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).

the wedding

"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

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...

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

black panther / white panther

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

a pencil and a joint

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

I left my hat on...

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