oh, I forgot...

He wanted to fuck me with my glasses on... and no, his cock wasn't so small. I guess he was into the whole intellectual look. I thought it was cute. Especially because I could see him sing poetry to me as he exploded into me.

black panther / white panther

The issue of who picks up who is always an interesting one, especially if you don't wonder about it until the next day.
She was dancing at a concert with a long skirt and a tiny top, her stomach moved with the rhythm, and she knew she was being watched. Oh, so many men watched her, and so few dared to go near.
He did go near, the sexy Argentinean with the pose and the big back, he came, he saw, he panted, he conquered.
He took her to the meet & greet after the music, trying to show off, she knew that although he depicted such confidence, he wasn't very sure what he would do with her.
They went to his hotel.
Lovely.
The best lovers are those that are here only for a little while, those that will leave and leave no regrets. Those that live in an hotel room where you can read their personality by what they have there and how it is arranged, but you can't get to intimate because there is a limit of how much you can learn from someone from what they take along when they travel.
He wanted her to dance some more, she was amazed, she had thought she didn't dance so well, but oh, the belly dance.
He kissed her. She didn't understand why someone would rather lick most of your face than kiss you on the lips, but she laughed.
He undressed her, kissed her, caressed her.
His body was delicious, he did boxing as a hobby, he was soft and hard in all the right places.
He wanted to be inside of her, but she played around, licking, panting, while he growled like a panther, and she laughed.
Finally they fucked.
And fucked.
and fucked.
He didn't want her to come, little did he know.
They came. She smiled. He growled and then sang a song in Spanish, something about an angel, she wasn't sure if that was really happening or if it was the post-orgasmic illusion.
They slept a little bit, and then she was at it again. He was bigger than her, much stronger, and yet, he had lost complete power. She made him hard, kissed him, licked him, put the condom on, and mounted him. And mounted him, and mounted him.
He didn't want her to come, and she laughed and told him to be still.
She mounted him and came, and came, and came once more.
He tried to stir, to move, to lick. She told him to be still, and came, and came, and came.
After eternities and orgasms filled oceans, thet stopped.
He asked her if she knew that she wasn't normal, that she came so much, so beautifully, so deliciously. "I am going to recommend you", he said, she laughed, for what?
He growled again and asked her about herself. She said just enough and not too much.
He insisted on asking her about her pleasure capabilities, was it real, since when was she able to do that, to enjoy so much, to come as much as she did. She laughed and growled a bit, imitating him, and said that one needs to enjoy oneself in order to enjoy others, and caressed his beautiful back.
Once more they were at it, he was on top of her, trying to regain control of the situation, to have the power position... he failed miserably. And it was lovely.
She came, and came and came.
He didn't want to come so quickly, so she kept giving him subjects to think about: politics, soccer, Ronaldinho.
Oh my, he was so hot, so turned on that even Ronaldinho seemed sexy to him.
She allowed him to come.
They exploded, and once more, with his husky voice, he began to sing a song.
Who sings a song when they come, and the same exact one?
Ah, lovely men do strange things.
She told him she was leaving, and did. With a great big smile and fully satisfied.
At three thirty in the morning, in a cab, post-fucking, its the only time when she misses smoking, but she smiles.

a pencil and a joint

I let him make love to me in the best way I knew how, I let him draw me.
I knew his pencils were caressing my skin, I could sense his cock protruding against the pages he was so eagerly trying to hold still.
I didn't want to kiss him, I knew he was leaving in a couple of days and he needed to take some sort of me with him, so when we came into his room after a meal filled with oysters, nervous laughs and double-meaning words, I took my clothes off, layed on his bed and ordered him to draw me.
He tried to kiss me, he did. He caressed me, and I let him, and then I told him with all the authority someone almost 20 years younger can have, told him: go, draw me.
He was stoned, so was I, but between my giggling and my nudity, I told him to draw me.
He told me I moved too much, and he wanted to make love to me. I told him no. I knew we were making love in a more intimate way, but I needed to find a way for him to feel that too.
I told him to draw me, and I touched myself.
I think that when I trembled with ecstasy, reaching a rainbow colored nirvana that made the whole world collapse and arise in new brightness a couple of times, he finished his drawing.
I let him keep it, as well as his orgasm, I knew that when he touched himself next, he would know that we had made love, I with my nudity and gasps, he with his pencil and paper.

I left my hat on...

Turpentine and bright lights have acquired a new meaning for me.
Last night I posed for my artist lover and for his six artist friends. I sat naked for two hours and wondered about desire.
I took my dress off and told them I would leave my hat and my red stilettos on; I sat on a high chair, and began to look at them.
I have exposed my body in many different ways, but I don't think I have ever exposed it like this, utterly naked, motionless. I sat naked for two hours in the same position and watched them watching me. My body hurt, and I browsed them. They told me not to. I had to stare at one point and not move my eyesight from there... I cheated when I thought they weren't looking, they were always looking.
My body hurt, I needed to move just a bit, to feel I was still me, I hadn't turned into just somebody else's desire. I began to move my pelvic muscles, my orgasm muscles. I stopped. I couldn't see if they could see I was moving them, under an enigmatic situation, better to cease and wonder than to continue and wander. I felt faint, the light was too bright, I asked for wine, water, and a spliff. It made me more nervous to drink in front of the canvases than to just sit.
Just sitting requires so much more effort than I had known, and my thoughts wondered around, listening to the music, exploring the artists' gestures, feeling myself being watched by so many.
I stared at my lover, he was so professional, every brushstroke, I realized, was aimed at caressing my body. I couldn't stare too much at him because I smiled and my sensual gesture changed.
I felt as if I was an Anaïs Nïn character, being painted by a lover and his friends.
They were done, I put my dress back on, took off the shoes and the hat and looked at what had come to pass between my nakedness and some canvasses. I didn't recognize myself, but I knew myself wanted and gorgeous.
After the session, a couple of orgasms and spankings later, as I was naked, once more, but not alone in my nakedness, I asked my lover if he didn't mind that his friends saw the body he was making love to at the moment. He grinned. And I realized, so many hours later, what had really happened.
My posing was just the excuse for my lover to show me off to his friends.

greek for dinner

We met at a bookstore. His accent was what made me wonder who he was, where he was from and it was also the perfect excuse to strike up a conversation.
As we were lying naked and he was nibbling my body I asked him who picked up who. He asked me for my number and called me immediately after that encounter, but I had smiled at him.
He's a painter and will leave in two weeks.
I left his apartment at 3:30 in the morning. I love waking up alone and wondering if all that my body tells me happened, did indeed happen.
We went to a jazz club where he is an associate. It used to be a bank and it has vaults all over. After the first two drinks, lots of conversation and mystery (I didn't tell him much about me, and he found that very enticing) he wanted to show me around, his place, his area, his territory. He made me open up a vault, I turned the handle with some effort and stuck my hips out, I knew he was watching.
We went inside and he showed me around, the door closed behind us. It could be opened, only, from the outside. He asked me again about the bruises in my arms and knees, wondering what sort of perversity I was into, I let him wonder.
He touched me, he kissed me, he nibbled my bellybutton and my thighs. I wasn't sure if I was going to make him suffer, to play the 'conservative' little whore that warms up but doesnt bite. I was playing around with my options when his nibbling got the better of me.
There we were, standing inside a vault, the jazz was coming thru the thick walls, I knew I was trapped, even though I could have done an escapade... and I let him seduce me.

Its sad when the pre- is so much better than the post-. And its even sadder when a guy uses the "condoms aren't working for me" excuse to excuse their non-hard-on issue.
I did have fun though... and the Greek, no matter what they tell you about stereotypes, they are true and oh, so anal.

dancing queen

There is a possibility, its slight, it might not even happen in real life, but the possibility exists. I might become a vedette. Just the thought of me dancing on a stage, all eyes, all male eyes on me.. it makes me quiver.
I see myself outside myself, a spotlight on me, I sit on a chair, I look at them without seeing them, seducing with the anonymity of my make up name. I dance.
The clothes fall off, one by one, I undo buttons, zippers, unhook things.
I dance, I'm almost naked and I dance for me, in front of men. They don't realize that I'm seducing myself, not them. I dance.
I'm wearing a pink thong, I spread my legs, and believe that I am not fully exposed because although they see my body they don't know my name.
I dance within the possibility of becoming a dancer.

Dreaming dreams

Dreaming dreams of him, dreaming his skin in my dream, dreaming his skin...
It happened a couple of days ago, in yoga class I was in one of those gravitational impossible positions, and he was next to me, showing us how to do it better. His shirt went up, and I saw a bit of his back, it looked so soft, so touchable, so lickeable, I almost fell.
The next day I dram about that back, the skin, his skin on mine... I told him I dram of him, he asked what, and I said that it was one of those dreams that only with many shots of some sort of heavy liquor one could confess. He didn't say a thing.
Since then my yoga classes have been a sort of nightmare, or a dream come true. The object of my desire, his skin, is right there, at the front of the class, sometimes closer to me, but so unreachable.
I wonder if my dreams will turn into my yoga class or if my yoga class will turn into my dreams... I wonder.

flithy yoga

Breath in, breath out, contract the muscles of the stomach, foot up, foot down, leg up, toes down. Breath in, breath out.
I turned into one of those unbelievable knots that the body does when nobody is looking, My face was staring into parts of my body I hadn't thought of in years, my arms were stretching in ways I thought would make them break, I was trying to breath, but it was almost impossible. Then I saw it, there it was, staring in my face, in a way, protruding would be more accurate.
We were all in impossible positions, and there it was. Shit. How was I supposed to concentrate when the teachers package was right in my face?
There it was, almost in my mouth and so far away.
It was another reason to become more flexible.
Maybe next time I will reach, and then we will see how his breathing is controlled.