deal breaker

- Who would you vote for,- he asked.
- what? are you serious?
- Yes, if you were American, who would you vote for?
- You are serious? I am a writer, I work in culture, its a joke, isnt it? - she responded
- No, its a serious question. - It was a serious question, his face, his voice and his attitude said it.
- Well, its kind of obvious, isn't it? Democrat. And you?
- I would vote for Sara Palin.
- What? are you serious?
He was serious. His face, his voice and his attitude said it all.
- Yes, I am, I would vote for her.
- Well then, all the appeal you had, is now broken. Shattered by your stupid question, and your even more.... answer. - She said.
- Are you serious? - he responded.
Her face, her attitude and her voice said it all, she was serious. Being a Sara Palin is a deal breaker, and even worse, a sex breaker.

The birds had a stiff neck and he was a drug dealer

They did, he was.
We were kissing and the birds had a stiff neck, so he had to stop and stare at the Japanese made in China painting. In the corner, next to Japanese spricts and semi beautiful flowers, the birdies were suffering.
Yes, the birds, two little nightingales were staring at the wrong wall, and I was in the middle of kissing my big-handed-first-time-lover. We couldn’t concentrate. The shots, the beer, everything got intertwined with the capricious stubbornness of the comfortableness of the little birdies.
Finally, he stopped once more. He moved to the wall and turned the painting 45 degrees. The stiff necks gone, so were the distractions.
My clothes were off, mostly. And the phone rang. A text. He ignored it. Another text. Another phone call. Two more, then to the room, then to his cell again. I couldn’t not laugh. Yes, hornyness and laughter can sometimes get along, as long as you aren’t laughing at the horny-pleasure-giving-partner.
He finally picked up, and set the phone on speaker. I heard, his friends knew he was busy but they really really really needed him. Under the door, they said. So they knocked and he slipped a little bag of white whatevers under. And then they called again. Damn, he said, and I laughed without my shirt on, the bra on the floor cradling my pants, my lonely underwear wishing it was stripped off my body.
I laughed and he turned off his cell and the lights, so they would think he wasn’t there or sleeping, and turned to me.
Yes, without distractions is best.

Dutch it up

In the cab, she sat between them. She began kissing the one on her right, and the one on her left dared to put his had inside her blouse. She let him. Then she turned. And shared the saliva of the first Dutch with his best friend.

She messaged her man, I am going to this hotel, with two Dutch men. The taxi driver almost crashed, about five times, in the ten-minute drive. Too busy was he staring at the rear view mirror.

She met them at the bar, one of them struck her fancy and when the crowd pushed her his way, they had barely spoken, but she had her hand against his chest, and she could fill him with her legs. Their eyes met and then their lips. It was natural, it was anonymous. Her friend tried to seduce his friend. It didn’t work out. They kissed and kissed and kissed some more. And she was eager to get out of there. He said, what about my friend? She said, well, lets take him along. He didn’t believe, she went to his friend and touched his groin and told him that it was time for the three of them to go somewhere else. Her friend was long gone. Frustration wasn’t her thing.

So they hopped into a cab and headed to their hotel.

She went straight to the toilet and messaged her man the room number, you can never be too careful with anonymous threesomes.

When she came out they were both naked, and the marathon began. One and then the other and then the first and they were so similar in body structures she couldn’t even tell the difference. One condom after the next. One orgasm after the other. Moans.

One after the other and then both of them together. One inside her, the other one in her mouth, with his tongue, with his sex, with his hands, with his ass, with his everything.

They were exhausted. One fell asleep, and she kept at it with the second one. On and on.

And then, she said, ok, I’m done. She got up, dressed and left. She was ready for more, but two Dutch men can go just so far.

touch

Tan sencillo como tocar.

Touch is simple. As simple as touching. With fingertips, just touch. What happened in that encounter between skins was similar to what one might find the first dawn one sees after making love all night, or rather, after fucking all night long and a few days more. After progressive orgasms, the sun shining bright acquires a different meaning, always.

Touch is simple, but to be touched is an art. Tocar es sencillo, que te toquen es un arte. Dejarte tocar. She had worked at it her entire life. No quería simplemente ser tocada, quería ser una professional, experta. Expertise in touch. In being touched.

Cada quien toca de manera distinta, las caricias saben a quienes las otorgan, se deshacen en el sabor de lo que traen en la boca, de los últimos pensamientos que salieron expelidos en las cercanías.

Con el dedo índice generalmente se trazan historias que no se desean contar, es el más empalagoso. El anular is the most timid and the softest of the fingers, when it caresses, it does it in a manner as if it was creating a whole new language on your skin, una nueva civilización.

La mano izquierda y la derecha tienen lenguajes distintos, as much as you try to confuse them; I close my eyes and try not to know which hand is which, and I fail, miserably. I always know. Su tacto está escrito en mi piel.

El pulgar es el más intenso, como si de verdad adquiriera vida propia, un ser aparte. He touches me with his thumb, and I know, exactly, what is going to happen next, or not. Las predicciones del pulgar mienten, pero son mentiras tan deliciosas que las volvería a repetir una y otra vez.

Nunca le creo nada a la caricia del pulgar izquierdo, y si lo acompaña el dedo medio, quizá, cuando aprieta mi pezón, o cuando juega en el ombligo, precursor de otros ronroneos que hará después, I simply melt, porque sé que ahí está toda la mentira de su ser, porque sé que me dice demasiadas cosas con esa caricia and just maybe, I don’t want to hear them, I just want to be touched.

Pero él. He was just too much.

Not only did each of his fingers have its own way of touching, but he had defined a different way of touching each part of my body.

Bajo sus huellas dactilares no tenía otra cosa que hacer más que derrertirse and let her be sculpted once more by the creativity of the sensations his fingers provoked.

perverse heat

He called me on a Saturday so hot that all I could do to not faint was lay on the cool floor with nothing on but my panties. I would change position every ten minutes, for the heat my body exhaled warmed everything around me.

With cucumbers on my eyes, to avoid the bloating, and hibiscus water by my side, I lay, listening to some Moloko and something else.

The phone rang, it was he. We had met strolling the street near my house almost a year ago. I thought he was cute, I think he thought I was too. He never called, until now. “So hey, I found your number, how you been… yes, we met almost a year ago… uhm yes, the movie business, I think we have lots of things in common. What are you up to now? Can I make you a sandwich in my new gourmet store? 30 minutes? Great.”

And I got up, got dressed, unwillingly, and went. Why? Well, I thought of all sorts of dirty plots which could evolve on a Saturday afternoon at a small deli store with no one around. And because, well, I was curious.

I got there, and he was fat. Great disappointment. And bald. He had just shaved his hair off. Fat men with shaved heads, well, it ain’t my cup of tea, they are only good for one thing, when they use their head, recently shaved please, no prickles, to caress your body. The texture is so different and the shape helps to…

But I am getting distracted.

So, he was going to make me a sandwich. Needles to say, it took him ages. It seems like heterosexual men can’t talk and do anything else at the same time.

“It’s so great to have you here… I know we’ve just met twice for five minutes, but I feel like I have a special connection with you, like we can really communicate… on a whole different level…”

I just nodded and smiled. I had barely uttered two lines, but I guess that’s what he was talking about, that I didn’t talk and I listened to him, so he felt like the centre of my universe. And I was getting so bored.

I told him about some of the things I do, and he took one as a pretext to ramble around, for what seemed hours. He talked about pornography, and about a site where a dude tells girls that he will make them earn between a thousand and five thousand dollars a day, but in order to help them out, they need to help him first by giving him a blowjob. So its this dude manipulating all these chicks to fuck him and do all sorts of things because he will make them porn stars.

He’s making me a sandwich, the slowest sandwich on earth, while talking about the slowest porn site on earth. Ah, his perversion, he called it.

And I was hot, to hot to handle slow conversation. And getting bored. Why couldn’t he just say all of this in five minutes instead of thirty.

“is this conversation bothering you?” he asked at some point. His eyes, beneath his shades, were eager to make me uncomfortable, to break the cold that my body exhaled now, with the boredom that surrounded me.

Of course not, but he didn’t believe me.

So, his perversion, and then, well, I wanted to leave, because… ah, I was so bored. I told him about the heat. He said that he had overestimated me, that the conversation (rather, the slowest monologue on earth), had affected me. Then he told me about his wife. That was just way too much for me. Boring and married. God, why had he called me?

I said no, it hadn’t stirred me even a bit, and told him that he would fall for the same scam. He said it wasn’t the same thing. Of course, men tricked into sex think they are getting it all. Fools.

Manipulation is manipulation, no matter what your genre is.

The sandwich was quite good.

god bless you, friend

So, they met for ice cream. She had instigated that reunion since she thought, and guess correctly, that he was too shy. Shy for her, that is, for he was known as somewhat of a Don Juan, but she, maybe it was true what they said about her. When you entered into her realm it wasn’t like entering a clam sea, perhaps surfing a bit in the waves. No, she was a 40 meter high wave, a tsunami.

So, they met, finally, a couple of days later, strictly for ice cream, well, or so he thought.

They had nothing to talk about, seriously, nothing. She was into arts, he was into money, and although both subjects could meet at a certain point, for some reason, they just didn’t mesh up. So, what did they talk about? Their friend in common, the reason they had met, the reason they were there, walking the streets of a spring evening while she was figuring out how to jump him without him knowing that it was she who had done the jumping and not him.

His phone rang, he picked up. She said that if he kept answering his phone, she was going to distract him. And she did. Breathing on his neck, barely touching with the heat which emanated from her lips, his earlobe, holding his waist into place with her left hand. He has been distracted, and he kissed her. Finally, she thought.

They strolled some more. Hand in hand, or with an arm around the other's waist. The wall had been torn down. Intentions clear.

He said he didn’t read much, she told him to lie to her. That he should say that he loved books. He did just that and she told him he was the sexiest man alive. And she kissed him some more.

They went to her place and, needless to say, they jumped each other.

That is the only sensible thing one can do when you meet with someone whom is nice but you have absolutely nothing to talk about. You keep your lips busy, and your tongue, and your fingers, and your sex.

So, how was it, the common friend asked him the day after. “Oh, god bless you…” was all he responded.

the pact

She had tried to seduce him so many times before.
Then she desisted, he was dating someone.
She tried once more, she had been warmed up and excited by a man during a six hour lunch and she had just gotten home, deciding how to satisfy herself, she saw he was online.
I am so horny, she confessed, don’t you want to come over. He was single, finally, and she had craved him for so many months.
“But you know my conscience wont allow me to, there are issues…”
oh, she knew those issues, they involved her ex, who was his best friend, but, she said, he had me and lost me, so, why not.
No, no, I can’t, he said. All right, then I will go have to play with myself. Oh, can I watch. Sure. I will watch but not touch. That’s fine, what would you like me to wear. White. Fine. See you in a bit.
And he came, she poured him a glass of whisky and headed to the bedroom. He brought a chair and sat down.
She showed him two of her vibratos, which would you like me to use?
He signaled to the purple one, and she said she would masturbate as if he wasn’t there. She took out one of her favorite erotic literature books, a bit of lubricant and began to touch herself. She was uncertain, knew he was watching her eagerly.
She was more excited by the fact of the prohibition which states that no man shall date nor sleep with his best friend’s ex lover, than by him watching her. No, she was excited by the caresses of his gaze.
She was breaking so many rules she didn’t even want to count them. She was wearing a white thong with red flowers and a matching bra. Her thigh kept obstructing his view, so he moved the chair. She tried to ignore his presence, and to enjoy herself even more, by knowing he was there.
She gasped, she screamed, she moaned. She came.
He didn’t applaud as he had promised, he was too shocked, but his smile was as big as a stand up ovation.
So, you liked it. Wow, he said, wow.
I am wearing what you asked me to. Want to see? And she undressed, letting him see the white lingerie. Wow, and his smile grew bigger with his impossibility to say any other words.
I have much more lingerie, what would you like me to wear. Oh, anything, please model for me. Oh, I have a really pretty purple lace.
She undressed, turning her back to him, and dressed again. You like?
Can I touch? He hesitated. Yes, of course, please do.
And he did, he touched and kissed and caressed and sucked and penetrated her with his fingers, and ate her, and he finally took his coat off.
She thought that he was shedding his conscience too. She came, again and again. One of his hands was inside her, back and forth, penetrating her with who knows how many fingers, and the other was touching her heart, setting her heartbeat, feeling the rhythm of her excitement.
She came, and came. Yellow and orange orgasms.
She finished and smiled, and laughed and asked if she could touch him now. He said no. Not this time. As it was, it was too much. She was his best friend’s ex, and they were violating so many unsaid pacts, but she hadn’t touched him so his conscience wasn’t screaming so loudly.
Because she couldn’t touch him, she smelled him, exploring the different aromas of his face. Where his beard began it smelled like musky leaves, and his neck was like a tree, a thin white tree.
She wanted to touch him, she had craved him for such a long time, but she had to make do with what she had, him touching and gazing and the knowledge of the broken prohibition.

lunch over dinner and a kink

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So, he said, as the second bottle of wine was opened by the waiter in an over priced gourmet restaurant where they had just had foie gras with mandarin and shrimp with chocolate.

So, what if I were to tell you to touch yourself right now, would you do it?

She reached over to cover a bit of her thighs with the white mantel, and she did, she touched herself and wished, desired to be touched by him, or by the waiter or whoever was near by.

It wasn’t a business lunch, but it could have been, almost. Or so it seemed.

But wine with an intelligent conversation, many languages and countries in between, twenty years apart in age and so many confessions to be said, had taken them to that point, where he was asking her to touch herself, and she did.

They drank, and toasted, to serendipity and to all the circumstantial circumstances which had taken them there, in this gray afternoon when she had arrived wearing a hat and a matching coat.

He hadn’t told her where to go, but she had hopped on a taxi and he texted her, take this road, now go right, turn left on that street, go straight. The expectation was growing in her mind and between her thighs, riding a taxi without knowing where she was going to end up. The cab driver probably thought she was a spy, or a prostitute, or a model. She even told him to stop at some points because she didn’t have the next set of directions. When she arrived at the restaurant, she smiled and walked in, asking for his table.

They talked, and seduction was not on the menu, or so they thought. Or so she thought.

But as the cups of wine kept disappearing from their sight, the things they didn’t dare say, arose.

And he kept telling her of all those things they could do, or he would do, if, for example, they were in an airplane, aisle to aisle. He would tell her to touch herself, and the guy sitting next to her would participate. And then, she would have to go to the toilet, and touch herself again.

When they got wherever they were going, in the car, he would fondle her, and lick and bite her nipple as the car driver saw them. When they checked in, he would stay at the lobby checking things and she would ride the elevator with the bellboy, who was so tall and so gorgeous and she would have to do things to him without penetration. And then, and then.

She was drinking wine, and listening to him, looking out the window. Wetting herself while wetting her lips.

She got up, said excuse me, and went to powder her nose. She locked herself in, and started to touch herself. She was wet enough to do so, and began to quiver.

She finished, washed her hands, set a stray hair into behind her ear, smiled, and walked out.

He was coming out of the bathroom too, just opposite the ladies room. They smiled, and she said, so, did you enjoy yourself?

Yes, but not as much as you did.

And they went back to a lunch which had turned into a dinner with a twist and a kink, with a tad of flirt.