the matress

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

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

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

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

- 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.

the colorful voodoo

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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).