What humans do

the matress

2011-08-25T11:49:00.000-07:00

she invited him to sleep over, or rather, he invited himself over and she said he could sleep next to her. She said just sleep.
An hour later he was touching and kissing her, her body responded. He wanted everything, she didn't mean to, but her body craved it and gave in. But said no. She said no. She repeated no, I can't.
I have my period.
I don't care.
But I do.
Truth is, she didn't either, but it was a new mattress and the sheets covering it were also new. But that, well that she didn't say. She just said no, not now. Wait a couple of days.

why is disgusting

2011-08-22T20:14:00.000-07:00

He promised a wine bar. When she got there he said they should go somewhere else, something about the noise and the lovely day and the heat. Of course he wasn’t dressed appropriately (kaki shorts for a date, really?) but she was. They walked. He commented something about her attire and how funky or something it was. She dismissed his comment.
They ended up in a coffee house. Coffee? Really? Instead of wine? Well, she thought, let him do, let’s see were this gets us.
It is usually the first 5-10 minutes in a first date, that’s when you know its going to be another disaster and you just stay for the anecdote. Bad dates make the best anecdotes.
They ordered bruschettas. He said something about his tomato, no salt he said. But when they came there was some vinegar on top of them. He got angry, she said she would eat them while the waiter brought some others.
“The thing is, what I simply cannot stand, is if I ask a question and the other person asks in return, why? I find that disgusting…”
“Disgusting? “ she asked, “That’s a strong word.”
“Yes, disgusting. Because if I ask a question, I want an answer. If you don’t want to answer, just say so, but don’t ask why… “ he was turning aggressive, his whole body posture had turned towards her and was hovering over half the table. She had to lean back just to breath. Ten minutes of this.
She smiled, half smile. “But what if I asked you right now how much money you make… you would ask why, you wouldn’t say it’s too personal or you don’t want to respond, would you..?” he fell quiet. Didn’t know what to say, mumbled a bit.
“What about if I asked you how many sex partners you’ve had, would you answer me? No, but you would ask why? Yes, why I want to know that. Its obvious and not rude, its obvious. Right?”
“Uhm, yeah, I guess you are right. So some of the time asking why is not disgusting. But most of the time it is.”
And she wanted to run out of there but didn’t know how.
“So, have you been married?” she asked.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I hate it when people ask that, as if it’s not normal for a 44 year old to be single and never been married. I haven’t found the right one. It should be more normal to never be married like me, more people should be like me than when you meet them and they are divorced and with a kid…”
She just nodded.
“And have you been married?”
“Me? No.”
“And why not?” He tried to be defiant, like her, but the question was nonsensical, especially with that tone.
“Well, it’s not that strange. I am 15 years younger than you.”
Silence.
“But do you believe in marriage?”
“Do you?”
“And do you like where you used to live? Your country?”
“Yes, do you like yours?”
“Yes”.
“And what kind of family do you have…”
At this point she was beyond exasperated, “this is not a job interview, so stop interviewing me. I am not applying for a job. We can talk, we can chat, but stop interviewing me.”
The date continued. She planned her escape.
When he returned from the restroom he asked about other dates she had gone on from the same website.
“Oh, that’s where I’ve had some of the worst dates of my life.”
“Really?”
“Yes. But it’s ok. I write about them.”
His eyes went wider than his mouth.
“Don’t worry, its just for me. I don’t publish them.”
Little did he know. Thank god the check had come and gone. They parted ways half a block later.

white hair mojo

2011-03-21T20:46:00.000-07:00

It’s spring and I look at myself in the mirror to look at the traces of the third unwanted hangover of the week and there it is, the strangest thing has appeared on my young, yet tired, face.
I knew it was going to happen eventually, but I never expected it to appear there, right in the middle of my eyes, right on the eyebrow line that I tend to tweeze. Two white as white can go, hairs.
I showed them to the friend I was curing my hangover with, she laughed and told me it was my new mojo, I shouldn’t tweeze them away.
Today, post hangover, post bike riding, post sun, I was walking towards the movie and I saw him. As tall, as delicious and as handsome as I remembered from two years ago. A lover that I would repeat. We talked, we laughed and exchanged numbers again. Dinner in the week, maybe.
The movie was pretty lame, the popcorn, delicious.
When I left the movie theatre, as I was walking on the sidewalk, on the other side of the street, at my exact pace, was a tall, handsome, muscular, bald man listening to his ipod. We walked a couple of blocks at the same pace, exchanging a gaze and a smile. I finally changed sidewalks. We walked in the park, we laughed, we shared a chocolate and he made me listen to the song he was listening when our smiles met.
I left him with my number and met a friend for tea. We talked and laughed.
As I was leaving, a friend of hers appeared. I had seen him before around the neighborhood, and he had seen me. We exchanged names and smiles. My friend will take care of the rest.
It’s spring, and no, I will not tweeze the white hairs away, they do seem to have brought my mojo back.

tango desperation

2011-02-12T12:52:00.000-08:00

They met one night when she went out with a friend of a friend of a friend. They chatted and had a beer. She left with someone else, her ride was a psychoanalyst motorcycle man, lovely, perfect. She projected a lot on the vibrations of the machine, it could have been another story, but its not.
He called her a couple of days later. They met for a tango lesson. They drank some beer and the music began to play. It was so hot and moist the sweat was making her red heels slip off, but he was as wet as she, and he held on to her waist and they smiled and everything was, oh so lovely. And he was leading, she followed in that dance.
They danced and had more beer, he offered to go to his place or somewhere to listen to music. He lived far away, too much of a hassle. They ended up somewhere else for a bite, listened to some more music. He was enthralled by her, her lasciviousness, erotic savyness and whatnot. She thought him cute. They left the second bar, and he kissed her. Delicious. Walking on the streets just after midnight and kissing. He wanted to go to her place, ‘but my friend is there, impossible.’ So they hopped into a cab and he directed towards the cemetery.
She had been there a couple of days before, a tourist’s must, one of the most beautiful ceremonials for dead people. But at night, it was the incarnation of eros and thanatos, it was all there. All around the cemetery were the dance clubs, the strippers, the one-hour only hotels.
He took her to a place, the one sided mirror offered a female voice asking if they wanted a room for an hour, one and a half, two or three our tops. One and a half please. The hotel’s name, one of a beach in her country, spelled with an A. she laughed.
They went into the room, which had a door with a sliding cube in the middle, so food and many other things could be slipped in without anyone having to expose their nakedness.
There were ridiculous things in that place, like a palm, mirrors everywhere, underneath the sheets there was plastic and when lying on the bed you could see the shower thru a full sized windown. The cliché of places to fuck.
She went to the toilet, then he followed. They began to kiss and she let him lead. She whispered, this is like the tango lesson, I follow, you lead. And he thought he did lead. He kissed her, took her shirt and bra off, placed an unmistakable amount of attention on her nipples, introduced a finger inside her, caressed her ass, the wetness and moisture was there.
Then he turned and placed her on top. She began to kiss his neck, his nipples. And then… the biggest mistake of all: he pushed her head down.
It wasn’t a suggestion like push, it was a push, an ‘hey you, go down there’ kinda push. Biggest mistake of the night, the first and, unfortunately, not the last. She, obviously, did not go down there, but her libido did, it was finished.
He kind of got the point, and he went down on her, thinking, masculine brute, that if he did her the favor, perhaps she would do it too. But she didn’t, she was done with favors. She came, a small, barely felt orgasm, and told him to slip the condom on.
He did, and then, the second mistake. He turned her. He placed her in a position in which it was hard to penetrate, and, once inside, he would come asap, because men can barely keep it in once they go doggie. And they did, and he came, and she was oh so bored.
He got up, went to the toilet, cleaned up. She went next. When she returned, he was under the covers… and oh, I almost forget the pre-mistake. Turning off the lights, he was too shy, and too small, and perhaps too small which explained his shyness.
So, she thought, maybe the first go was quick, but a second something will arise, he will fuck me hard and good and long. But he didn’t. He just began asking awkward things and cozying up by himself in that sex infested plastic covered bed.
She was bored.
She began to look at the menus that were resting next to the bed; there was food and beverage, obviously. But there was a menu for sex toys, and he asked her what they were good for, sweet masculine brute. And there was a lingerie menu, and a sexy costumes one too. Oh, what joy and fun she found in those. Much more amusement than in the man who was laying next to her, without knowing what to do.
So, she thought, this cannot be a wasted night, so she took the menus home, as a souvenir, and, of course, she never called him again, pure innocent masculine brute.

deal breaker

2010-12-30T05:54:00.000-08:00

- 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

2010-11-01T01:25:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-23T22:03:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-04T10:39:00.001-07:00

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

2010-05-08T16:05:00.001-07:00

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

2010-05-08T13:28:00.000-07:00

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

2010-01-08T08:40:00.001-08:00

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

2010-01-07T19:33:00.000-08:00

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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.

the colorful voodoo

2009-12-23T13:16:00.000-08:00

He, Alexander the delish, as I will call him from now on, was her third Internet date. She didn’t have her story straight, yet, but she would make it up as she went along, she had her name, Eva, and the rest would just come along as the night evolved.
They had stood each other up, she waited an hour and left, and then he waited for an hour while she decided if she was to come back or not. She did.
Two vodkas and three scotches later he invited her over. She was unsure. She told him her boyfriend was around, an open relationship as open relationships can be. Bisexuality and freedom reigned the day, plus three rules: no sleepovers, no unprotected sex and full disclosure.
She was unsure of going home with him, but as soon as they kissed, chocolate melted in her mouth and she was gone. She did take a pic of two of his credit cards, plus a pic of his face and sent it all with his address to his bi-boyfriend who was on a date that night too.
There has never been such a happy taxi driver as the one they picked that night, he got a huge tip plus a huge view of Eva’s groans and purple underwear.
They got to his place, small, clean. He took her small gray skirt off, he had been dying to do that since he saw her. Alexander was embarrassed and at the same time eager to show her around. This is my sister, and my office, and that’s my yoga mat and she nodded and waited for him to be ready, to feel at ease.
He took her to the other bedroom where he had set both single beds together. They were naked and kissing before anyone could talk more. He tasted like chocolate, such a cliché, but he did. Her white alabaster skin against his blackness was delish. He was delish, so was she.
“I knew you were a fountain…” as he slid two fingers into her and bit her right nipple. Groans, moans and he was so big, she thought he would break her, but it was just the right size, with the right lubrication.
As he got more excited he tasted like mint chocolate.
The first is always the quickest and as they lay there, kissing. When he came he tasted like cherries. Delish.
They chatted away, nakedness as the most normal thing. He was still eager to astound her. She was still making up her story as she went along.
“So, have you ever squirted?” Her eyes sparkled. No, Eva had never squirted, not under that name and not under other names. But it was one of her sexual goals. “It’s one of my fantasies, to make a woman squirt”. Perfect.
They went at it again, doggy style at one point. “Have you ever done anal?” “I have, but not with you darling, you are way too big for me.” And she came again, and again.
And talk. And sex, and kisses and caresses. And more. And more. And more.
He tried, tickling her G-spot or something else. His finger was smooth and long, perfect for the adventure. He kept telling her how much he loved her body, and her moaning, and how sexual she was. How very lucky he felt that night.
She was almost asleep and asked him once more, so, how was he doing it? The squirting stimulation? He showed her, introducing one finger into her still very very wet pussy. “It’s here, you have to touch it here, and then on the outside, I read about it somewhere and became obsessed…” and Alexander the magnificent kept at it for who knows how long. How can you measure time in pleasure?
And suddenly Eva saw white, everything was white and her moans where flashes of yellow on the white. Her body ceased to exist as it is and felt as if it were imploding. His hand was soaking wet. A different kind of texture and smell than the usual foresty she usually exhaled. She had, finally squirted. Annie Sprinkle would be so proud.
They went at it again. She would whisper and groan into his ear what color orgasm she was having: “orange… orange… blue… orange… yellow… red… purple…”
The gate had been opened. The color of her orgasms were back, and his fantasy had been fulfilled.

I spy a spy

2009-12-14T22:35:00.000-08:00

I said I was born in the southern hemisphere. I said I had gone to boarding school near Zurich and then off to collage in London. I went alter a Balkan band before I decided to become a music producer.
As the glasses of wine kept coming it was harder to keep track of my fiction. and my seduction.
Of course, he had identified me by the hat I was wearing. The only woman with a hat at a wine bar.
He invited me to his room, I declined and went my way, thankfully without much of a blunder on my accent.
I am sure he will masturbate to my fiction.

a hat, a skip and a Venezuelan

2009-12-13T10:29:00.001-08:00

She had told him he would recognize her by the hat. He asked what color. She didn’t respond.
She got there five minutes late, of course. He thought she had stood him up.
Since she had arranged the meeting her plans had changed. While she was deciding what to wear an old lover of hers appeared on her screen. He told her about a dream he had, luscious wetting dream. She laughed it off and told him it was good that he had good memory because it wasn’t going to get a rerun. He asked her if she was single and looking for a lover. Lovers. With an S, plural, she said. One isn’t enough, they get tired.
A friendly proposal, a friend. He looked him up on facebook, yes, he would do, and with an accent, how delish.
So she left to her dinner knowing that most probably it would be a dinner and then she would run to a party where she would cast another to satisfy her that evening.
She got to the restaurant and didn’t quite recognize him as he said hi.
There had been so many responses, so many pictures, of erections, hairy chests, stupid smiles, sunglasses, and whatnot, that she barely remembered what this one looked like. She knew he wasn’t the ugliest, and he was the one that had made her laugh the most.
She was there to have dinner with her first Internet date. Yes, wine, yes snails smeared in butter, yes a chocolate soufflé. No, not her address, no, not her number, no, not her last name.
She knew how to play men, she knew how to seem interested although she was getting bored by his talk. She knew how to turn a bit of information about her, a question, into a whole different subject and to twist it into something concerning him, something he wanted to say. In the end, men want to sell themselves and be listened to.
He paid, she smiled, took the rest of the soufflé and hurried to a party where she knew she could scratch the restlessness between her thighs.
She was definitely turned on by the Internet date, by the fact that she had a lavish dinner and had not even touched the hand of the man in front of him, and by the fact that her ex-lover had introduced her to a new lover.
She got to the party, talked, drank, laughed and kissed the new guy. No need for words. She wasn’t looking for a conversation. Her ex –lover was there with his girlfriend, he stared at the purple lacey bra strap that kept on moving out of her shirt. He smiled, he blushed, he craved her but couldn’t have her.
After a bit and too long, they met by the stairs. She and the Venezuelan. They kissed, headed for his bedroom, and within two minutes she was naked and he was between her thighs. His left thumb stuck up her ass, which was surprising, using the backdoor is always a bit of a tentative issue. His index finger inside her, and his middle one on her clit. Ah, big hands are delicious. His right hand was squeezing her nipple, he was kissing her all over. Yum.
She sucked him only enough to get him up and going. He craved him inside her. Now. Condoms, caresses. And orgasms.
She was quite loud, she didn’t care there was a party going on outside the door. She was there to enjoy herself. And she did.
Three positions and twenty orgasms later she got up, went to the toilet, got dressed and said she was going back to the party. He said he wanted to rest. She smiled. Ah, she was indeed untiring and didn’t want to cuddle, she wanted sex, not intimacy.
She returned to the party as glances passed over her, they knew where she had been the last twenty minutes and what she had been doing. Ah, jealousy is a turn on.
Her ex lover come up to her: damn, I’m really jealous, it was me who wanted to fuck you. Ah, she responded, that you will never do, go fuck your girlfriends brains out, you will never have me again, but your friend was delicious, he just needs to get into shape.
At that she finished a warm beer she had abandoned, and said goodbye, eating leftover soufflé on her way home.

8 year crush

2009-10-07T06:31:00.000-07:00

the desire had grown for years, almost ten, but not quite. As she laid in bed, knowing he was breathing next to her, she smiled, unable to sleep. Her professor was there, lying next to her. She had dressed up for him for two semesters. Carefully choosing what would make him more nervous. The literature talk was just an excuse for foreplay.
She couldn’t sleep, she blinked and smiled. They hadn’t even kissed. They had met finally after many years, dinner with just a cup of white wine. Long stories, many heartbreaks and walking on the cobbled streets. He put his arm around her, and they talked.
He had to go back to another city, she told him it was too late. She told him she had a futon.
Eight years after they had met on different sides of the classroom she set up an old futon for him, gave him a tour of her house. She was an adult now.
They washed their teeth together, strange to share that intimate moment.
She told him that the futon was old, it might be uncomfortable, that if it was too horrible he could jump into her bed and spoon her. “But I don’t do the outside part of the spoon…”. So, he said, if I come I should hug you and my chest should be against your back. Exactly.
The futon was used for five minutes.
Their pajamas for fifteen.
A desire that had been boiling up for eight years while each one of them laid on their side of the bed. He hugged her. She felt him growing. He began to kiss her neck, touching her hands, caressing. She sighed.
His hands under her shirt, around her belly button, up her shirt. Her shirt off.
His shirt off.
He smelled of cardamom and smoked firewood. She inhaled him.
He kissed her, longingly.
It was eight years later and it was as if their bodies had been suspended at that moment. The kisses and caresses where part of a history that had been written in a classroom. His fingers went inside her. She saw the memories past.
She sucked him, with such a force that he began to tremble. They smiled. They exploded at the same time, one after another after another.
They fell asleep in each others arms. An ocean of sweat spreading on the bed, mixing their odors, their smells, their consumed pleasure.
He woke up with her touching him, waking all of him up. As he went into her, she felt eight years crumbling around her, inside her. She pressed her muscles, pressing him, making him want her even more. She squeezed him into her, biting his shoulder, he kissed her, their hands together, clinging to the sunrise.
Eight years of desire melted into one night.
Sleeping with a university professor is as pleasing the day he gives you your notes as well as an encounter years later. They had spooned, he on the outside, she on the inside, their skins writing a new story.

Sitting down or sitting up?

2009-09-24T07:43:00.000-07:00

There is just so much information one can give over a fist date. There is just so much you can talk about without disclosing too much, without putting into jeopardy a second, more amiable encounter.
They had met randomly, as random as a dating web page can be. They had talked a few times, emailed some more. He was fascinated by her, she was curious about him. He called her ‘babe’, she thought that was funny.
They met at a public place, as it should be.
He took her to dinner, not too fancy, but expensive enough.
She thought about all of this as she gulped down her third whisky, as she asked all the men around if what he had said was in some way, normal.
She thought about how much of a gentleman he had been, she reminisced how she had stared at his soft hands, wondering what they would feel like on her naked body, how many fingers he could cram into her, how he would kiss, if he was loud or not. He ordered some wine and she bit her lower lip. She wasn’t too sure about anything, but she was ready to find things out.
Their first encounter had been a bit of a height misunderstanding. Never ever wear 12 inch heels when meeting someone for the first time, she though as she gazed down on him. They laughed it off, and now he was pouring her some wine.
The usual questions, the usual small talk. Nothing at all.
Sexual tension, she asked him about his sexual preferences. She’d downed half a bottle of wine plus an apple martini, he had twice as much as her, it seemed like the perfect moment to unleash their expectations.
He pushed away her questioning eyes with his thumb, with his laughter. It was not the time nor the place. It seemed like a date was really a date.
He stood up, went to the toilet.
She wondered what was going on, what would happen next, licking her lips with expectation, excited, wandering wonderment.
He took longer than expected and as he came back, sat down and said, ‘well you see, I pee sitting down… always’. Where that information came from or why, she had no idea.
A night later, as she was questioning every male in sight about the normalcy of this confession, she still had no clue why he had told her that.
She gaped at him, didn’t know what to respond, and told him that well, she knew how to not touch the seat, she had traveled a lot, and was rather flexible… so she could pee standing up.
Needles to say, she didn’t see him again, although a friend did say that she would never encounter the ‘toilet seat down’ problem with a guy like that…
She decided she didn’t want to know more, and still today, she asks her male friends if men do really pee sitting down… the only normal situations she has gotten for this seating arrangement to be accepted has been, too much alcohol, too much lack of sleep, or too sick.
No, her curiosity was great, but not as big as to let herself be taken on a second date to find out what other bathroom etiquette he could spring on her. And so the blind date and the bathroom preferences end with two lonely souls going to the w.c. by themselves without sharing their toilet paper exploits.

the park and a bag

2009-09-24T07:13:00.000-07:00

Two gin tonics. Three beers. Four whisky shots, Jameson, of course. I think that was it. His conversation? I don’t remember much of it. I am sure he must have said something interesting. It must have been so, if not, why did I stay absorbed with his gaze for so many hours?
Poetry was not a subject, perhaps movies where, the way the screen penetrates your body, letting it caress you with other people’s bodies, with sighs that are not your own. Perhaps between one bar and the next (yes, I do think we did more than one, no, I am sure of it, perhaps three or four). The first bar was kind of ‘wanna be more than we really are’, and we talked about nothing at all, for some reason he kept avoiding my eyes, as if he didn’t want to say too much to them.
The second bar was empty, or too full. One or the other. In retrospect its kind of hard to think, to remember how things were. In the glaze of an alcohol filled night, all is not as it appears.
The walk back, back where? I guess at that point in the wee hours of the morning I did have an intention as of to where I was going. I guess.
The walk back to wherever I was really going went thru a park. I guess we had kissed at that point. I believe we had.
Why did I not lead him to my hotel is beyond me, I guess at that moment when he was sticking his hands down my pants and kissing me the grass looked more enticing, and it was nearer. So I threw him on to the grass and we rolled around.
He bit my neck, my ears, I screamed with pain and pleasure, I licked his lips, his eyelids, his hands up my shirt, my nipples as hard as his cock, his tongue in my ear, his middle finger down my navel and further down, my hand on his ass, grabbing. Me on top, forcing him to lick me, to kiss me, my hands over him, his hands over me.
He’s on top now, we are rolling around in a dewy grass with the smog glazed moon shining on our alcohol filled breaths. His hands pull my hair so that I am forced to stick my breasts out, he bites them, I bite him. We roll around.
Hours go by, breaths intertwine.
Suddenly we get up, as lovely as the grass is, a bed seems like a better place to get naked.
My earings are gone, he bit them off.
My bag is gone too. Rolling around and keeping an eye on a bag don’t go together. Who would exploit sexual concentration on a park to pick pocket a bag?
I guess I learnt my lesson well. Don’t roll around on the grass with too much alcohol. Or, if you do, don’t take a bag with you.

Easten amateur spank

2009-08-22T06:21:00.001-07:00

He said he wanted to spank me, I thought that was cute.
He said he wanted to fuck me, I thought that was cute.
He said he would like to lick my ass, if I had showered before, and I didn't like him talk about my hygiene. And he didn't get it up. and there was so much skin there, so much more than I am used to.
I spanked him, because he deserved it, because he couldn't get it up, because I didn't have anything better to do.
He tried to spank me. He didn't know how to do it. You can't spank both ass cheeks at the same time, you can't spank continuously. You have to wait for the pain to penetrate, to float and warm the skin. You have to let the skin get redder and when it knows its resting, its healing, you can spank again, rythmically, increasing the force, touching different parts, licking at points to subside the pain, to calm the skin, to make the next spank a bit fiercer.
Spanking is an art.
No, you can't spank as if you were drumming away. He didn't know it, and I knew it.
So I had to protect my delicate reddening skin from this spanking amateur. I had to tie him up. I did.
I tried to get him up, to make him hard and dark, thick and delicious.
I am sure he has a gay part of him somewhere between his foreskin and the rest of him.
I went to sleep.
He was tied up and I kept the blanket to myself.
The next morning I untied him, gave him a kiss on the cheek and told him to be on his way.

press down on the gas

2009-06-27T00:01:00.000-07:00

He picked me up at quarter to three, I knew he was coming and still I made him wait, obviously.
I had dressed up for the occasion, blue tights, a small white skirt, black jacket and no underwear.
He was a friend, an old friend with whom I used to have neo-liberal discussions when I thought make-up was for fascists.
He gave me a helmet and I put it on while I hugged him from behind. I had never done that before. I liked it.
I had been craving for a motorcycle ride, I guess, since my James Dean teenage fascination, and that night at three in the morning, was when that fantasy was to become a reality.
I hopped on. He stepped on the gas. And I understood. I Understood e-ve-ry-thing.
I rearranged myself and laughed, my driver, my friend, smiled with me. I couldn't believe it.
Motorcycles vibrate when you press down on the gas, so while you are riding all over, you are really traveling on top of a gigantic vibrator that nobody can see but you. It's like the sexual imaginary friend, sort of.
We rode, up and down and all around. ANd I kept laughing and making noises that my friend (thank god!) wasn't able to hear because of the wind. I saw the cars next to us, and I made sure to make them feel jealous for not being on a motorcylce while I enjoyed hugging them from behindç
I have no more to say. I have become a motorcylce junky. I can even ride it wile it is in a pause... so long I can press on the gas and make it purr (to make me purr).

the wedding

2009-04-18T09:23:00.001-07:00

"Nice to see you, congratulations." she said. "You've gotten so much prettier and hotter”, he responded. She blushed, shied away and asked him if there were any single friends around. There weren’t.
Still a bit baffled she walked away, holding the plate with the food that had gotten to a second place in her priorities, and thinking how odd it was to be hit on by the groom at his own wedding.
Well, yes, kind of obvious too, she thought, or at least, tried to put a bit of logic into it. The fact was that she was the only person at that wedding who had slept with the bride and the groom, needles to say, at the same time.
She saw the ceremony, she saw them dancing, kissing, and she kept wondering if she had been a discussion for them. Should she be invited to celebrate with them, or not.
How uncomfortable her presence was. The bride seemed to have forgotten what had happened a couple of years ago, but she noticed how the groom kept staring at certain parts of her body.
When she had gone to congratulate him, he kept staring at her chest, and as she walked away, she knew her ass was embedded in his pupils.
So there she was, dancing away in that night, the only single girl in sight, and the only one who could tell how the bride and groom moaned when they came.
It had been one crazily normal night, a bit of alcohol perhaps was involved, a lot of pot too, it seems. They were in his apartment, staring at the stars, talking about life and all it involves at that age. Suddenly she was in the bed, probably relaxing, and she felt hands over her, two pairs of hands, two big, two small.
They never kissed. They licked their whole bodies, they explored different openings, but they never kissed. As she watches them doing their first dance as a married couple she remembers how at some point during that night her friend told her boyfriend to put a condom on, that she, the extra one, the invited one, had to do it with a condom. And she did, and they did.
She was fucked from behind, while she licked the bride’s pussy. It tasted like a black woman, she remembers. She had been her first girl. She saw them fuck while she sucked on his balls and on her nipples.
And now they were dancing, and now the groom had hit on her years later.
And now, well, now she was wondering if the reason she had been invited to that wedding was to be asked to join them for their wedding night. Or not.

resonance

2009-04-13T21:47:00.000-07:00

I lay naked on a piano, almost. no one was around to tell us that laying, wearing an impossible little undergarment on top of a piano was not allowed.

I lay almost naked on a piano and my gaze told him to play. to play the piano, and to play me.

I felt his fingertips on my body thru the notes, the vibration.

I felt him feeling me.

I wanted him to make me moan, I knew he would know how. Or at least he would try.

I lay naked on a piano and he played. Classical? Bossa Nova? and suddenly he turned the piano into an organ, I gasped, my thighs wanted to explode, to open up wider on top of the piano, to feel him feeling the notes feeling me.

He played the piano while I struggled to keep my balance, while I watched a bulge under the notes, on top of the pedals, and I oh, so wanted to touch it, to touch him.

and he played harder, and he played me harder, and I groaned. and I screamed, and I wanted him, but I knew that if I had his music, I had him.

and he knew that if he managed to touch my core with his notes, he would have me.

And he did.

oh, I forgot...

2009-03-31T12:17:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-31T08:43:00.001-07:00

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

2009-03-30T12:28:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-03-24T12:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-18T08:40:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-16T15:10:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-13T15:47:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-09T20:16:00.000-07:00

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.

XXL

2009-02-26T08:12:00.000-08:00

I had stopped at the pharmacy on my way home, buying some stomach stuff, antacids, floss, and as I turned to the lady on the other side of the counter I asked for a specification I had never had asked for before "Do you have extra large condoms?" The woman was over 50, with a very bad hair dye, and a facial expression that clearly depicted that not only had she never used extra large condoms, but that she hadn't even had the necessity of thinking of condoms in years. "And lubricant too?"
She walked away, into the abyss of medicine boxes and pharmaceutical smells.
I stretched myself over the counter, trying to look at the condom boxes on the other side.
The middle aged acid lady returned with boxes of flu and stomach and all sorts of boring things to put into the body.
"So, do you have extra large condoms?" I was ignored, once more, she gave me the meds, and then with a toss of her head, she pointed to a younger girl, the assistant, who would, from this point onwards, help me out in my condomnastic endeavors.
"Yes, so, I'm looking for extra large condoms." I had to repeat once more, the girl, with really highlighted highlights smiled, and said she didn't know. So there we were, looking at the durex and the trojan, the ultra-thin and the ribbed, the extra pleasure and the extra-protection, and all the candy-like-condom boxes looking for those specific ones. "The black ones, magnum, I think those are the ones" I told her. She smiled and gave them to me. "Yes, I think these are it." Great, I responded, and we exchanged smiles, again, "What about lubricant?"
"Oh, this one works wonders, its really fun." And she gave me a box with the corniest of the corny sunsets painted on it, the outline of a couple and the extra-pleasure legend tried to convince whomever had picked it up that that was it, the ultimate lubricant pleasure, what we had all been waiting for, but hadnt found as of yet.
Mmmmh, I thought and pondered. "And does it work with condoms?" I asked; such a responsible adult I'd become, not only was I looking for health and pleasure, but I wanted to combine them and be a real postmodernist kind of girl. We turned the box over and over, looking at the happily pleasured couple, and at the instructions, "Well, I don't know if they work for those condoms, but with others it does, and very well." and she winked. "Ha, well, I haven't tried these condoms either but the ones I have don't fit him..." and the complicity of the size of a penis was exchanged.
I took a box of extra large condoms and of a variety of lubricants home, you never know what kind of lubricant you might be in the mood for. Especially when you are using extra large sizes.

books, emptiness and rainbows

2009-02-25T16:12:00.000-08:00

He picked me up 10 minutes after the time he said he would. I made him wait ten more. We saw each other, measuring our sizes, our likes, our clothes. I realized that we had known each other in another life, when we were 9 years old, and he pulled my hair, and I had a crush on someone 10 years older than me.
He was handsome, in a darkish sort of way, he wore his suit, attempting to pretend that it was his normal attire, that he had been born to be elegant. I smiled. Elegance is carried within.
He didn't know where to take me, so I said, lets be adventurous and just drive around until we reach a restaurant we seem to like. It didn't work out. I took him to a place I knew.
we talked, he talked, he exposed all of his ego on the table. and I told him of the emptiness I sensed in him. He invited me to an adventure... he would take me to an amusement park, now? I asked with excitement. No, we would have to plan it. My disappointment seeped into the pasta I was eating.
All in all, I would have rather stayed at home.
I got home, and decided that I didn't want to date anymore (liar-liar, indeed, but hell, we can all lie to ourselves once in a while)... and I had my books and my poetry to protect me.
And I had just bought new batteries for my best friend, the one that made me see blue rainbows in bed. Sigh.

the stare

2009-02-13T11:39:00.000-08:00

I'm wondering if the encounter of the third type that happened a couple of days ago changed me completely...
I walk in the street, and they stare at me, men smile, smirk, do the elevator look, and continue walking.
Is it me? was it him?
I'm wondering what happened to me, was I this attractive before he seduced me and I just didn't notice, or do men smell the post-sex aroma on me? Do they want to fuck me? Do I want to fuck them?
I see them coming towards me, smirking, smiling, and I picture them kissing me, all of them at the same time, three, four, seven random men in the street, just hoggling over me in the middle of the sidewalk, caressing my post-orgasm aromatic skin, licking me... and I let them. I'm in a kind of euphoric trance, and everybody I see in the street, (almost everybody, at least), seems attractive, and I wonder if I would let them fuck me.
I'm wondering, and while I figure out what's happening around me, I enjoy the attention. Definitely.

blushing

2009-02-12T22:28:00.000-08:00

(A dress, opened with buttons, exhales a red bra with white lace, on top of it there is a brown sweater, big, soft... on the floor two pairs of underwear rest, one red and one gray... pants, socks, stockings... I didn't touch the evidence, it was too beautiful as it was.)

I see him, in my head, touching my skin, and I blush. I see him in my head, licking my back, beginning at the nook of my neck and then slowly, tongue by tongue, going down, between my legs, and I blush. I hear him groaning as I wet myself between his lips, and I blush.
His skin is silky, its plastic, its velvety, its just absolutely touchable. His skin blends into mine, his body, bittersweet, tastes like chocolate, lovely, just lovely to be in his arms.
He woke me up, he kissed me up, he sexed me up.
I think of all the things he did to me a couple of nights ago, and I pulse, I blush, I vibrate and my cheeks are red with the remembrance of his body on mine, his smell permeating into me...

He invited me to his house, he cooked soul food, we drank a bottle and a half of red wine, we talked about classic porn, there was a Spanish/ English dictionary lying around and I picked it up. "Ask a question", I said. He did, I opened up the dictionary at random, flipping the words between my fingers. "Proximity", I read. Good, he said, but who should go near who... The couch where he was lying was bigger, so I stood up and melted into his arms, feeling the wine, the desire and the sea food playing with my temperature...
We kissed, he touched me. We kissed, I touched him. I was amazed, he was so beautiful, and so touchable... I didn't sleep much, and when I could, I preferred to watch him sleeping as he wrapped himself around me.

The rest of the things we did, well, they are left to my blushing and to your imagination... but I can say that some nights later, as I remember instants of that memorable moon filled evening, I blush as if I were still a practicing virgin.

Help Me Eros

2009-02-06T20:13:00.000-08:00

He is smoking into the phone, on the other side there is a girl from the suicide line. He smokes into the phone, and she inhales the smoke on the other side, her cubicle is suddenly transformed into an erotic cube, her clothes barely cover her in the girlish school style, holding the phone with one hand, closing her eyes, she starts to touch herself...

She sees them playing pool, her husband and his lover, they play and she walks by, not creating any disturbance in the way they play. she walks away, with an Ice cream bucket cradling peacefully in her arms... the two men continue playing, the husband shows the lover how to aim, and as the balls touch, I can see that neither one of them has pants on, their buttocks stick out while they aim...

She has walked away. She enters teh bathroom and leaves the bucket of ice-cream aside, she looks into the tube, at the slithering beings that live there. They have been her silent lovers for a while, but just with the foot fetish. This time it will be different, she undresses for them, a bit shyly leaves her underwear on, her huge breasts storm freely into the water.
They cover her, and little by little, she takes her pantys off, she opens her legs, and they, all of them, caress her...

He smokes his joint, and breathes into her face. He smokes a joint, and breathes into her face. He smokes a joint, and breathes into her face. He has captivated them with his smoke. They are on the roof, three of them, the fourth, she stares at them from the staircase. The three of them on the roof, and the light that melts on their skins has figurines, designs, making them plastic, artifical, while the three of them make love and the fourth stares...

He makes love to her in a white room, black bed. The light comes from every corner. He makes love to her in a white room, holding her on top of a black bed. He carries her while makes love to her on a black bed, standing up, in a white room. He loves making love to her in a full light white room on top of a black bed, holding her, she floats... her hands touch the black bed... her feet never did.

A photograph oozes from each frame; texture stems from the struggle between eros and thanatos... the seemingly call girls sell cigarretes and seeds in glass frames, life sized dolls, as they struggle with their bodies and desires, being in this self-abandonement of the night. He sells his life, selling his things. A grain of rice as their metaphor, they sink into photographs that frame each of their seconds.

(Snowflakes made of days.)

Directed by Lee Kang Sheng

it smells like...

2009-02-03T13:01:00.000-08:00

He was perfect. Beyond perfect. Blue eyes, darkish skin, salt and pepper hair, doing a PhD in philosophy, read poetry, wrote stories, a stranger in this land... absolutely perfect.
So, after a few emotional crisis, I was able to see him, at his place; there is nothing sexier than letting a guy cook for you, so I did just that.
He hadn't finished cooking when I got there, lingerie touching skin ready, with a scarf that profiled my neck and a smile that didn't say too much.
He, lets say his name was J, so J acted the cutest way as he tried to cook for me. I had seen him before at a bar, we had talked for hours about poetry and religion, philosophy and contemporary art... the smoke of the cigarettes that passed in that conversation stuck to our skins and throats... two intellectuals trying to flirt and getting stuck in poses. Lovely.
This time it was different, we had talked on the phone a few times, we had confessed indecent things over the phone, and, despite all our mind masturbations, we were quite horny, and J was nervous and showed it with pots and pans, I just stood there, smoking, drinking, and smiling.
So he cooked and I watched, drinking my wine, and picturing him in my home... he would be cooking while I read some filthy poem from the Victorian era out loud, he would do the laundry while I recited a bit of Heidegger, he would fold my pantys while I wrote... It would be perfect... and there would be lovemaking in the morning and at night and in the afternoon, we would make love on top of our philosophy books, we would masturbate each other as we wrote the things we needed to write, we would write very deep intellectual letters and jerk off as we read them... he was perfect, and I thought about all of this as he cooked for me.
We ate, and had more wine, and I wet my lips thinking how perfect he was.
and then, then... it happened. He kissed me.
and my dream home, my dreams, my hornyness, it all went down a very existentialist drain.
I thought maybe it wasnt true, maybe it was me, maybe something was wrong with me... and I tried it again. But no. He smelled like Cheese. J smelled like hickory cheese, like blue cheese, like cheese. and seriously, who wants to smell cheese in bed?
I don't have the cheese fetish well developed, and was quite upset about that. I tried, I really did. Again and again, I smelled his neck, there was cheese, I smelled his bellybutton, cheese. I didnt go further south, because I didnt want to encounter Raclette or something even worse...
and the dream poped with the cheese smell. J was perfect, except for his natural B.O.
I am sure he is still searching for a mousy girl who will adore him.

one sunday afternoon...

2009-01-25T20:51:00.000-08:00

As any other Sunday afternoon I felt the depression creeping into my body... I knew it was coming although I woke up filled up with energy, reason, a purpose in life. Yes, my heart said, its Sunday, and if you don't do something about it, it will creep up on you as it always does, and you will end up with the worst kind of insomnia. Sunday night-cold bed-purposeless life- horrid emptiness insomina.
So, what to do? the television had reruns on, the coldness crept into my apartment as it always ends up doing, so, what then?
Supermarket time was the only thing I could think of. My pyjamas, my long Sunday partner, warming me up as the cold appeared around me, well, I couldn't bear to be separated from it, so I just put a long coat on, buttoned up, and went to buy milk, vodka, and whatever else I thought my depression could crave.
Even though I go to other places to buy fruit, it thrills me to touch the cold, refrigerated, almost unseemly real fruit that just spreads there, waiting to be chosen by an unlucky hand.
The empty excuses to go to the supermarket dissapeared from my mind as I touched the round, cold apples. Red.
I loved the texture, and my fingers, warm a moment ago inside my coat pockets, turned icy cold. I loved that feeling, and I loved touching the silky texture of the peaches.
I went from an aisle to the next, touching the fruit, smelling it, and starting to feel some warm craving creeping on me on this lazy, grey, afternoon.
I couldn't resist it, and as my left hand caressed the pomagranates, my right hand slid between my coat buttons, and up my pyjama shirt, icy cold fingers on my nipples.
The oranges, the melon, and the apples again, the red apples. My right hand slid between my legs, and I touched myself, feeling how my wetness warmed up my fingers. I changed hands, and I groaned.
I guess someone was watching me, but I didn't care, I kept on touching the cold fruit, the strawberries, and caressing myself.
I forgot the milk, and the vodka, and I did see some dark shaded form, probably a man, taking the apple that had woken me up, unlike Snowhite.
I wonder what kind of dreams he had that insomniac Sunday.

the scarf in silence

2009-01-21T18:43:00.000-08:00

What was he going to touch? My knees, my clit, my nipples or my navel?
I couldn’t see.
He had taken my scarf and while he melted his tongue into my mouth, tied it around my eyes.
The moment I couldn’t see it seemed like I couldn’t move either. My hands, which had been untying and undoing everything they could a moment earlier, suddenly became useless, laying at my side, all that was alive in me was my breathing and sudden gasps.
Suddenly I was alone, I couldn’t hear him and I felt powerless. I knew I could untie what was covering my sight, but the expectation was wetting me, and I knew that as helpless as I seemed, I looked completely enticing.
I felt something cold to my lips, I opened them, and felt drips of vodka going inside my throat, sliding down my cheeks, and wetting the little hole that my neck makes as it merges into the rest of my body. The cold suddenly became warm as I felt his tongue tracing the vodka where it had slipped. That’s all I could feel, his tongue licking me, exhilarated by the taste it had on my body.
He poured something cold on my navel, I guess it was the same vodka, and then he lapped it up. I couldn’t move.
My hands wanted to touch him, to sense that he was still there, that it was not just a tongue caressing me, but they refused to break the spell of uselessness.
While I was trying to figure out where exactly he was at, I realized that my sense of smell and ear had become acute. I could hear him, half dressed, drinking vodka, breathing from a corner, staring at me, naked, useless, wet and wanting him more than ever.
I smelled his excitement, and stuck my hips out, telling him without words how much I needed him to touch me, to feel me up, to know that his body was there, for me, for my complete use, although I had become the object of his desire.
With an agressivenes and force I had never even sensed in him, he turned me around, I was lying on my stomach and breasts, and sensing some contact from the carpet, I began to move my body, to excite myself as well as him with the only thing I could.
My hands, useless up to that moment went down and between my thighs. And I began to caress my clit. I was wet but I needed more, so I stuck the index finger of my left hand into my mouth and salivated it profously. Then I moved it down to my clit once more.
I couldn’t see, but I knew he was watching, with that questioning look which was the first thing that had attracted me to him.
I masturbated in a completely different manner than I always do because I knew he was watching. I wanted him to see how I touched myself, to make him feel as though I felt alone, as though I really didn’t need him.
As my groans became louder and came in shorter intervals, I felt his body above mine. He took my hands and moved them away from my pleasure center. He licked my back and spread my ass cheeks apart. He breath into them, and licked me all the way down to my clit, which at that time was vibrating with such intensity that I felt as if I was about to explode. I didn’t tell him that, but I guess he sensed it. And he spanked me. The surprise of that action made me unable to react. I didn’t move, I didn’t scream. I was awed that he would do a thing like that. Then he did it again, and the pain of his hand against my ass made me scream. “Shhhhh, be quiet” he said “or you will make me too excited and I will have to spank you harder.
He turned me around once more, and kissed me on the lips, caressing my teeth with his mouth.
Once more I was alone, I couldn’t feel him above me, his body had moved away from me, I moved again, my hips trying to make some sense of love to the carpet. My groans echoed into the silence. I couldn’t sense him around anymore, I tugged the scarf away from my eyes. He was gone, and there I was, naked on the floor and wet between my thighs.

colecting smells

2009-01-16T07:01:00.000-08:00

Lately I have been thinking of smells.
I remember the wonder it caused me when, after my first sexual encounter (which I, naively, had called love-making), I discovered a new smell. Sweat, bodily fluids and gasps intertwined and created the strangest and most enticing bouquet I had ever encountered.
I became obsessed.
Love-making, which was the axis of that relationship, was overthrown by the creation of that new perfume. I could almost skip the first part as long as I could inhale for hours that wonderful, delightful and strange new aroma.
He found it funny, even cute, that I could spend hours after the act, naked as we were, smelling the bed, smelling him, smelling myself, breathing all that had passed. My eyes rolled back and I inhaled deeply, expecting that new powerful aroma to impregnate my body, to stay with me. It only lasted a few hours, and then, it was gone as magically as it had appeared.
So I decided to keep it, to create my own little perfume brand.
After the naked gymnastics I would ask him to stay put, not to move, and I would go all around the bed, or the floor, or wherever we were, and start putting all the fluids I could find into a little bottle.
I was saving the creative fragrance for later, for my own use, for my own pleasure.
I didn't stop to think that maybe, just maybe, bodies were necessary to withhold that essence, to create the powerful scent that made me orgasm once more.
I didn't care. I had my fluids, and in my mind, I could open it up and take a sniff whenever I wanted to, keeping the most precious of the sexual act inside a glass bottle.
Now, years later, I wonder what happened to that precious item, where it went, and if anyone found it, if they would think it as enticing and delicious as I had.

the noodles

2009-01-13T22:00:00.000-08:00

So, I seem to be a bit drunk. Smoking a cigarette and with half a bottle of pinot noir in my system... including about a pound of noodles.
I just got back from a date, at least I think it was a date, because he picked me up, took me to the restaurant, picked up the check and all... but seriously, was it a date?
He is a 39 year old guy who I would have never had flirted with if it hadn't been for the fact that a month and a bit ago, when I thought I had no Mojo left, I kind of flirted with him.
He owns the store where I buy my glasses, and now I am starting to wonder if I will ever be able to buy glasses again. Shit. That happens when you mix glasses and wine, needs and fun.
So we had a rather nice dinner, talked about his recent divorce and how he wouldn't be able to stand his ex-wife living with another guy and his absolute belief that that will never happen. Yeah, right.
I talked about my economic issues, the crisis sucks, life, family, noodles, oh, those noodles with wine, absolutely delightful.
Now I thank god to alka-seltzer and to the fact that he thinks he is a gentleman and dropped me off at my place without any clear intentions. Or maybe its was his cornyness which didn't allow him to try to do anthing else. Of course, if he wasnt as corny and as nerdy as he is I wouldnt have been wondering about what would have happened if he had tried to make more contact with my body.
Anyhow, although I knew nothing would have happened, I did put on nice lingerie, probably for my own delight, and for the fact of slurping noodles knowing what I had under my clothing.
Of course the fact of going out with a geek after seeing the gorgoeus guys at my yoga class didn't help. They take their shirts off, and so do I (I wear a sexy sports bra)... and they are gorgeous. It doesn't matter if I haven't had an interesting inteligent conversation with them, they are beautiful and I can imagine my tongue caressing each musle of their backs...
And yes, I am a bit drunk, and I am thinking of my yoga class mates and of the poor guy who bought me a real expensive dinner and has no hope of getting any, but such is life.
I mean, he doesnt believe in god, and he told me so, and we had this deep theological conversations... (and seriously, whoever has had multiple orgasms cannot be an atheist), so if he doenst get any after such a dinner, well, its not god's fault.

Black Mamba

2009-01-12T14:16:00.000-08:00

When she saw what he was hiding in his pants she turned white.
There was no way that could fit anywhere, not inside her, not above her, not anywhere. No part of her body could hold him.
And yet, the attractiveness of his dark skin reflected on her freckles made her wet, the possibility of the existence of such a big member made her gasp, the fact that he was kissing her body made her horny...
but there was no way that could fit anywhere.
And so the story ended, as a possibility of things unfulfilled, of pleasures untried, and of the terror of a huge black dick entering a white pussy.

Gol... he moaned

2009-01-12T12:48:00.001-08:00

So, as it usually happens, when I thought I would enjoy a nice quiet evening with me, myself and I, a man appeared in my life.
The circumstances of how we met are not of interest at this moment, but they were quite unusual, and, I must say, completely unexpected. From the moment I saw him I said, wow, this guy is cute... Maybe it was that the last few months I have only encountered ugly men, or maybe he was really hot... the fact is that his green eyes, tanned and ageless face made me wonder what could happen that night.

At the second bar we had gone to he bent over me and his lips encountered my own. Delicious. I hadn't tasted Brazilian in a while, and I must say, his blood was really warm.
So, a couple of beers later we were at my place, which, really, is not the kind of thing I do, but there was a thing about him that made me trust him, so there we were.
At my place I set the mood with a bit of Simone White... and a beer later we were kissing once more...
He started to go down my neck, and began to moan...
I had never seen something like that, a guy moaning when he's kissing your neck, or touching some parts of your body... and it was cute. He had a kind of 'ay, ay' high-pitched moan which went great with the music that we had completely ignored...
One-hand-Bra-undoing is usually a first test (obviously if a guy has passed the kissing exam), to see how experienced he is, and how nervous he denies being... and he failed... but what the heck, the kisses were good, his skin was soft, and I helped him out.

I did take him to my bed, and we did do things that I had craved and fantasized about for a while (celibacy is not my thing...), and although the first time is alway a bit off, when the other body is strange terrain you must discover and explore, we had a lot of fun and probably woke up some of my neighbors.
a couple of orgasms later, I was absolutely exhausted...

(At this point I have to add that two things really baffled me, the first was that he was a grower... He had a very small dick, and I was quite disappointed when I touched him, but when he stood up to salute me and my body, the size was nice... I hadn't seen that before.
The second thing was that he was uncircumcised... and I had never been with a guy with so much skin down there... I am still uncertain if it was good or bad... it certainly was interesting).

I was exhausted, and he kept going on and on about his trip, and his life, his issues with his father, and his relationship with his sisters. His job, what he thought and felt... and I, well, I wanted to go to sleep, it was 4 in the morning and I was very tired after such an extensive orgasmic workout...
He kept on talking and I kept on nodding and saying uhu to the things he said.
At one point, he started talking about soccer. Talk about a turnoff. I'm not sure if it was because he was Brazilian, or because he was chatting away about all the things he is intense and passionate about, but soccer did enter the field, our field.
As I was trying with all my might to not fall into the post-orgasmic slumber, I did learn that Brazil won its first world cup in 1962, that before that they had good players but their strategy wasnt as great. In 1986 Argentina won the cup because of Maradona, who is amazing, but nothing compared to Pelé...

When he went for water I did fall asleep... half an hour later I called him a cab and he was gone with the words "Eu gosto que voçe seja tao fogosa"...
The next morning I looked for the condoms everywhere to dispose of them, and they were nowhere to be found. I wonder if somewhere in the world a soccer ball exists that is filled up with used condoms.