More likely than not, this blog will be a series of read more posts such as “This is a master post where I vent about Friend X” “This is a master post about Person Y.” If one post is particularly long, it will be a separate read more post
This is a master post about a boy I recently had sex with. It is, quite obviously, “not safe for work.” Let’s call him John.
There’s one moment I always find myself at when I recall my night with John. While I remember a few other moments rather vividly before our sexual encounter began (such as us inadvertently almost becoming witnesses to a murder/kidnapping, or the way his eyebrows moved and his voice oozed disdain as he told me, “This is not going to be a ‘thing’”) when I daydream I slide down into an exact moment.
He’s told me he wants to take a shower because he’s sweaty from performing with his band. He’s asked me if I want to join him. I hesitate briefly before agreeing. I take off my jewelry and walk towards the motel sink. As I walk away from him, I’m taking off a star-print skater dress to show off the most expensive and decadent lingerie I own.
It wouldn’t even matter if he’s watching me hang up my dress, I think to myself. I feel like a goddamn million bucks right now. I could turn around and undress in front of him at a glacial pace. I wonder if he’d just get angry, or if I’d see the slightest sign of fear in him. Just the slightest touch of “Wow, I hope I’m man enough to please this woman.” Maybe I could attempt to verbally seduce him. Maybe I could ask him if he’d like to help me take my clothes off. Maybe I could ask him how long he’d been waiting for this moment, when I would be in front of him with nothing but frilly Topshop lingerie on my body and desire in my eyes. Was it just since I had sent him that one lingerie Snapchat earlier in the night during his car troubles as a morale boost? Had he been anticipating my body since the beginning of the tour? How long and how often had he wished his hand was my own hand, or my mouth, or the warm cunt I gingerly learned to tease him with on Skype? Was there the slightest chance he had been carnally curious about me since the day we became friends, even though I was in someone else’s arms that night?
But you know how thoughts are. Thousands of thoughts condense into two seconds, and are torn apart in half that time.
I hadn’t even gotten my dress to hang over the towel bar and I feel his hands on my back. He’s unhooking my bra. I go stiff. He must have noticed, because he stops. I try to sound calm but it disintegrates. “I’m fine, keep going.” He comments that my body is very warm. I laugh inside because it’s thirty-something degrees outside and I am freezing in this motel. If I actually felt warm to him, it was miraculous. I pull off my bra and he unhooks my garter belt. I slide off my stockings and eventually pull my panties down. I turn around and realize how naked I am. He’s not the first boy to see me naked. He’s not the first boy I’ve slept with. With just a pair of cargo shorts on he’s not much more clothed than I am, but I look down and I feel all of my power go away. I’m just another girl naked and waiting for a boy.
He has me undo his belt. He tells me he had been commando since shortly after his band finished their set, and I am greeted by his halfway-hard-and-rising erection. I wonder at what point he became aroused, whether it was watching me take off my dress as I walked like a queen, or if it was when he unhooked me like a coup d’etat. He slides his pants down. I have no idea where they land. I have no idea of anything other than our bodies and the rapidly decreasing distance between them. I back into the sink. He puts his hands around my waist. I clumsily land my hands on his biceps. For being so slender, his arms are very toned, almost muscular. His skin is inhumanly soft. His tastes in music and philosophy lead me previously to joke that he was The Devil, and I now wonder to myself if he is genuinely an incubus. I look down and see his erection pressed against my thighs, and my breasts against his chest. “Damn,” One thought surfaces from within the flurry. “I look so good. He is so lucky to fuck this.” Maybe I have some power left in me.
We look at each other and I wonder if I’m supposed to move in to kiss him. Instead, he decides he should turn the shower on before we get ourselves hot and bothered.
The water is scorching, but as he steps in and we take the same position I stop caring. He opens a wrapped soap bar with his teeth. He did suggest the shower because he wanted to get clean, after all. He leans in and we start to kiss. There is no joy, but there is no disgust either. It feels mechanical, formulaic to kiss him. I almost entertain the notion of imagining someone else, but I accept John. I am amazed how I feel absolutely nothing. I’m amazed more at how this empty kiss ends with my hands pulling his hair, and with his hands grabbing my ass. There is no joy in this kiss, but there is endless tension and endless desire.
At one point I grab his hand and move it up my hips. He breaks free for long enough to wash his chest, but he grabs my hand again. “Where were you going to move this hand?” he asks. I breathe deeply and move his hand to my breast.
The rest of the shower is more scattered than the build up: I hold him close as he kisses my neck and I beg for him to bite me. My knees shake as his teeth sink in. At one point he kneels down to orally pleasure me and I forget everything for 20 seconds. When I kneel down to return the favor, I still can’t remember anything. My kisses down his torso are desperate and panicked, not the slow teasing kisses I’ve given others. I’m embarrassed and wonder if I’ve gotten rusty at giving head, worrying that I’m not living up to the “miracle worker” title my ex had given me. I spend half of the blowjob existentially pondering the origin of the blowjob, how I went from meeting this guy at a friend’s show to blowing him over a year later, and why I found performing blowjobs enjoyable. His fingers lace into my hair and his steadily increasing breathing puts me at some ease. He pulls me up eventually to continue kissing me. He slides his finger inside of me and I gasp louder than I have ever gasped before. His finger moves so fast it seems to vibrate, no doubt a trick he’s picked up from years of proficiency at guitar and bass. He attempts to slide in a second finger and the resulting “No!” is almost a shout. He eventually hoists me up to try and fuck me against the wall. I am irrationally afraid of slipping so even in the best position he’s unable to penetrate me. I suggest we stop the shower and continue in bed.
During a brief repose he has me lie on his chest to keep warm. I marvel to myself again at how smooth his skin is. Eventually I begin to grind on his cock and he grabs my ass. I position myself on top of him. I apologize for how long it takes to position myself, and midway I choke because I am sliding down onto his cock. I marvel at how months of lusting have culminated into a successful sexual act. At one point he halts his thrusts and watches me as I bounce, fucking myself for his entertainment. His eyes are dark and cold. When we switch to missionary, the last of the intense visual memories is imprinted. I see him on top of me, pulling the billowing sheets down over us to keep warm. In my imagination it seems like a vampire’s cape billowing to engulf the vampire’s victim. A weeknight of like-clockwork kindness. I wonder if the wives of Bluebeard ever felt as I did right then.
John mentions how tight I am. My mental processes shut down during sex and the only reply I can manage is “Well, it’s been a while.” There’s a brief pause. We both know I’m referring to the ex-boyfriend who introduced us. While we both know this encounter had nothing to do with this ex, and we had only started to explore each other sexually long after my breakup, it was still not the most graceful reply. But seconds later he continues as though I had simply thanked him. His kisses land in the crook between my neck and shoulder, and eventually he bites. Harder and harder he clamps down and I am lost in an ecstasy that gives way to pain. A choked moan erupts from me, “Please let go.” Even when the bite became too intense to be pleasurable, the fact that I had to have him stop was as arousing as the bite.
I’ve lost my topic as I’m far too tired. I will continue post-haste.