture, I didn’t mean to be a distraction, I was so totally mortified and I kind of wanted to die because I always sit the same way when I study, it’s just this habit, and I didn’t think about the part where the classroom is shaped like some ridiculous ersatz amphitheater—“

“Um, ok.” He cuts me off. “I just meant to tell you that I need you to not sit in the front if you’re late, it interrupts the lecture.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“But we can definitely talk about that, too.”

“Oh.”

“That skirt.”

“What about it?”

“It’s short. I’m not sure if you realized it before today, but I could definitely, um, see right up it, and, you see, I could see that you weren’t, you know…” This TA has become increasing flustered during this conversation. He’s red in the face and shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

“Oh my god.” I feel all my blood drain out of my face. I decided not to wear panties today, secondary to a near-complete lack of clean clothes. I squirm in this wooden chair, and feel my labia slide across its lacquered surface.

“Yeah. That was a bit of a distraction.”

“…fuck me.” I am not thinking too much about what I’m saying, and the tone I use reflects my complete exasperation. My knees flop to the sides as I realize what my words revealed.

“What?” He drops the pen out of his hand and raises one eyebrow as he peers straight up my skirt.

“I can’t believe I just said that.” I slump down in my chair, heels sliding up its legs as my pelvis inches out to the end.

“You totally did.” He is smiling while he stands up.

“Right.” I look up. The hemline is creeping up my thighs.

He stands up and walks around his desk and stands in front of me. His arms are crossed in front of his chest as he leans his bulk against the desk.  He is bolder now.  He reaches a hand out and touches my hair; his finger and thumb linger at the tip of a lock.

I decide that the distraction my skirt has generated is one that I am interested in, as well. The structures hidden in the area under the curving surface of my skirt are integral to the decisions that I make from here on after.

I turn my head just enough that I take this man’s thumb into my mouth, and I suck the end of the digit. I flick my tongue across its tip, and exhale onto its surface.  The man put the remainder of his hand on my face, thumb over my lips, and his fingers wrapped around into my hair.

His other hand explores the zipper that courses over the expanding volume revealed by topographic changes in his slim-cut trousers. His fingers undo the button and pull down the zipper; they lower the elastic underneath and reveal a perfect, hardening cock, covered with a thin glaze of fluid leaking out. The thumb moved as he tightens his grip on my hair and pulls my head towards his erection. I part my lips and my tongue skims the surface, tasting the fluid that slowly exits his body. 

He tolerates this for a moment before he pushes harder and thrusts his pelvis towards me. He enters my mouth with some force, and his now-free hand joins its partner in holding my hair by the fistful. He holds my head steady in place as his hips start to sway; gradually working to a strong, fast pace as he fucks my mouth.

My knees are completely spread as I sat on the edge of my chair, nearly kneeling to hold the right pose. My left hand explores his hips further and allows me to steady myself, while my right creeps up to my receding hem and slides between my labia in search of my clit. My hips glide across my hand to the rhythm of the TA’s hips. I decide that he clearly knows what he wants, and I remove my hand that steadies me and I press it inside my pussy, while its companion massages my clit. At this moment, I realize that I couldn’t recall the name he used when he introduced himself at the first class 10 days ago.

I hear a sudden clearing of a throat. It cannot be the TA’s, as he continues to moan throughout, becoming less and less verbose the longer he fucks my mouth.

“Mr. Maxon,” a new voice declares, “I thought we had discussed this. You are to call me before you have meetings with students.”

Mr. Maxon!  Andrew Samuel Maxon. Right. That was it, I remembered. That was his name, and also why he told us never to look for “Sam Maxon” in the directory, even if that was the name he used.

Sam did not release my head or miss a beat as he explained that this was an unplanned meeting to discuss a pattern of behavior that I was starting to develop. This was followed by a moment of silence, during which there was noting to be heard by the slopping sounds made by Sam’s impressive cock in my mouth, and a sound of metal on metal followed by some footfalls. This new man is standing behind me. I feel his breath on my back as he bends over me.

“You know we have a protocol,” he said. In an instant I felt something—I later figured out it was a belt this man had just pulled off—wrap around my torso, effectively pinning my arms to my side between the elbow and the wrist as it draws to a tight close. I inhale sharply: I hear the buckle of this belt slide and click into place before I realize that I am now completely powerless.

I feel a third hand on my head brushing off the first two. Then I feel two hands under my armpits that pull me up to my feet.  I am now standing up, facing Mr. Maxon, whose impressive dick is pointing straight at me. It twitches.

“Turn around,” he instructs me.

I comply. I did, after all, ask him to fuck me.

I turn, and I am standing face to face with Dr. Wynne. He is the 35-year-old prodigy head of the math department. Rumor has it he graduated from a nearby university with his bachelors when he was just 19, and he finished his PhD at 23. Part of the way he had made this happen was by being a charming person in addition to a possessor of a staggering intellect.

Of note, Dr. Wynne was a triathlete. It was particularly apparent in this moment. He moved towards me, and I heard Mr. Maxon step aside. Dr. Wynne had nudged me up to the edge of the desk, with the curve on the underside of my ass now starting to sit on its surface. I heard a sweep and clatter, and Mr. Maxon’s hands are on my shoulders from behind: he has moved to the opposite side of the desk.

Dr. Wynne is looking directly into my face. He presses a knee between mine, and nudges my legs apart. He grips my hips and pulls me up onto the desk.

“Sam,” he said, “You never told me anything about Miss la Ravaudeuse except that she was an exceptionally attentive student. You mentioned that you thought she might have a talent. You did not mention any remarkable behaviors.”

He presses my shoulders back. I loose my balance and fall onto Mr, Maxon’s large outstretched hands, which guide me to the table surface. He grabs my arms and pulls me back: my ass is now held up by this desk, and my head is hanging off the opposite end.  Dr. Wynne is now standing between my legs, with his thigh pressed right against my dripping cunt. Mr. Maxon’s hands rest on my mandible, and he opens my mouth for me.

It occurs to me that less than two minutes ago I was happily sucking cock for my math TA, and that now I am tied up, and somehow in a position that I may not be able to get out of. I am staring at a droplet of precome that is forming on the tip of Mr.. Maxon’s dick as I make this realization. His hands are busy pulling up my thin t-shirt and releasing my breasts from the flimsy bra that encases them. My nipples are hard and sensitive and completely erect.

It is at this moment that I feel two strong hands grab my thighs, pick them up, and spread them, ultimately wrapping them around a man’s waist. Three large fingers press their way into my body, and a thumb rubs roughly against my clit. I gasp at this surprise, and at that moment Mr. Maxon’s cock thrusts back into my mouth. One of his hands is on my jaw and the other in my hair as he steadies my head for the ease of fucking my face. His balls slap into me and saliva streaks down my cheeks.

The hand below starts to massage my pussy and my clit, and soon is fucking me with an equal intensity to this cock. Dr. Wynne’s free hand explores one of my bouncing tits as he steadies it to pinch the nipple. My hips begin to gyrate over his hand and I am making muffled sounds over this cock.

Dr. Wynne slaps my tit. I yelp as I press my pelvis harder into his hand. My legs are wrapped around his torso; they squeeze him insistently into my body.

He makes my pussy clench around his knuckles. He makes my body tighten and release and orgasm, his thumb steadily rubbing my clit as fluid flowed out of me and down his wrist, while his fingers fucked my spasming cunt. I nearly cried from the intensity, but the cock in my mouth distorted the sound.

I heard a zip. Then a rip, the distinctive sound of opening of a condom wrapper. I feel a new pressure on the introitus of my already-well fucked cunt before Dr. Wynne presses his cock into me. I feel like I could split in two.

He leans forward as he fucks me. Both his hands are on my breasts, kneeing them and pinching and rolling my hypersensitive nipples. His cock must be curved: it bends and makes pressure sensations inside me on the internal surface of my overstimulated clitoris. I feel another orgasm structuring itself inside me; its progress is relentless, and my cunt is shuddering around this cock in short order.

It doesn’t matter if I tried to make words now. The sounds are incoherent, due only in small part to the hardening dick that continues to fuck my mouth, that spasms and shoots a hot, salty, bitter load onto my tongue. He comes in several thrusts, with several squirts of fluid. It dripped out of my mouth and dribbled down into my hair.

Dr. Wynnes hands left my breasts and landed in the small of my waist, on the top of my hips. He was fucking me deeply now, and my pussy leaked clear fluid down the front of his suit.  His cock swelled and he groaned and fucked me so hard the desk moved. His orgasm ended only a few seconds after Mr. Maxon’s.

Mine had been continuous.

I feel Mr. Maxon lighten his grip on my hair as his cock softened between my swollen lips. Dr. Wynne steps back from me, too. In a moment both of their just-softened dicks slip from my body, my thighs quivers around Dr. Wynne’s waist. My skirt is a useless pile of fabric that has bunched up under my breasts, leaving the whole expanse of my naked pelvis present for viewing. The two of them each place a hand under my bound arms and help me up. Mr. Maxon releases the belt; Dr, Wynne adjusts my bra and shirt before he flips down the hem of my skirt. The both escort me off the table.

“Miss la Ravaudeuse,” Mr. Maxon started, “is a special student who revealed certain behaviors today during class, and I thought that she might benefit from a private meeting. I didn’t have time to call you, Dr. Wynne, and I’m so glad you kept our meeting for 3:10. I almost about it.”

“Margot,” this is the first time Dr. Wynne has addressed me. I am surprised that he knows my name. “It’s important to think about the effects of your behavior. If your behavior in class continues, we may have to form a disciplinary panel for you.” His stern face is softened with a wink.

“Do you understand?” he finishes.

“Yes, I do,” I reply.

I never wore panties to class after that.

all you need is one

It is New Year’s Eve and unseasonably warm, and I am out to begin celebrating with some close friends. My girlfriends and I, we are all grad students and we are all in that special hell that’s populated exclusively with the smart, the miserable, and the not particularly self-aware.

We start off our evening with a heavyish meal, as our plans for later involve more whiskey than I like to remember. We are at a greasy sandwich shop, enjoying falafel and hummus wraps coupled with fries covered in jalapeños, with a side of champagne for my girlfriends and a diet coke with Jim Beam from my flask for me. We laugh, not realizing that this moment is one of those perfect times that I can look back at now and see how beautiful our friendships were in the midst of a sea of more professional bullshit than I had ever imagined. We toast all the horrible things that are finally ending with 2010: problems with our exes, problems with our families, problems with our schooling, problems with our credit card bills, and to the glimmer of hope that’s promised ever year on this day in the few hours before midnight. We inhale our meal and hail a cab to a party in the northern part of our fair city that we like to joke will be populated with about two hundred women, seven hundred gay men, and maybe 5 straight(ish) ones, and more sequins than you could find in the costumes for Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. We are ultimately very correct in our assessment.

Over dinner, I have been telling Siobhán just how badly I want to fuck someone else to get the bitter taste of Adam out of my mouth. She teases me about the words I use, she teases me about my sex drive, she teases me about going to the gayest new year’s party in the city if what I really want is to fuck a man.  I take it in stride and return the jokes to her.

“All I need is one dude who’s willing to take my pants off,” I tell her, “and then it really doesn’t matter just how little the rest of them care about my junk.”

“Fair,” she says. “After all, if the incidence of something is 1 in 1,000 in the real world, but it happens to you, the incidence for you is 1 in 1.”

“Siobhán, that’s the nerdiest way I’ve ever heard a hookup described. Ever.”

“You’re welcome.”

We snag a cab and arrive just in time to beat a mass of fashionably late types to our new year’s event. We shed our coats. We get drinks. We strengthen them from my flask that’s tucked into the top of my boot.  We assess the crowd and find a blank spot for dancing.

My friends and I take sweaty, smiling pictures of each other all night. My outfit for the evening (black tanktop, black tights, black boots, black leather miniskirt, and a poorly-thought-out, visible through my shirt only in a camera flash, turquoise bra) is well documented next to my friends’ flashy party dresses and broad grins. There are photos of women embracing whose relationships—romantic or otherwise—have since dissolved, and photos of new friendships in their awkward beginnings before a deeper, more intimate connection is later forged.

I love these photos. I hate these photos.

After 45 minutes or so, I see a tall, boyish-faced man from the corner of my eye.

He looks at me, smiles, and looks away; he tells something to one of his friends.

I look at Siobhán: “All I need is one,” I remind her. She laughs and continues her dancing, which is a charming mix of voguing and gyrations over a beatific smile that never fails to attract a suitor.

I look up and see that stranger’s grin, this time with a wink. I look him in the face, raise an eyebrow in his direction, and keep up my dancing.

This tango goes on for longer than I anticipate.

I feel a tap on my shoulder.

I turn around to see someone other than who I expect, who happens to be standing about 3 feet away and talking to some other friend. The stranger I want to see is completely oblivious to this exchange.

This suitor is not a beautiful man, wearing not a beautiful hat, using not exactly eloquent words and covered in not particularly alluring sweat, and I think he might be hitting on me.

I may only need one to meet my goal for the evening, but just because an opportunity presents itself does not mean I am obligated to take it.

In equal parts desperation and irritation, I swing around to the tall, boyish man that I was hoping was seeking my attention. I tap his shoulder, square my shoulders and squeeze my breasts together with my upper arms, and when he turns to me I ask him, very bluntly:

“Would you like to dance with me?”

“Yes.”

The other suitor is completely crestfallen. I really don’t care.

His arm slides around my waist and I place my hands on his shoulders. We are far enough apart to be acceptable for a middle school party.

“What’s your name?”

“Margot. You?”

“I’m Louis.”

We dance for the next hour between now and midnight. He tells me what he does for a living. I tell him what I do. He tells me that he is from my fair city, I tell him that my hometown is several hundred miles away and I am surprised to discover that he used to work there. He is smart and charming and a little bit grabbier than I expect.

When midnight rolls around he pulls me in and kisses me with one hand exploring the texture of my woven tights under the short hemline of my leather miniskirt.

For the next 45 minutes we continue this dance. He kisses me and gropes me, he tells me that he expects me to slap him at any minute and is surprised when I don’t. I see my friends over his shoulder and they are keeping a watchful, yet encouraging, eye on my activities. Siobhán has wandered off somewhere with one of Louis’s group and I don’t hear from her until the next day.

When he tries to cup my pussy under my skirt on the dance floor, I draw a line.

“For that,” I inform him, “you better just take me home.”

“Ok.”

We leave. We scamper out of the club like we’re getting away with something. We get a cab driven by a dry old man who could not care less about our excitement as long as we don’t destroy his backseat.

“Unicorn Lane and la Ravaudeuse Road,” I yelp, crashing into the cab and on top of my newfound paramour.

“Ok.” The cab driver has clearly been a witness to this scene several times over in just this one evening.

In the relative privacy of the backseat, Louis bites my earlobes and my neck, he pulls down the tops of my tights and his aggressive hand is immediately exploring my anatomy.

“Margot, when we get to your house I am going to eat your pussy for at least an hour.”

I spread my thighs and stifle a moan, I tell him not to make me come in the cab because the driver would probably hate it. He laughs. I unzip his pants and wrap my free hand around the base of his cock.

Many months later, Louis tells me that the comment that I make, that he is thicker than I anticipate, was so unexpected to him that he struggled not to come into my palm at that moment.

We put ourselves together when the cab careens to a halt at the designated corner. Louis flings some money at the driver as we tumble out. I lead him halfway down the block to the front door of my building. His hands are up my skirt as he follows me up the stairs to my apartment’s front door. I let us in and shed all my clothes on the walk back to my room. I hear astonished comments from behind me.

We arrive at the back of the apartment. Louis is naked too, he presses against me in a heated, urgent kiss. I drop to my knees and take his cock into my mouth as he grabs my hair, in part to steady his bulk and in part from the thrill of dominating a relatively unknown woman. This only last a minute before he pulls me up by the underarms and presses me towards the bed. I land on my back.

It is his turn to drop to his knees. He makes good on the promise he made me in the cab: while it isn’t anywhere approaching an hour, it is plenty of time for me to come with my pussy squeezing the three fingers he has shoved inside me while I arch my back and pant.

I breathlessly tell him that the condoms are, of course, in the bedside drawer. He grabs one and rolls it on. As soon as he is done, I am on top of him and riding him while he squeezes my ass. He pulls me forward by the waist and lands his face between my breasts. He pinches and bites my nipples when I ask him to. I pull his hair when he asks me to. I come in a flood across his pelvis.

He rolls me over on my back without missing a beat and bends me in half to put my legs over his shoulders. He bites me and sucks my earlobes, his nails scratch into my waist and hips as deeply as mine do into his back. When he comes he lets out a guttural sound that shakes my diaphragm.

We are silent except for our heavy breath.

After, we talk. I discover that Louis is a good person, or at least he passes for one on what I expect is a one-night stand. He tells me more intimate details about his life that night than he will ever be comfortable telling me later, because I am a perfect stranger to him. I tell him fewer of my own and am generally cooler than I ever could normally be, because he is a perfect stranger to me. He is older than he looks, and more complex than he likes to be.

“Happy new year,” he mutters to me before we fall asleep. It is 4am.

The next morning, a thick hand parting my labia and exploring my clit coupled with a hard dick pressing into my back awakens me, and I am exactly on the edge of orgasm. When another hand finds my now-sore breast and stimulates an aching nipple, I moan and shudder into consciousness.

When I am a thinking person again, I roll over onto my belly and place myself between this stranger’s thighs. He is hard again. I take him into my mouth, with one hand gripping the base of his cock and the other fondling his balls. Louis is not yet friendly enough to call me names, so instead he grabs my hair and complements my skills before he orgasms down my throat.

After a few minutes we are both calm. We are both finding out more about each other, these two relative unknowns who will, we find out later, be perfectly unmatched.

I offer him a shower, and ask if he wants to get brunch. He politely declines, saying that he has to meet his friends from last night. I check my phone to find about ten texts from last night, ranging from friends reminding me to be safe and careful to complimenting me, to Siobhán asking if I want to get our customary New Year’s meal of lo mein, which is an invitation that I accept.

Louis reassembles himself in his sweaty clothes. I put on some pajamas and make coffee. He kisses me on the cheek in the kitchen before we trade phone numbers. As I see him out the door, my roommate wanders out of her room and looks at Louis, then back at me, and then promptly goes back to bed.

I wrongly expect to never see him again.

"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.

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a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

Date: 2011-06-18, 8:49AM EDT

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I have a very specific fantasy that I’ve decided I’d like to realize. I would like to meet a man between the ages of 22 and 40 (ish) in a bar that is mutually convenient to both of us. I would like to see him from across the bar. I would like him to see me. I would like to watch him drink a drink with someone else—another woman, another man, someone he came with, or someone he didn’t—while stealing glances at me. I will be by myself. I will be wearing a short skirt or dress, and a low neckline. I will not be wearing a lot of panties. I can wear heels upon request, but I really prefer boots.

After we have this exchange of glances for approximately 20 minutes, I will get up and head for a bathroom. He will follow me. We will lock the door, it will be just the two of us—no stalls, please—and he will fuck me from behind, while standing, and pressing me either against the sink or the door. He will lift up my skirt and unzip his jeans. He will rub my clit until I orgasm with his cock buried inside my pussy. He will spank my hips and ass hard enough to leave hand-shaped bruises.

There are some non-negotiable aspects to this fantasy:
1)  There will be no sexual contact without a condom. The end.
2) There will be no talking. A major aspect of this fantasy for me is anonymity. The only sounds out of his lips should be the wordless noises we make while fucking, and we can make those in abundance.
3) We can both reserve the right to abandon ship at any time, end our activities, and call it off. If the man choses, he doesn’t even have to follow me to the bathroom and start at all. I can walk out the front door of the bar instead of fucking. Free will is extremely important to me.

A little about me: I am a graduate student in my mid-20s, medium-tall, voluptuous-muscular build, with short blond hair, green eyes, and clear skin. I have breasts that have been described by a number of people as “epic.” As this ad is clearly a little bit more verbose than the average one, I promise I’m not a bot, but I AM extraordinarily picky.

About you: You are between 22-40, you have meticulous hygiene, you are in decent shape, you don’t dress terribly, and you don’t wear tons of cologne. At some point during our communications, you’ll send me a photo of your face, and I’ll send you one of mine if I decide I’d like to. Any photos of penises or headless torsos are grounds for immediate disqualification.

Depending on how well this encounter goes, there can be more like it. I’m not necessarily looking for something more regular, but I’m not NOT looking, either.

from    A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

to         Margot la Ravaudeuse <laravaudeuse@gmail.com>

date    Fri, Jun 18, 2011 at 10:35 AM

subject            a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 10:35 AM (13 minutes ago)

For years, I’ve had a fantasy about a former classmate: she’s a tall, voluptuous woman, with a toothy grin and a sharp wit. I am in her apartment, we are kissing and clawing: her at my collar and me at her skirt; I turn her around, pull up her hem and down her panties as I press her against a wall. Her breath has a beat in the middle when her chest hits the plaster. I unzip my jeans with one hand and the other is in her, I am biting her neck as we fuck. In this fantasy, there aren’t words, and a condom is a fine price to pay for realizing this story.

I’m 6’2”, broad-chested, brown hair, sharp dresser. I’m happy to talk to you about the long-term ramifications of recent political decisions after this meeting. The attached photo is from a recent trip for work. I have a bachelor’s degree and work in a competitive field. My field requires an aggressive nature, which I’m happy to bring to the floor.

--A

from    Margot la Ravaudeuse <laravaudeuse@gmail.com>

to         A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

date    Fri, Jun 18, 2011 at 11:00 AM

subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 11:00 AM (just now)

Dear A,

Your email has spectacular grammar, and your photo is both of an attractive man and does not feature a penis! Well done. I think your fantasy meshes well with mine: your height and build are very much in line with men that I am attracted to, and I love aggressive men who both know when to stop and push me to that limit. Please don’t leave any marks on my neck, but I want you to bruise my hips and scratch my thighs. Is that in line with your fantasy?

I’ve enclosed a photo. I hope I resemble the object of your desires.

Best,

Margot.

from    A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

to         Margot la Ravaudeuse <laravaudeuse@gmail.com>

date    Fri, Jun 18, 2011 at 11:15 AM

subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 11:15 AM (3 minutes ago)

Margot,

It’s funny, when I opened your email I had a moment where I thought you were the woman I’ve been fucking every night in my thoughts for the past few years. You’re not her, but you are extraordinary.  I would be flattered to help you realize your fantasy, to the letter.

How do you feel about Old McFlannery’s Brewhouse, at 14^th and jones, at 8pm? I don’t live too close to there, you don’t have to, but they have bathrooms that I think would work well and an excellent gin and tonic.

Best,

A (do you need more of a name?)

from    Margot la Ravaudeuse <laravaudeuse@gmail.com>

to         A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

date    Fri, Jun 18, 2011 at 11:36 AM

subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 11:36 AM (just now)

Dear A,

A is plenty for me, 8pm works fine for me. Old McF’s is exactly where I had in mind. I promise not to wear a lot of panties.

--m

I am at Old McF’s at 7:50.  I am wearing a short, pale green dress, with pockets and a plunging neck. I wear a black gstring under the skirt, a small wallet tucked into the top of a boot, and a kerchief in my hair (it’s disposable). I am drinking a gin and tonic.

The door opens. It’s june: there is a gush of hot air from the outside world that accompanies A as he walks into the bar. He is as advertised: 6’2”, brown beard, salt-and-pepper Kennedy hair, impeccably tailored pants. He is out of place by about a $50 a month dry cleaning bill. He looks at me, winks, and walks to the bar without further acknowledgement.

I fidget in the booth. My nipples harden against the tight fabric held against them. I pinch one when I rest my hand on the table. I shudder; I sigh involuntarily at my own touch. I notice through the corner of my eyes that A is the only person who saw all of this. He is standing slightly off from exactly across the bar from me and he sips a porter. He is observing me over the rim of his glass. It is my turn to wink.

I finish my drink.

I stand.

My skirt has crept too far over my thighs, I pull it down a few instants later than I should after I stand up. A raises a solitary eyebrow when I slink across the room to the bathroom before he follows me there.

I open the door to the bathroom: there’s one toilet, and across the room one sink, with a stack of paper towels. A pushes the door open again before it has a chance to hit its frame. His pupils are enormous. He grabs me around the waist, pulls me in, kisses me, and his hands are immediately under my skirt. His movements are choreatic: impulsive, brisk, flexed, and erratic. My lips swell with his aggression.

He breaks the kiss and pulls out a condom at the same moment as he unzips. He hands the condom to me, I rip it open and sheath him. He spins me around, presses me against the unlocked door, and bends me over: my short skirt hikes up, and he rips off my suggestion of underwear.

I am surprised: A pulls back on my thighs while pushing down my shoulders as his knees spread apart my thighs. He kneels behind me, spreads apart my ass and presses his face against my swollen pussy. He licks my folds, moans into my body, and I feel the rhythm that his arm is defining against his shoulder, his cock, my thigh. My back arches and my hips press into his mouth: this is a welcome surprise.

A stands. He is miraculously hard as he penetrates me with no further preamble. Our moans are deeper and throatier. He slaps my hip: it echoes and I shriek. He is kissing my back, his free hand is wrapped around my hip: he pinches, rolls, and flicks my clit.

The bar sounds on the other side of the door have hushed considerably in the last ten minutes.

A is relentless. His hips move faster, I feel him drip sweat that rolls down to the cleft at the bottom of my back. I do not notice that his voice is becoming louder and deeper due to my own wailing against the cheep wood of the bathroom door. My pussy tightens and relaxes; it clenches and releases his cock while I gush all over his hand.

Thirty seconds later, the ringing in my ears quiets enough to allow me to hear him grunting and sighing against my neck with his orgasm.

We are still for a moment.

He pulls out of me, and pulls down my hem. I turn around and face him.

He kisses me and stands to one side as he pulls open the door.

I step out.

The 35 people in the bar are silent: 70 eyes stare at me, 35 mouths are slack-jawed. I walk out the front door of a bar I don’t frequent.

from    A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

to         Margot la Ravaudeuse <laravaudeuse@gmail.com>

date    Sun, Jun 20, 2011 at 3:07 PM

subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 3:07 PM (5 hours ago)

Margot,

Thank you.

xxx-xxx-xxxx.

Best,

A

to         A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

date    Sun, Jun 20, 2011 at 8:32 PM

subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 8:32 PM (21 minutes ago)

Dear A,

Of course I will.

--mlr

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.

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.

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.

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.