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.

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.

myfaircity.craigslist.org

myfaircity craigslist > personals > casual encounters

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

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

Reply to:

Reply To This Post

[Errors when replying to ads?]

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

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.

the size of the friend zone is variable

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

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

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

contrat de mariage

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

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

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

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

THE EXCHANGE*:

Him: “Miss, you are so beautiful, would you happen to be in need of a husband? I have the papers right here!” and he pulls out a large document labelled, somewhat comically, “MARRIAGE CONTRACT.”

Me: “No thanks, but good luck with that.”

Him: “Well, if not a husband, how about a fuck?”

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

*En français, pour ceux qui en ont envie:

Lui: “Mademoiselle, vous etes si belle, est-ce que vous avez besoin d'un mari? Voici mon contrat de mariage!”

Margot: “Non merci, bonne chance.”

Lui: “Si vouz ne voulez pas m'épouser, puis-je vous baiser?”

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.

The Basement

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

********

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

It's delightful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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