Maya was my third girlfriend, right after I met D. This new development happened rather unexpectedly earlier this week, when I was "bored" and started googling random people I used to know, especially since I thought she moved to Hong Kong after we both left Chicago. It turned out that she started working at A Corp., a large, multinational conglomerate based in that little city of ours, and appeared to be quite high up. Her photo was so brightly adorned with all her shiny resume items collated in the "biographical" paragraph on their website, under "leadership and management", that my eyes didn't hesitate to moisten when I saw it.
I wrote her an E-mail immediately. I used her company E-mail, and said stoically, Dear Ms. Maya, This is so-and-so from this and that company. Please give me a call at such-and-such number.
She called that afternoon, on my cell phone. I saw her name flashing, and realized that her contact must have been carried over when I purged my old flip phone directory to the online synchronization repository. My heart tightened.
"Hey you." Her voice was deeply familiar.
"Hey. How have you been?"
The conversation was easy, like riding a bicycle. She's moved here not long ago. She had to run and asked if I would be interested in having dinner on Friday with her.
I said, "sure."
I told D I needed to stay late for a client dinner. We went to an artisanal pizza place. I had a pizza with artichoke heart and prawns. She had a pizza with lobster, lyme and Gouda. We bought a bottle of wine, though I only had half a glass. She seemed a bit reckless after downing at least 3 full glasses.
She definitely noticed my ring. I definitely noticed how she didn't have one.
She's still single, though I suppose in our age bracket these days it's not so rare anymore. She told me about her "disaster" romances after me, "one guy had a the world's tiniest penis." I feigned shock, but I knew she was flirting with me.
"So where is your wife?"
I knew it would come up, and I gravitated toward pretending to be a mature, comfortable, content, responsible yet deeply reserved adult--the image of Gregory Peck in "to Kill a Mocking Bird." I felt slightly wrong, slightly guilty, slightly devious, looking directly at her face while fantasizing about her round, perfectly dimpled breasts underneath her brightly red velvet dress. Was it velvet or silk, I couldn't tell. A simple, comfortable dinner dress so hopelessly inviting to my large, fleshy fingers with their brutally unkempt hairy knuckles. Does Atticus Finch have the same thoughts? Does he masturbate? He has no wife. I can feel my member slowly, campily engorging in my wool trousers, and sweat slowly oozing out of my forehead follicles. I nervously wiped my face with the napkin.
I drove home rather blankly. D was in bed, and I wanted to rape her. Suddenly I felt fat and unattractive, and a thought occurred to me that perhaps this was what half of the world felt like constantly. That night D obliged to fuck me, and in the instant of my ecstasy, Maya's pink, round, soft nipples flashed in front of my eyes as I sighed, emitting my desperation deeply into someone else. I stared emptily into the mirror in front of the foamy mattress that bore witness to my hundreds of pathetic orgasms, and D was sleeping next to me, purring quietly like a kitten.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Monday, November 5, 2012
It's been a while
Life has gotten in the way for updates. For one reason or another, D has been around me constantly lately, and I didn't want her to see this blog. I couldn't do it at work either, as not that long ago someone from work got hired for browsing some adult site or other. Suffice it is to say, my only alone time is Friday afternoons when I get off work early and get a nice cup of coffee at the Starbucks at the strip mall.
D and I have some infrequent sex. Sometimes she asks for it, sometimes I ask for it. It doesn't matter. It's always boorish and sometimes a bit lonely. I even asked her about going to see a couples therapist together, as rare and uncouth as it is in this conservative, irksome city of ours. The kids are alright, not too demanding, and well taken care of by their elderly nanny. I find myself often having wandering thoughts, and often getting a massage down the block, at some Asian parlor, and paying for total indulgence, as her finger runs through my body, the warmth of the massage oil and the parlor music envelopes me as the flame in my loin burns a little stronger. I did that two weeks ago again. She was a good masseuse, and did her best to take out the knots in my shoulders. I turned around and like my usual, she offered "the full service". As she removed my towel I was almost in tears. Her slender fingers gently grazed the back end of the tip of my erection, yielding a remarkable, electrifying sensation. It didn't take very long before I felt the full, involuntary flickering inside my pelvis, fluid filled, ready for discharge, and I moaned. As one of her hand slickly stroked, her other hand cupping my scrotum, I violently ejaculated. The ruthless jets landed squarely on my heart, uncompromisingly dithering in my poorly groomed chest hair. The waves of pleasure subsided and I started feeling the pangs of pain in my pelvis--this occasionally happens to me either after I urinate or before, when after orgasm I feel the pain in my prostate, almost as if I was kicked in the nuts, for a few minutes. I swallowed some air to recover and climbed haltingly off the massage table and put on my shirt and pants, looking respectable again.
Sometimes I think about having an affair, maybe get on a website and looking for a lady in the same disposition as me, and yearn for that violence, that total oblivious, effervescent feeling. I want someone to tie me up and torture me until I cannot go on and emit the last dying cry of an animal in heat.
D and I have some infrequent sex. Sometimes she asks for it, sometimes I ask for it. It doesn't matter. It's always boorish and sometimes a bit lonely. I even asked her about going to see a couples therapist together, as rare and uncouth as it is in this conservative, irksome city of ours. The kids are alright, not too demanding, and well taken care of by their elderly nanny. I find myself often having wandering thoughts, and often getting a massage down the block, at some Asian parlor, and paying for total indulgence, as her finger runs through my body, the warmth of the massage oil and the parlor music envelopes me as the flame in my loin burns a little stronger. I did that two weeks ago again. She was a good masseuse, and did her best to take out the knots in my shoulders. I turned around and like my usual, she offered "the full service". As she removed my towel I was almost in tears. Her slender fingers gently grazed the back end of the tip of my erection, yielding a remarkable, electrifying sensation. It didn't take very long before I felt the full, involuntary flickering inside my pelvis, fluid filled, ready for discharge, and I moaned. As one of her hand slickly stroked, her other hand cupping my scrotum, I violently ejaculated. The ruthless jets landed squarely on my heart, uncompromisingly dithering in my poorly groomed chest hair. The waves of pleasure subsided and I started feeling the pangs of pain in my pelvis--this occasionally happens to me either after I urinate or before, when after orgasm I feel the pain in my prostate, almost as if I was kicked in the nuts, for a few minutes. I swallowed some air to recover and climbed haltingly off the massage table and put on my shirt and pants, looking respectable again.
Sometimes I think about having an affair, maybe get on a website and looking for a lady in the same disposition as me, and yearn for that violence, that total oblivious, effervescent feeling. I want someone to tie me up and torture me until I cannot go on and emit the last dying cry of an animal in heat.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Divorce is not an answer
Some of you may wonder why I am not divorcing my wife. We have sex at most once or twice a month. I would like to have sex at least a few times a week. We have tried a number of things to make this work for us, but I think the essence of it is not going to change. I would like to divorce her, but it's not as easy as you think it is. It's not that I can just go to a lawyer, call her up and serve her the papers. Do I really want to live a pathetic, divorcee's life with two young children requiring years of child support? Do I really want my children to not have a father in their lives? Do I really want to wade through some custody battle? The answer is no. The lack of (enough) sex is not a sufficient reason to let things collapse completely.
Am I happy? I don't think I am. But there are many of you out there who are just as unhappy as I am, and you figured out your various ways of coping. I don't see how getting a handjob is hurting anybody. Unless you make an argument that there is such a thing as a victimless crime. That's my way. You can judge all you want and call it whatever you wish, but while I do feel guilty about it sometimes I despise you and your moral high ground. You don't know what you are talking about and you are just going to the same hell as I am.
Am I happy? I don't think I am. But there are many of you out there who are just as unhappy as I am, and you figured out your various ways of coping. I don't see how getting a handjob is hurting anybody. Unless you make an argument that there is such a thing as a victimless crime. That's my way. You can judge all you want and call it whatever you wish, but while I do feel guilty about it sometimes I despise you and your moral high ground. You don't know what you are talking about and you are just going to the same hell as I am.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
(Acu)pressure
I do apologize as I have not updated my blog as frequently. Situation between me and D are hanging out exactly where it was, with the requisite once a month or so intercourse and pretty much not a lot of anything else. She doesn't act as if she cares. I certainly have given up hope, even though I tried numerous times to communicate with her. I can't divorce her. I can't get away. I am stuck.
On Saturday I went to one of those local Asian spas that seemed to have sprouted out a lot lately. A work colleague recommended it. It was a small, sort of dampy place, ran by a couple of older Asian women who barely spoke any English. Each of the massage beds were separated by a thin screen, and you most certainly can hear your neighbors. One of the ladies pointed to an open bed and said, "take off", and I took off everything except my boxer briefs.
I lied on my stomach, my head in a hole facing the floor, and the masseuse began her work. As she used her elbows, I started to relax. The smooth, artificially warm touch created by the sandalwood massage oil, mixed with a faint smell of incense and that barely audible "Eastern" music was dizzying. Moments later, she pulled off my underwear to my buttocks, and I was startled, but she was only going to massage my back.
The best part was the head and face massage after I flipped over, and after that was done she whispered into my ear, "do you want a special massage?" "Ok." I said, and immediately regretted it because I forgot to ask her how much. She pulled off my underwear and skillfully started massaging my penis, which was already slightly engorged. A few stray thoughts came into my head: "Is this cheating? Is someone going to find out? My wallet is in my bag, what if someone I know comes in and picks me up? Would I lose my job? What if I can't get hard? That's gotta be embarrassing. I hope they don't try to blackmail me." But as her smooth fingers started tugging on my tumescent cock, the tide of pleasure started to turn, rising stubbornly from my pelvis up and down, above my belly into my chest and down my feet. And I realized that nothing mattered. Pleasure was the end in itself. Her other hand cupped my scrotum as I started squeezing my own nipples with my free hands and my mind went blank, with all the annoyance and troubles temporally escaping my cranium as the waves upon waves of pleasure tightened my rectum. I let out a slight moan but was reminded of the indecent and less than private environs. As the tension in my prostate built up, I relaxed every part of my body and focused my mind deep in my pelvis, and that tingling sensation went into the heels of my feet. I tightened my PC muscles a few more times as she slowly went up and down my shaft, and finally let that uncontrollable release envelope me. I watched the jets going straight up my belly, up my chest and shoulders.
She wiped me down with a warm towel. It was $150. I am definitely going back.
On Saturday I went to one of those local Asian spas that seemed to have sprouted out a lot lately. A work colleague recommended it. It was a small, sort of dampy place, ran by a couple of older Asian women who barely spoke any English. Each of the massage beds were separated by a thin screen, and you most certainly can hear your neighbors. One of the ladies pointed to an open bed and said, "take off", and I took off everything except my boxer briefs.
I lied on my stomach, my head in a hole facing the floor, and the masseuse began her work. As she used her elbows, I started to relax. The smooth, artificially warm touch created by the sandalwood massage oil, mixed with a faint smell of incense and that barely audible "Eastern" music was dizzying. Moments later, she pulled off my underwear to my buttocks, and I was startled, but she was only going to massage my back.
The best part was the head and face massage after I flipped over, and after that was done she whispered into my ear, "do you want a special massage?" "Ok." I said, and immediately regretted it because I forgot to ask her how much. She pulled off my underwear and skillfully started massaging my penis, which was already slightly engorged. A few stray thoughts came into my head: "Is this cheating? Is someone going to find out? My wallet is in my bag, what if someone I know comes in and picks me up? Would I lose my job? What if I can't get hard? That's gotta be embarrassing. I hope they don't try to blackmail me." But as her smooth fingers started tugging on my tumescent cock, the tide of pleasure started to turn, rising stubbornly from my pelvis up and down, above my belly into my chest and down my feet. And I realized that nothing mattered. Pleasure was the end in itself. Her other hand cupped my scrotum as I started squeezing my own nipples with my free hands and my mind went blank, with all the annoyance and troubles temporally escaping my cranium as the waves upon waves of pleasure tightened my rectum. I let out a slight moan but was reminded of the indecent and less than private environs. As the tension in my prostate built up, I relaxed every part of my body and focused my mind deep in my pelvis, and that tingling sensation went into the heels of my feet. I tightened my PC muscles a few more times as she slowly went up and down my shaft, and finally let that uncontrollable release envelope me. I watched the jets going straight up my belly, up my chest and shoulders.
She wiped me down with a warm towel. It was $150. I am definitely going back.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Long hiatus
Rest assured, I am not gone and my sex life continues to be nonexistent, as my children grow before my very eyes and my loins fill to the brim every day, with the ineluctable, cataclysmic releases at the end of a long, mesmerizing fog that's our reality. D continues to be noncooperative. Her latest excuse is "I need to work out." Don't get me wrong, I like to have a fit and attractive woman. But what I would like more is a fit and attractive wife who would put out. As I jelqed myself to oblivion last night I cried a little. Seriously. Me, a full grown man. You would never think it would be possible. I look just like the next guy you know in the streets. Regular joe. Something is wrong with me and something is wrong with the way my life is going.
I saw my therapist again yesterday. He told me that the decision would be mine to make, to take up that dreary, figurative ax and chop down the rambling thicket that has been my marriage. Is the sexlessness a symptom or is a curse of a disease that is much greater. As he elaborated and listened in silence, I started to imagine what his life was like, if his sex life was something that he wanted, if he had masturbated on that very day--perhaps he masturbated to me? To the thought of me, and my wife, and perhaps his thoughts were even more unspeakable, untenable thoughts that could be littered even on an Internet anonymous blog.
I think I want to move to New York. Or Portland, Oregon. Or Houston. Somewhere where I can be rid of this life, and start anew. But sex is not the reason to divorce, especially as I pontificated the consequences of my abandon. When I was "free" to do whatever I pleased, I certainly did not get as frequent as that twice monthly allowance that I am bestowed upon these days, and that loneliness, suffocating loneliness that I could not stand when I was young, and single, and pathetically afraid of being effeminate. So I hid it. I lied and torn myself apart in it, and compensated my unfortunate romantic life with tedious, torturous "work", as we call it, that I could only describe it as an addiction. The paradoxical pleasure of the self-flagellating catholic was the model of my early 20s. I was ugly, irrational, damaged by rejection after rejection. Nobody knew about it. Who would I tell? My golf buddies or people I went out and drank with every once a while?
This is how orgasm works. As it comes out a taste of that dreariness leaves you in a few seconds of contractions, as your spirit leaves you, your body becomes a shell of an existence and transparent in time like an empty glass.
My doctor suggested an antidepressant. I eerily fancied that bubbling dull numbness setting in and stuffing my seminal vesicles like cotton balls in a pill bottle, and I would triumphantly wave that magical wand of Prozac at my wife, yelling, "look! I don't need you." But my desire is the only part of me that is still alive, and I need to feel that something of life is still being produced inside of me, as it comes out, evoking yet another episode of uncontrollable spasm, temporarily whitening out my ego and superego.
I saw my therapist again yesterday. He told me that the decision would be mine to make, to take up that dreary, figurative ax and chop down the rambling thicket that has been my marriage. Is the sexlessness a symptom or is a curse of a disease that is much greater. As he elaborated and listened in silence, I started to imagine what his life was like, if his sex life was something that he wanted, if he had masturbated on that very day--perhaps he masturbated to me? To the thought of me, and my wife, and perhaps his thoughts were even more unspeakable, untenable thoughts that could be littered even on an Internet anonymous blog.
I think I want to move to New York. Or Portland, Oregon. Or Houston. Somewhere where I can be rid of this life, and start anew. But sex is not the reason to divorce, especially as I pontificated the consequences of my abandon. When I was "free" to do whatever I pleased, I certainly did not get as frequent as that twice monthly allowance that I am bestowed upon these days, and that loneliness, suffocating loneliness that I could not stand when I was young, and single, and pathetically afraid of being effeminate. So I hid it. I lied and torn myself apart in it, and compensated my unfortunate romantic life with tedious, torturous "work", as we call it, that I could only describe it as an addiction. The paradoxical pleasure of the self-flagellating catholic was the model of my early 20s. I was ugly, irrational, damaged by rejection after rejection. Nobody knew about it. Who would I tell? My golf buddies or people I went out and drank with every once a while?
This is how orgasm works. As it comes out a taste of that dreariness leaves you in a few seconds of contractions, as your spirit leaves you, your body becomes a shell of an existence and transparent in time like an empty glass.
My doctor suggested an antidepressant. I eerily fancied that bubbling dull numbness setting in and stuffing my seminal vesicles like cotton balls in a pill bottle, and I would triumphantly wave that magical wand of Prozac at my wife, yelling, "look! I don't need you." But my desire is the only part of me that is still alive, and I need to feel that something of life is still being produced inside of me, as it comes out, evoking yet another episode of uncontrollable spasm, temporarily whitening out my ego and superego.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
voyeuristic desires
Lately I've been thinking about getting in touch with someone on craigslist to make a pornographic video. I think all the sexual deprivation has led to strange fantasies on my part. I have been thinking more about having sex with old people lately. Old, disgusting, near death people with wrinkly skin, who smell like a combination of baby powder and adult diapers. I want to fuck that. Sort of like where people have scat fetish, I realize that if I did get myself involved in that kind of situation, I will never be judged, and not being judged is always a good thing because at home I'm constantly being judged.
It would ever be so sweeter if I can do an old lady while her husband sits and watches, and I would love to be that man who would show him (and her) how good it could be in bed, bringing her to endless cycles of ecstasy that he has not been, if ever, able to provide her. When I get on top of her, I see leathery skin that's been damaged by decades of sun, freckles, age spots, indicators of an imminent, timely demise of what lies within that shell of a body. And thereupon I cannot care what I would do because whatever I do would not matter. Or maybe I would want to see the pathetic old couple try to get it on, squeezing and tugging their respective puny little organs, with no sign of vitality arriving from their ailing, congested hearts. Is it a necro thing? Is this why people like cold, dead, dried up corpses to possess to their hearts' content?
D and I had sex again a few days ago, right after her period, when she's at the admittedly highest point of her desire every month. She was so beautiful, which made it even more frustrating, because after the inevitable climax, which I tried my best to delay to the detriment of my seminal vesicles, I was in a daze of a combination of nostalgia and longing--it wasn't gonna happen again for a long time, and I wanted to live in the present, immediate consciousness, when the tender, silky smoothness of her vaginal wall still felt indelible and warm in my prickly remembrance, griping me from the inside. I wish it was as easy as being a necrophiliac, if she were dead, if I didn't love her, if we didn't have children together. And yet I don't hate her. I hate myself. I want to be whipped.
It would ever be so sweeter if I can do an old lady while her husband sits and watches, and I would love to be that man who would show him (and her) how good it could be in bed, bringing her to endless cycles of ecstasy that he has not been, if ever, able to provide her. When I get on top of her, I see leathery skin that's been damaged by decades of sun, freckles, age spots, indicators of an imminent, timely demise of what lies within that shell of a body. And thereupon I cannot care what I would do because whatever I do would not matter. Or maybe I would want to see the pathetic old couple try to get it on, squeezing and tugging their respective puny little organs, with no sign of vitality arriving from their ailing, congested hearts. Is it a necro thing? Is this why people like cold, dead, dried up corpses to possess to their hearts' content?
D and I had sex again a few days ago, right after her period, when she's at the admittedly highest point of her desire every month. She was so beautiful, which made it even more frustrating, because after the inevitable climax, which I tried my best to delay to the detriment of my seminal vesicles, I was in a daze of a combination of nostalgia and longing--it wasn't gonna happen again for a long time, and I wanted to live in the present, immediate consciousness, when the tender, silky smoothness of her vaginal wall still felt indelible and warm in my prickly remembrance, griping me from the inside. I wish it was as easy as being a necrophiliac, if she were dead, if I didn't love her, if we didn't have children together. And yet I don't hate her. I hate myself. I want to be whipped.
Friday, July 6, 2012
nipple orgasm?
Is it really possible? I have a female co-worker who told me once that she could achieve orgasm by simply stimulating her nipples. I told D the story and she was anything but convinced. This female co-worker is the feisty type. I once watched cable porn with her on a business trip when we shared a room together. Nothing happened. We just laughed at how ridiculous the first person perspective was.
A couple of days ago I became a bit more curious about the concept of nipple orgasm when I was inadvertently flicking my own nipples while watching pornography. D, obliviously, wasn't there. It gave me a strange sensation in that something deep in my pelvis, perhaps my prostate, would be a bit tickled, and I would end up engorged even though I wasn't touching myself. The area around the nipple is a well known endogenous zone, so I wasn't surprised by my experience. Last night, D went to bed early again, and I was left to explore my own body. I read up on nipple orgasm, and a few people reported on the internet that such a thing is possible for men.
So I went outside, took off my shirt, and felt the warm, wet summer night engulfing me. I quietly started to flick my nipples again, both of them, with my index fingers. I closed my eyes and focused on the sensation both above and below my waistline, and a little bud of something started to grow between my testicles, deep within my loins. I decided to continue, as that was the trick the web posts seemed to have liked: persistence. Waves and waves of pleasure started to rise, like the tides on a beach under a full moon, rising from between my thighs and submerging my entire upper body. Eventually I reached a point where my sphincter started to contract involuntarily and the body of my penis danced rhythmically. My heart beat with a pounding, flushing pace. My body started to writhe uncontrollably, with my throat making a funny, raspy noise. I felt that time had stopped and I wasn't myself.
"Ah..." I yelled out slowly and softly.
Nothing came out of the orifice. It was certainly an orgasm, but a dry one. Later that night I was able to recapitulate that rising tide and cataclysm a few more times, until I decided that it was too much to handle, and grasped and stroked until I finally discharged my evanescent eros. Was this really the mythological male multiple orgasm?
A couple of days ago I became a bit more curious about the concept of nipple orgasm when I was inadvertently flicking my own nipples while watching pornography. D, obliviously, wasn't there. It gave me a strange sensation in that something deep in my pelvis, perhaps my prostate, would be a bit tickled, and I would end up engorged even though I wasn't touching myself. The area around the nipple is a well known endogenous zone, so I wasn't surprised by my experience. Last night, D went to bed early again, and I was left to explore my own body. I read up on nipple orgasm, and a few people reported on the internet that such a thing is possible for men.
So I went outside, took off my shirt, and felt the warm, wet summer night engulfing me. I quietly started to flick my nipples again, both of them, with my index fingers. I closed my eyes and focused on the sensation both above and below my waistline, and a little bud of something started to grow between my testicles, deep within my loins. I decided to continue, as that was the trick the web posts seemed to have liked: persistence. Waves and waves of pleasure started to rise, like the tides on a beach under a full moon, rising from between my thighs and submerging my entire upper body. Eventually I reached a point where my sphincter started to contract involuntarily and the body of my penis danced rhythmically. My heart beat with a pounding, flushing pace. My body started to writhe uncontrollably, with my throat making a funny, raspy noise. I felt that time had stopped and I wasn't myself.
"Ah..." I yelled out slowly and softly.
Nothing came out of the orifice. It was certainly an orgasm, but a dry one. Later that night I was able to recapitulate that rising tide and cataclysm a few more times, until I decided that it was too much to handle, and grasped and stroked until I finally discharged my evanescent eros. Was this really the mythological male multiple orgasm?
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
a drunk tryst relived
I find that my tolerance has increased dramatically lately. It used to be that I can drink a couple of whiskeys and I get comfortably tipsy, and these days I would need a solid five shots to get buzzed, and even then it wears off quickly. Last night was not exceptional, when I finally had the opportunity to spend some time to get away from D, even though all I ever so desperately wanted to do is to get closer to her.
I went to a neighborhood bar with Aaron and Christopher. Aaron, being the family man that he clearly didn't want to be, decided to be the DD and only had a couple of drinks. Christopher and I started doing shots at 8:30PM and while we tried to play a drinking game over the monster truck show, it was really more or less to drown each of us in our own miseries. He revealed to me a few days ago that lately he had been having problems getting it up, and his wife had been nothing if not scathing, especially considering that he put up the front of a 20 year old frat boy all day long. He related an episode to me where his wife told him, in clear contempt, "looks like I'm not gonna get any again tonight?" "I told her to fuck off, and she just said whatever and we went to bed. Whatever is right." Gulp.
I was in Aaron's car, and my head was spinning. I felt the inevitable desire to retch, and that desire triggered a flood of memory of D, when we first met, when this happened on a regular basis. I remember being disoriented with intoxication, of the alcohol, of her scent, of her meditative, contemplatively sexy stance disseminating in the air. I remember her hand on the inner part of my thigh, slowly wriggling her finger up my shorts. As I recalled the details of that encounter I felt myself becoming uncontrollably aroused, and I turned myself away from Aaron in the front seat toward the window. I remembered the cotton sheets of her cramped little apartment, and her smooth, young, lean navel as I slowly kissed it, ejaculating fiercely into the latex condom. I remembered recovering thirty minutes later, my tongue intertwined with hers, then entering her from behind as she shyly requested a break to take a shower. I cruelly denied her request as I ruthlessly penetrated her over and over again until the waves of pleasure came over the second time, absorbing whatever the leftover essence there was. The second orgasm was always different, as you felt the desperation and effort of your own sphincter, as the remaining pleasure became coalesced, bit by bit, with a not minute amount of scornful, dull ache, sitting quietly in the back quarters of the perineum. But it was inescapable.
Aaron's car stopped. It was my house. It's time to face another sleepless and sexless night.
I went to a neighborhood bar with Aaron and Christopher. Aaron, being the family man that he clearly didn't want to be, decided to be the DD and only had a couple of drinks. Christopher and I started doing shots at 8:30PM and while we tried to play a drinking game over the monster truck show, it was really more or less to drown each of us in our own miseries. He revealed to me a few days ago that lately he had been having problems getting it up, and his wife had been nothing if not scathing, especially considering that he put up the front of a 20 year old frat boy all day long. He related an episode to me where his wife told him, in clear contempt, "looks like I'm not gonna get any again tonight?" "I told her to fuck off, and she just said whatever and we went to bed. Whatever is right." Gulp.
I was in Aaron's car, and my head was spinning. I felt the inevitable desire to retch, and that desire triggered a flood of memory of D, when we first met, when this happened on a regular basis. I remember being disoriented with intoxication, of the alcohol, of her scent, of her meditative, contemplatively sexy stance disseminating in the air. I remember her hand on the inner part of my thigh, slowly wriggling her finger up my shorts. As I recalled the details of that encounter I felt myself becoming uncontrollably aroused, and I turned myself away from Aaron in the front seat toward the window. I remembered the cotton sheets of her cramped little apartment, and her smooth, young, lean navel as I slowly kissed it, ejaculating fiercely into the latex condom. I remembered recovering thirty minutes later, my tongue intertwined with hers, then entering her from behind as she shyly requested a break to take a shower. I cruelly denied her request as I ruthlessly penetrated her over and over again until the waves of pleasure came over the second time, absorbing whatever the leftover essence there was. The second orgasm was always different, as you felt the desperation and effort of your own sphincter, as the remaining pleasure became coalesced, bit by bit, with a not minute amount of scornful, dull ache, sitting quietly in the back quarters of the perineum. But it was inescapable.
Aaron's car stopped. It was my house. It's time to face another sleepless and sexless night.
Friday, June 29, 2012
suicide by gunshot
Today I was at a TGIF after work, and I ran into a guy who worked for a company up in the East, who knew a guy who was a really good friend of mine from college. I asked him about my friend, C, as I haven't heard from him for more than 2 years.
"He killed himself."
I felt my skull exploding in a millisecond, and my expression froze in an awkward silence. The guy standing next to me stared at me, trying to save me with a distracting, innocuous remark.
"How did this happen?"
"Well, he shot himself. I guess he's been depressed for a long time."
The topic skidded away, as they started trading gossip about their respective bosses, while I stood there, frozen in agony and stunned, with racing thoughts bubbling, penetrating my body in a visceral, nauseating way, so paralytic that I could barely talk to anyone else at this pleasant, welcoming little event.
I raced home and researched ceaselessly over the Internet concerning his death, and there was very little. No obituary. No newspaper prints. I couldn't find his E-mail even. Maybe it was just a rumor. I had some glimmer of hope that maybe it's all just heresy. I decided to find his boss's E-mail and sent him a little message to express my condolence. Perhaps I'd be able to get his wife's phone number and talk to her--I went to their house once in college for thanksgiving, and remember fondly of that wonderful lunch-dinner that was so diametrically different from my own family's eggshell scattered annual ritual.
The boss was on vacation. Then 5 minutes later he sent me an E-mail saying what a terrible loss it was, and the memorial service was already over with lots of tears and good humor. He attached a nice little company-wide message neatly summarizing his "devotion" to his wife and his "love" to his 3 year old son.
I felt unspeakably angry. I wanted to yell, you don't know what the fuck you are talking about. Last time I talked to C was in 2010, and over the phone he told me "the only thing that annoyed me more than my wife is my son." He spent ten, twelve hours with you and you don't really know him. Nobody knows him. And now he's dead. He shot himself IN THE BLOODY HEAD and I didn't even know you can get a gun up there that easily. Why did nobody have a fucking clue?
I am so angry. I am angry at him. I am angry at his boss. I am angry at his wife and "friends", if he had any to speak of. I am most angry at myself. Why did I only try his gmail a year ago? Maybe he would've checked his old school E-mail. Maybe he would've forwarded it to his new company E-mail. Maybe he would've called me before he died had I been able to stay in touch with him. Maybe I could've done something more.
He was a few years older. We smoked my first joint together. We complained about the inanity of our respective love affairs together. We were supposed to laugh in our intoxication into our old age together.
He once told me, I don't meditate, I masturbate, and that was wisest thing I've heard in my life. Does he have a gravestone somewhere? C, If you can see this, know that we have unfinished conversations, and I'm looking forward to having them with you in hell.
"He killed himself."
I felt my skull exploding in a millisecond, and my expression froze in an awkward silence. The guy standing next to me stared at me, trying to save me with a distracting, innocuous remark.
"How did this happen?"
"Well, he shot himself. I guess he's been depressed for a long time."
The topic skidded away, as they started trading gossip about their respective bosses, while I stood there, frozen in agony and stunned, with racing thoughts bubbling, penetrating my body in a visceral, nauseating way, so paralytic that I could barely talk to anyone else at this pleasant, welcoming little event.
I raced home and researched ceaselessly over the Internet concerning his death, and there was very little. No obituary. No newspaper prints. I couldn't find his E-mail even. Maybe it was just a rumor. I had some glimmer of hope that maybe it's all just heresy. I decided to find his boss's E-mail and sent him a little message to express my condolence. Perhaps I'd be able to get his wife's phone number and talk to her--I went to their house once in college for thanksgiving, and remember fondly of that wonderful lunch-dinner that was so diametrically different from my own family's eggshell scattered annual ritual.
The boss was on vacation. Then 5 minutes later he sent me an E-mail saying what a terrible loss it was, and the memorial service was already over with lots of tears and good humor. He attached a nice little company-wide message neatly summarizing his "devotion" to his wife and his "love" to his 3 year old son.
I felt unspeakably angry. I wanted to yell, you don't know what the fuck you are talking about. Last time I talked to C was in 2010, and over the phone he told me "the only thing that annoyed me more than my wife is my son." He spent ten, twelve hours with you and you don't really know him. Nobody knows him. And now he's dead. He shot himself IN THE BLOODY HEAD and I didn't even know you can get a gun up there that easily. Why did nobody have a fucking clue?
I am so angry. I am angry at him. I am angry at his boss. I am angry at his wife and "friends", if he had any to speak of. I am most angry at myself. Why did I only try his gmail a year ago? Maybe he would've checked his old school E-mail. Maybe he would've forwarded it to his new company E-mail. Maybe he would've called me before he died had I been able to stay in touch with him. Maybe I could've done something more.
He was a few years older. We smoked my first joint together. We complained about the inanity of our respective love affairs together. We were supposed to laugh in our intoxication into our old age together.
He once told me, I don't meditate, I masturbate, and that was wisest thing I've heard in my life. Does he have a gravestone somewhere? C, If you can see this, know that we have unfinished conversations, and I'm looking forward to having them with you in hell.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Anal desire
D was on break this week, and was taking care of the kids at home, so I wasn't able to get away from her and write some more after work. She is gone now at her parents house--alone with the kids, upon my request in the form of protest. It really is symptomatic of our deteriorating relationship.
She's coming back on Saturday, so I have a few moments of reprieve. I did something last night that I've only done a couple of times in my life. D has a big black dildo that she swears that she never used since we got married. In fact, she has been trying to hide it in the closet, in a big paper box with all her other trinkets that she supposedly no longer "uses", like her little bowl for marijuana and her oversized vibrators. Anyway, I decided to fish it out of there and get a little bit of anal pleasure out of it. There were a couple of lubed condoms in the bed-stand drawer, and I teared open one of them and rolled it effortlessly onto the dildo. I wanted an easy disposal. I aimed the dildo at the opening, and softly massaged it, and the nice warm electrifying feeling expanded upward to the rest of my pelvis. I always wanted D to lick me down there, but she refused categorically even though I offered to reciprocate. I used some extra lubrication and slowly pushed it into myself. It was a strange feeling that I remembered when I did this a few years ago, a feeling of fullness and a sensation that I was about do defecate, as my sphincter contracted involuntarily, gripping the dildo with a messy, subtle force. I feel myself expanding and becoming aroused, engorged both in the front and in the back. I greased up my right hand and got a good grip while my left hand moved the dildo in and out. This combination of motions lasted a good 10 minutes and the sensation of fullness and loss of control intensified, as I started grunting with every motion.
At this point I was sitting on the floor, and edging toward that final point of no-return. I increased the frequency of my left hand, feeling the tip gently but firmly massaging my prostate, and with every squeeze my sense of control peeled away, layer by layer, until I stopped the motion of my right hand. I felt that fantastic wave rising, quite unusually slowly, first from the inside of my pelvis, then tightening with the rest of my body, as my eyes rolled back and the volume of my animalistic grunts reached its inevitable apogee. The strange, powerful contractions possessed my entire existence as thick white liquid erupted from my orifice. It was a strange feeling, orgasming that way--but certainly a good feeling that I would like to try a few times a year.
A few minutes later when I came to, I saw the puddle in front of me. I wiped it up with some paper towel and dumped the rest of whatever else that needed to be dumped in the trash. I felt lonely.
She's coming back on Saturday, so I have a few moments of reprieve. I did something last night that I've only done a couple of times in my life. D has a big black dildo that she swears that she never used since we got married. In fact, she has been trying to hide it in the closet, in a big paper box with all her other trinkets that she supposedly no longer "uses", like her little bowl for marijuana and her oversized vibrators. Anyway, I decided to fish it out of there and get a little bit of anal pleasure out of it. There were a couple of lubed condoms in the bed-stand drawer, and I teared open one of them and rolled it effortlessly onto the dildo. I wanted an easy disposal. I aimed the dildo at the opening, and softly massaged it, and the nice warm electrifying feeling expanded upward to the rest of my pelvis. I always wanted D to lick me down there, but she refused categorically even though I offered to reciprocate. I used some extra lubrication and slowly pushed it into myself. It was a strange feeling that I remembered when I did this a few years ago, a feeling of fullness and a sensation that I was about do defecate, as my sphincter contracted involuntarily, gripping the dildo with a messy, subtle force. I feel myself expanding and becoming aroused, engorged both in the front and in the back. I greased up my right hand and got a good grip while my left hand moved the dildo in and out. This combination of motions lasted a good 10 minutes and the sensation of fullness and loss of control intensified, as I started grunting with every motion.
At this point I was sitting on the floor, and edging toward that final point of no-return. I increased the frequency of my left hand, feeling the tip gently but firmly massaging my prostate, and with every squeeze my sense of control peeled away, layer by layer, until I stopped the motion of my right hand. I felt that fantastic wave rising, quite unusually slowly, first from the inside of my pelvis, then tightening with the rest of my body, as my eyes rolled back and the volume of my animalistic grunts reached its inevitable apogee. The strange, powerful contractions possessed my entire existence as thick white liquid erupted from my orifice. It was a strange feeling, orgasming that way--but certainly a good feeling that I would like to try a few times a year.
A few minutes later when I came to, I saw the puddle in front of me. I wiped it up with some paper towel and dumped the rest of whatever else that needed to be dumped in the trash. I felt lonely.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Philosophy of a sexless marriage
Sometimes I ask myself, am I living in a sexless marriage? One common definition somewhere states that a sexless marriage is a marriage in which people have sex less than 12 times a year. I think I might've barely beaten that last year. In the hands and hearts of demographers, I do not qualify. So what is my marriage? How am I to justify my pathetic, self-pitying existence?
If you know me in real life, you wouldn't know how unhappy I am. I go to the gym. I buy expensive clothing at fancy department stores. I drive a pretty nice car. I direct a team of 5-10 people and report directly to the divisional VP. My job is flexible. My company is more than accommodating with my rather undemanding patrimony. I live in a nice part of the southern suburb of this nice, newly constructed, All American city. I have a beautiful car with gorgeous leather seats. I smile a lot to every one around me. This is who I am to everyone--even to my therapist, whom I see from time to time. There is nothing wrong with my life.
I can put up a front as a man. It takes no effort. I have no depth psychology. Women and men assume that if you appear happily married, if you sound like a doting father, and if you fulfill the obligations of a bread winner, your existence is easily described and your purpose totally capitulated by the sequence of stereotypes that everyone on earth knows about and worship, directly or indirectly. Do I love my wife? What does that mean anyway? Doesn't love mean that you commit yourself to take care of her no matter what happens? Doesn't love mean that you not avail to the opportunities that present themselves to indulge upon the sensuality, the indecency, the criminality of extramarital affairs? Doesn't love mean that the utility of sex as a vehicle for self-expression, that uniquely human characteristic would be denied from time to time? Does love mean responsibility? Love stipulates a dry, stark demarcation between fantasy and reality, between what is possible and what is likely, between what I wished my life was like and what my life will actually be like.
Is it possible that the assumptions that all of us make are wrong? Is it possible that men want sex for love as much as women want love for sex? The fundamental conflict of desire and action is the ridiculous core of this strangely wistful scenario that many of us know about and all of us dread. Sex is not animalistic. If it were, we would be happily mating once a year during estrous, while pursuing our lonely, fanatic careers, like the proud Siberian tigers. Is sexlessness the disease, or is it the symptom of a bigger disease--our daily drivel, the weblike anomie that surrounds us, the lack of all capacity in this post-industrial, post-modern matrix for me, with all of its vainglorious irony, to be human?
If you know me in real life, you wouldn't know how unhappy I am. I go to the gym. I buy expensive clothing at fancy department stores. I drive a pretty nice car. I direct a team of 5-10 people and report directly to the divisional VP. My job is flexible. My company is more than accommodating with my rather undemanding patrimony. I live in a nice part of the southern suburb of this nice, newly constructed, All American city. I have a beautiful car with gorgeous leather seats. I smile a lot to every one around me. This is who I am to everyone--even to my therapist, whom I see from time to time. There is nothing wrong with my life.
I can put up a front as a man. It takes no effort. I have no depth psychology. Women and men assume that if you appear happily married, if you sound like a doting father, and if you fulfill the obligations of a bread winner, your existence is easily described and your purpose totally capitulated by the sequence of stereotypes that everyone on earth knows about and worship, directly or indirectly. Do I love my wife? What does that mean anyway? Doesn't love mean that you commit yourself to take care of her no matter what happens? Doesn't love mean that you not avail to the opportunities that present themselves to indulge upon the sensuality, the indecency, the criminality of extramarital affairs? Doesn't love mean that the utility of sex as a vehicle for self-expression, that uniquely human characteristic would be denied from time to time? Does love mean responsibility? Love stipulates a dry, stark demarcation between fantasy and reality, between what is possible and what is likely, between what I wished my life was like and what my life will actually be like.
Is it possible that the assumptions that all of us make are wrong? Is it possible that men want sex for love as much as women want love for sex? The fundamental conflict of desire and action is the ridiculous core of this strangely wistful scenario that many of us know about and all of us dread. Sex is not animalistic. If it were, we would be happily mating once a year during estrous, while pursuing our lonely, fanatic careers, like the proud Siberian tigers. Is sexlessness the disease, or is it the symptom of a bigger disease--our daily drivel, the weblike anomie that surrounds us, the lack of all capacity in this post-industrial, post-modern matrix for me, with all of its vainglorious irony, to be human?
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Another scotching summer day
In my part of the country, the summer heat goes up pretty consistently around early June, and becomes unbearable this time of the year, and this is why everyone has a pool in the backyard. My backyard is mostly full of pebbles--we wanted a dry garden feel, but a few square feet was opened up for some greens. The pool has its lining changed recently, and it's a sleepy bowl of blue. I'm writing on my laptop in the sun, wearing nothing but a pair of oversized swimming trunks. I am having cravings for a cigarette. The children need to be picked up soon.
Is there time for a quickie?
I know there won't be any action for me later tonight. So maybe I'll get going now. I'm imagine myself being squeezed tightly by a smooth warm slippery thing, and I start to perspire profusely. I am going to take off my swimming trunks. Now that I am naked I'm going to put one finger in between my scrotum and my sacrum and press on it, feeling my prostate contracting in response. I see myself becoming larger and larger, and the veins expanding with fresh blood bringing felicitous oxygen. My eyes are closed and I'm feeling the warmth of the mid afternoon sun shining on me. I am sweating. My blood is boiling. That budding tickle of a feeling, growing monstrously from the depth of my pelvis, expanding like a weed sweeping across the field, throughout my body, as I moan, slowly and deeply, in pleasure. As the pressure builds up, my entire body contorts uncontrollably with each wave of indescribable orgiastic sensation. Suddenly a creamy, white jet erupts from the small opening at the tip of my erection, and I yell out, carelessly as I may be, as the neighbors might hear me and see me in a state of wonton decadence. Maybe a few drops of my fresh semen will fall into the pool, expanding into a psychedelic floral pattern, dreamily rushing down the filter accompanied by the incandescent bubbling of the filtering motor.
"Ah! Ah...Ah!"
Ok I am going to do that now and then pick up my children. See ya later.
Is there time for a quickie?
I know there won't be any action for me later tonight. So maybe I'll get going now. I'm imagine myself being squeezed tightly by a smooth warm slippery thing, and I start to perspire profusely. I am going to take off my swimming trunks. Now that I am naked I'm going to put one finger in between my scrotum and my sacrum and press on it, feeling my prostate contracting in response. I see myself becoming larger and larger, and the veins expanding with fresh blood bringing felicitous oxygen. My eyes are closed and I'm feeling the warmth of the mid afternoon sun shining on me. I am sweating. My blood is boiling. That budding tickle of a feeling, growing monstrously from the depth of my pelvis, expanding like a weed sweeping across the field, throughout my body, as I moan, slowly and deeply, in pleasure. As the pressure builds up, my entire body contorts uncontrollably with each wave of indescribable orgiastic sensation. Suddenly a creamy, white jet erupts from the small opening at the tip of my erection, and I yell out, carelessly as I may be, as the neighbors might hear me and see me in a state of wonton decadence. Maybe a few drops of my fresh semen will fall into the pool, expanding into a psychedelic floral pattern, dreamily rushing down the filter accompanied by the incandescent bubbling of the filtering motor.
"Ah! Ah...Ah!"
Ok I am going to do that now and then pick up my children. See ya later.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Other people's business
Chris (Christopher) and I had lunch today and there wasn't much to do at work, so I headed home early. He told me his in-laws are coming over this weekend, and he was trying to figure out what would be something to do that would not make him want to blow up his brain. I suggested amusement park.
"I like the water parks, " I said, "especially since it's 100 degrees out."
"I think people piss in the pool."
"Don't be ridiculous. Who's gonna piss in the pool?"
"Kids."
"Why would anyone want to swim in their own piss?"
"Why do kids sit in front of the TV and watch PBS for 30 hours straight? I don't know!"
We both laughed.
Christopher is around my size, maybe a bit bigger, and I can see that he hasn't been going to the gym lately. When he climbs that two pathetic stories at the flat box of a work place that we inhabit, I can always catch a glimpse of those beads of sweat leaking out of his veiny forehead.
"I actually don't mind her parents much," he said, "she used to tell me that they thought I was too quiet. After we married she once told me that they thought I was too loud. I kept thinking, make up your fucking mind! I used to try pretty hard to make my father-in-law happy, but I should've known that there's not a lot you can do. He is quiet around me all the time. And this one time when we were over at her house, and it was late, we just started doing it, and afterward I came out buck naked to go to the bathroom, and he was standing right there. I thought he was sleepwalking. That was pretty awkward."
I had a grotesque image of Chris on top of his wife, who's not unattractive, thrusting. It was a bit much for me, so I stopped thinking about that, but the more I tried to suppress it, the more disturbing the images come up, as his enormous, ball-like body rolling back and forth over her voluptuous breasts. All of a sudden, he was me--I was the one on top of her, his wife underneath me, smooth, warm, moist, overeager to please her cuckold.
"What's up?" He noticed my silence.
"Let's go back," I said, swallowing the last morsel of Arby's roastbeef.
"I like the water parks, " I said, "especially since it's 100 degrees out."
"I think people piss in the pool."
"Don't be ridiculous. Who's gonna piss in the pool?"
"Kids."
"Why would anyone want to swim in their own piss?"
"Why do kids sit in front of the TV and watch PBS for 30 hours straight? I don't know!"
We both laughed.
Christopher is around my size, maybe a bit bigger, and I can see that he hasn't been going to the gym lately. When he climbs that two pathetic stories at the flat box of a work place that we inhabit, I can always catch a glimpse of those beads of sweat leaking out of his veiny forehead.
"I actually don't mind her parents much," he said, "she used to tell me that they thought I was too quiet. After we married she once told me that they thought I was too loud. I kept thinking, make up your fucking mind! I used to try pretty hard to make my father-in-law happy, but I should've known that there's not a lot you can do. He is quiet around me all the time. And this one time when we were over at her house, and it was late, we just started doing it, and afterward I came out buck naked to go to the bathroom, and he was standing right there. I thought he was sleepwalking. That was pretty awkward."
I had a grotesque image of Chris on top of his wife, who's not unattractive, thrusting. It was a bit much for me, so I stopped thinking about that, but the more I tried to suppress it, the more disturbing the images come up, as his enormous, ball-like body rolling back and forth over her voluptuous breasts. All of a sudden, he was me--I was the one on top of her, his wife underneath me, smooth, warm, moist, overeager to please her cuckold.
"What's up?" He noticed my silence.
"Let's go back," I said, swallowing the last morsel of Arby's roastbeef.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Post-coital with D
D and I fucked again on Friday. If you recall, the last time was almost a month ago. The circumstances were not as ideal as last time. After dinner on Friday the kids went to bed and I wasn't expecting any action. In fact, I helped myself two days in a roll on Wednesday and Thursday. I was bemoaning yet another week of sexlessness, even though obviously she promised it to me a day before. Fridays have become unbearable lately, as all my friends live a couple of suburbs over and if I want to see them I'd have to drive at least 20 minutes, and they are each burdened by their respective anomic home life. I have gotten pretty friendly with a couple of co-workers: Aaron, who used to be on my team, is a meticulous Jewish man who went to NYU and moved down here two years ago. He is the ambitious type, working long hours and bought a house close to a reformed synagogue that his wife made him attend every Friday. Wife is a special-ed teacher. I wonder how much sex he's having. I obviously can't hang out with him on Shabbat. Christopher, is an amicable local guy, born and raised, and speaks with a drawl occasionally, even though he managed to get an MBA from...was it Berkeley? He loves to go on and on about football and baseball, and cultivates a persona of a laid-back aging frat boy, but deep down I know he's the sensitive type. He loaned me a book by Henry Miller once, and told me to not tell his wife. I'm not sure why, because she is cheerful, dull, slightly overweight but still attractive in her mid 30s after two kids, and flawless in her ways of managing the household. Every time I go to his house to do something it was always immaculate, despite his own very messy twin boys. They apparently needed help conceiving. We have play-dates pretty frequently, sometimes on Sundays, because to his parents chagrin he doesn't go to church very often.
D was in bed blowdrying her hair and in a pink nightgown. I took off my t-shirt but left my underwear on. She leisurely shaped her hair into a glowing, wavy contour and nonchalantly started petting my boxer-briefs with her fingers. I was startled, but a few seconds later let myself go to feel the smooth movement of her fingers. She smirked and squeezed my nipples a bit. I started massaging her smooth inner thigh with my palm, and I had the thought of noticing the inexplicable misfit between the hairy, coarse skin on the back of my hand and the spotless, almost silvery skin of hers. My pudgy fingers seemed utterly out of place--I felt like a brute. I am a brute, heavy, clumsy, physically awkward and deficient in whatever sensuality that is required to attract my own wife. Sometimes I felt like Shrek.
I felt her warm wetness in between her legs and I knew I was ready to enter her. I pulled off my underwear and exposed myself to her, and she looked at it happily and swallowed it for a few seconds. I felt the warmth around the tip and behind the frenulum building up inside of her mouth. I quickly pulled out of her mouth and entered her, grabbing her buttocks as waves of pleasure enveloped my pelvis. Barely a minute or two later I was about to let go. I closed my eyes and I let go. I'm not sure why, because I knew I could wait and last a bit longer, but I didn't feel like it, and whatever there is left inside of my seminal repository erupted quietly with a few weak contractions.
She pulled herself away and said dourly, "that was pretty fast." She sat up and fished out a tiny white vibrator and started working on herself. I tried to massage her and lightly bite her nipples like she always liked me to do, but she interrupted me curtly, "just stop." A few minutes later she arrived, and she turned off the only lamp that was lit, on her side, and the curtains of nightfall closed again around me.
D was in bed blowdrying her hair and in a pink nightgown. I took off my t-shirt but left my underwear on. She leisurely shaped her hair into a glowing, wavy contour and nonchalantly started petting my boxer-briefs with her fingers. I was startled, but a few seconds later let myself go to feel the smooth movement of her fingers. She smirked and squeezed my nipples a bit. I started massaging her smooth inner thigh with my palm, and I had the thought of noticing the inexplicable misfit between the hairy, coarse skin on the back of my hand and the spotless, almost silvery skin of hers. My pudgy fingers seemed utterly out of place--I felt like a brute. I am a brute, heavy, clumsy, physically awkward and deficient in whatever sensuality that is required to attract my own wife. Sometimes I felt like Shrek.
I felt her warm wetness in between her legs and I knew I was ready to enter her. I pulled off my underwear and exposed myself to her, and she looked at it happily and swallowed it for a few seconds. I felt the warmth around the tip and behind the frenulum building up inside of her mouth. I quickly pulled out of her mouth and entered her, grabbing her buttocks as waves of pleasure enveloped my pelvis. Barely a minute or two later I was about to let go. I closed my eyes and I let go. I'm not sure why, because I knew I could wait and last a bit longer, but I didn't feel like it, and whatever there is left inside of my seminal repository erupted quietly with a few weak contractions.
She pulled herself away and said dourly, "that was pretty fast." She sat up and fished out a tiny white vibrator and started working on herself. I tried to massage her and lightly bite her nipples like she always liked me to do, but she interrupted me curtly, "just stop." A few minutes later she arrived, and she turned off the only lamp that was lit, on her side, and the curtains of nightfall closed again around me.
Yes I did!
One of the readers is wondering if I'm trading sex for not writing on this site. Well, not exactly. She doesn't know, but she gave in. And weekends are busy times.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
sex tonight?
D said something uncharacteristic last night. She came home late again, around 8PM. The kids already went to bed, though Henry was struggling to fall asleep. She heated up some leftovers and told me, "I really want to have sex but I'm too tired tonight. Let's do it tomorrow."
We had a brief conversation about mundane things for a few minutes, but I couldn't resist my excited palpitations. After she went to bed, I sat quietly in the study, in front of the computer, and browsed for a few minutes videos of couples having sensual intercourse, and it turned me on so much that I almost wanted an immediate release right then and there. But I knew it would be best to hold off, because it would be all the sweeter when I finally get to indulge my marital bliss.
Sometimes I find it helpful to do the Kegel a few times when this happens, and let that firm, injected hardness retreat in a few clenching, voluntary sacral contractions. I felt the smooth white contour of my boxer briefs expanding uncomfortably a few times with the contractions, and it reminded me of Minnie, and that night at the lake. The patch in front of the tip got slightly wet with a few drops of seminal fluid. I pulled them off, wiped the opening of my urethra with my index finger, and put it into my mouth. I don't know why I did that, and the slightly nautical, bleachy taste lingered momentarily on my palette. I turned off the computer and went to bed.
We had a brief conversation about mundane things for a few minutes, but I couldn't resist my excited palpitations. After she went to bed, I sat quietly in the study, in front of the computer, and browsed for a few minutes videos of couples having sensual intercourse, and it turned me on so much that I almost wanted an immediate release right then and there. But I knew it would be best to hold off, because it would be all the sweeter when I finally get to indulge my marital bliss.
Sometimes I find it helpful to do the Kegel a few times when this happens, and let that firm, injected hardness retreat in a few clenching, voluntary sacral contractions. I felt the smooth white contour of my boxer briefs expanding uncomfortably a few times with the contractions, and it reminded me of Minnie, and that night at the lake. The patch in front of the tip got slightly wet with a few drops of seminal fluid. I pulled them off, wiped the opening of my urethra with my index finger, and put it into my mouth. I don't know why I did that, and the slightly nautical, bleachy taste lingered momentarily on my palette. I turned off the computer and went to bed.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Minnie, part deux
I think about Minnie very often, especially during the long sexless nights with D, when the fire in my groin grows stronger with every moment of joyous fantasy. I aspire to that, not only because it was what I loved, but also because it made me feel young and full of strength: she had the experience and she wanted me. I wasn't an awkward, slightly pudgy teenager. I was an adult.
All that I remember of that summer was fucking. That moment in time is something that was and unlikely will be ever repeated, that erstwhile sense of "I'm gonna give up," and becoming submerged by orgasm, over and over, breathless. I remember ejaculating once, failing with exhaustion onto my side of the bed. I couldn't help but to run my fingers up and down her smooth, powerful skin, and soon enough I would get aroused again, even though the tip is still a bit sore and tender. I wanted to be inside of her again and hear her make that faint, surprising, tidal sound when I entered her. I wanted to hear it over and over and possess her as I went in and out of her. And I would come the second time, but longer and with a much more lingering sensation instead of that blasting explosive feeling from the first time. Sometimes this would go on for hours.
As I write this I feel blood boiling inside of me, yet I'm impotent, prisoner of my own making. I took her out to dinner and drinks that summer, when the campus was covered with broad leafed birch and the grass was greener, and I played guitar to her. I really thought I was going to marry her. We shared the same uncanny draw to Bob Dylan and I was able to convince her to go camping with me in August. I remember a starry midsummer night, my feet hanging out of the tent, and my head in between her silky thighs. I curled my tongue softly and reveled in that sound she made and that smell that was distinctly hers, and that night I decided to keep at it even though she motioned my head to come up. She gave in to me and trembled all over and yelled out as she arrived. Bob Dylan was playing in the background.
It almost seemed as if everyday things were just much duller with the morning after. We went back to work, each to a different floor where our respective cubicles were, and occasionally we would pass by each other, in the hallway, in the elevator. It was a time before the cell phones and text messages, and sharing a daily moment of secret intimacy without the perpetual presence lent yet another mysterious layer to that summer.
Monday, June 11, 2012
in laws
Spent the whole weekend at the in-laws.
As expected, another sexless weekend. My in-laws live a couple of hours away in a new development full of old people. The neighborhood is uncharacteristically sandy, with some pebble-stone streets and newly installed faux European street lights, amplifying its already obsequious kitsch. They took the time and spent the money to renovate their pool and bought a hot tub three years ago, and that's pretty much the only thing that would convince me to go visit these days.
This trip was planned a few weeks in advance. Since D and I are still not talking all that much at this point, she made doubly sure that she demonstrated what she wanted to do over the weekend by loading up all her essentials into the car 24 hours in advance. We have two cars, and mine is a 5 year old Subaru Outback. It's really an ugly car, with a dusty dull green color and a hatchback that barely works. She picked up the kids on Friday, and I begrudgingly moved both child seats into my car. Those of you who have kids would know the awkwardness every time, as these torture devices are designed to barely squeeze through the car door in a conspiratorial way, and securing them can also be frustrating, especially with Henry fanatically complaining in repetitive verbal noises that vaguely resembled "out, get me out!"
D's parents are old school residents, and they've lived here for a long time. D's father, Ron, was a vet who barely avoided Vietnam by being a communications director working for the army. Even though he had a slight build and talked in a soft, barely audible voice, he boosted an extensive, ridiculous obsession with military things. He would often want to draft me into listening to his long diatribe against the current administration, mostly because of his belief that defense strategy had been unacceptably pathetic. Occasionally, especially when he had a few, he would talk about his sexual conquests when he was out of the country and stationed near Fiji, on an island whose name I can never remember. Most of the time, however, he along with her mother, are very much preoccupied with their grandchildren, and certainly do not pay enough attention to me for me to complain about it.
In the evening, the older and younger folks go to bed early, and I skinny dipped first in the hot tub then in the pool. The water in the pool was freezing, and it made me feel vulnerable and gave me a headache. The jets in the hot tub always had an erotic implication for me, though I truly did not have any energy to pursue such a massage on Saturday. I used to use that hot tub for that reason all the time, and it worked pretty well even over my swimming trunks, as the warm jets slowly massaged my swollen glans. It was always slightly too intense at the point of no return, and I would grab onto to the wall of the tub as the inevitable arrival of squeezing motion descended on me, and everything would tighten, then relax, then tighten again. A few seconds later, a few speckles of viscous threads would escape through the openings around my thighs and rapidly flicker out to the gutter with a moment of dance of the whirlpool. This Saturday night wasn't one of those nights. When I walked back to the bedroom, I was naked, D had her back to my side and the light was off.
As expected, another sexless weekend. My in-laws live a couple of hours away in a new development full of old people. The neighborhood is uncharacteristically sandy, with some pebble-stone streets and newly installed faux European street lights, amplifying its already obsequious kitsch. They took the time and spent the money to renovate their pool and bought a hot tub three years ago, and that's pretty much the only thing that would convince me to go visit these days.
This trip was planned a few weeks in advance. Since D and I are still not talking all that much at this point, she made doubly sure that she demonstrated what she wanted to do over the weekend by loading up all her essentials into the car 24 hours in advance. We have two cars, and mine is a 5 year old Subaru Outback. It's really an ugly car, with a dusty dull green color and a hatchback that barely works. She picked up the kids on Friday, and I begrudgingly moved both child seats into my car. Those of you who have kids would know the awkwardness every time, as these torture devices are designed to barely squeeze through the car door in a conspiratorial way, and securing them can also be frustrating, especially with Henry fanatically complaining in repetitive verbal noises that vaguely resembled "out, get me out!"
D's parents are old school residents, and they've lived here for a long time. D's father, Ron, was a vet who barely avoided Vietnam by being a communications director working for the army. Even though he had a slight build and talked in a soft, barely audible voice, he boosted an extensive, ridiculous obsession with military things. He would often want to draft me into listening to his long diatribe against the current administration, mostly because of his belief that defense strategy had been unacceptably pathetic. Occasionally, especially when he had a few, he would talk about his sexual conquests when he was out of the country and stationed near Fiji, on an island whose name I can never remember. Most of the time, however, he along with her mother, are very much preoccupied with their grandchildren, and certainly do not pay enough attention to me for me to complain about it.
In the evening, the older and younger folks go to bed early, and I skinny dipped first in the hot tub then in the pool. The water in the pool was freezing, and it made me feel vulnerable and gave me a headache. The jets in the hot tub always had an erotic implication for me, though I truly did not have any energy to pursue such a massage on Saturday. I used to use that hot tub for that reason all the time, and it worked pretty well even over my swimming trunks, as the warm jets slowly massaged my swollen glans. It was always slightly too intense at the point of no return, and I would grab onto to the wall of the tub as the inevitable arrival of squeezing motion descended on me, and everything would tighten, then relax, then tighten again. A few seconds later, a few speckles of viscous threads would escape through the openings around my thighs and rapidly flicker out to the gutter with a moment of dance of the whirlpool. This Saturday night wasn't one of those nights. When I walked back to the bedroom, I was naked, D had her back to my side and the light was off.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
wife's work
D is extraordinarily busy lately. She leaves the house at 6:30AM and doesn't get back until 7:30PM at the earliest. I am in charge of picking up the kids from day care and making dinner, and though I am a pretty good cook in general I have been skimping lately, mostly ordering in pathetically bad-for-you options. Her conspicuous absence also makes it easier for me to write. Henry is at the age where he could sit in front of the TV for hours. His sister likes the big play area we have in the living room, with lots of plastic blocks and other noisy toys--her favorite is this green dinosaur that makes a squeaky sound every time someone hits it. I saw her biting it the other day. I saw a lot of aggression in her eyes, and I wonder if she got that from her mother or from me.
For a while I thought D being busy makes it easier for me to watch porn and take care of my business, but I was wrong. Children are demanding creatures, and once you have them you give up pleasurable things in your life, as part of that perpetual parental duty. Ironically I find myself doing it more at the bathroom at work and at gym, especially since cell phone signals are getting better and better. I don't particularly like it. Bathrooms are dingy and malodorous places, even the fancy ones at work, but I find that having that outlet of release makes me more content and satisfied with my life, which I don't really want to change in any way.
But there is always that sense of guilt every time afterwards. Like today, dick in hand, I was in the bathroom for all of 5 minutes when I heard a big thump and crying. Henry managed to fall off a dining room chair. The desire had all but retreated after I helped him up and used all my psychological wherewithal to stop his bawling. I wonder if this is the predicament of most married men here, this pathetic, anomic yet at times hilarious existence that defines us.
For a while I thought D being busy makes it easier for me to watch porn and take care of my business, but I was wrong. Children are demanding creatures, and once you have them you give up pleasurable things in your life, as part of that perpetual parental duty. Ironically I find myself doing it more at the bathroom at work and at gym, especially since cell phone signals are getting better and better. I don't particularly like it. Bathrooms are dingy and malodorous places, even the fancy ones at work, but I find that having that outlet of release makes me more content and satisfied with my life, which I don't really want to change in any way.
But there is always that sense of guilt every time afterwards. Like today, dick in hand, I was in the bathroom for all of 5 minutes when I heard a big thump and crying. Henry managed to fall off a dining room chair. The desire had all but retreated after I helped him up and used all my psychological wherewithal to stop his bawling. I wonder if this is the predicament of most married men here, this pathetic, anomic yet at times hilarious existence that defines us.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
play
That was a good night. I remember slowly unzipping her dress, feeling the silk strap of her push-up bra, with a subtle smooth texture that makes me throb. All erotic things ultimately become erotic because they remind you of that profound moment of entry, that smooth, unified feeling of reaching the bottom of all human ecstasy. Anything that resembles it provokes a repetitive relay of that sensation. Her nipples were a little more erect, poking through the thin layer of bra that I was about to shed for her. I kissed her neck, licked it, making some small dent of red marks.
The foreplay wasn't very long. I massaged her beasts with both of my hands as she put her hands in between my legs--that uncomfortable feeling of my khaki pants holding my expanding trunks in place, constricting its imminent aggression, how can I forget? I undid my belt buckles. That belt I still have, a thick brown one, a bit dressy and exposing my anxiety about the date in plain sight. I pulled down my pants and my underwear to my ankles, and my penis made that subtle skipping motion, at least that's how I'd like to recall it.
I remember that patch of water, the wetness, a dirty puddle, because I laid her on it. It was somewhere between a grab and a push, and she was so little and fragile, powerless to me, and I felt guilty about it. I rolled up her dress and pulled down her little panties, the color of which I've forgotten. I remember slowly going down on her, and inspected her for any signs of STDs. As I said, I have always been cautious. To my surprise, it was beautiful and had only a vague scent of woman-ness, which is a scent that always turns me on, though perhaps not appetizing to everyone, a mixture of smell of sweat, vaginal fluids and urine. She kept it clean and pink, and she was getting swollen and wet, absolving my worry that we would need to get additional lubrication.
As I slowly licked her clitoris, she moaned deliberately, started twisting her own nipples with her thumbs and index fingers, and closed her eyes. That rare and powerful sound came directly out of the depth of her throat and poured some gas on the flame in my groin. I took my time and let her do her thing and quietly enjoyed feeling my expanding and pulsating self exposed in open air in the cool summer breeze. When I lifted my head I remember seeing some fireflies flickering in the nearby bushes.
"Ah...fuck." I remember yelling out softly as I entered her.
As I moved slowly in and out of her, the tip of my penis started to emanate that strong sensual feeling of pleasure. I felt like I was losing it quickly, my sanity, my reservations, my reason, and I pushed my tongue forcefully down her throat, looking for some solace. Instead I found a certain almost spiritual moment of peace and emergence, as the unstoppable contractions began, and the raspy grunts came out of my throat. I felt my eyeballs rolling back and my ordinary being dying in a sensual bliss.
Of course, when it was over, I felt guilty again, as usual, mostly because as it dripped out of her I saw the evidences of my own lack of discretion. I felt some sadness inside of me welling up, followed quickly by that sense of equanimity. I remember somehow feeling less lonely. I remember thinking, hey if this is what being married is all about, sign me up!
The foreplay wasn't very long. I massaged her beasts with both of my hands as she put her hands in between my legs--that uncomfortable feeling of my khaki pants holding my expanding trunks in place, constricting its imminent aggression, how can I forget? I undid my belt buckles. That belt I still have, a thick brown one, a bit dressy and exposing my anxiety about the date in plain sight. I pulled down my pants and my underwear to my ankles, and my penis made that subtle skipping motion, at least that's how I'd like to recall it.
I remember that patch of water, the wetness, a dirty puddle, because I laid her on it. It was somewhere between a grab and a push, and she was so little and fragile, powerless to me, and I felt guilty about it. I rolled up her dress and pulled down her little panties, the color of which I've forgotten. I remember slowly going down on her, and inspected her for any signs of STDs. As I said, I have always been cautious. To my surprise, it was beautiful and had only a vague scent of woman-ness, which is a scent that always turns me on, though perhaps not appetizing to everyone, a mixture of smell of sweat, vaginal fluids and urine. She kept it clean and pink, and she was getting swollen and wet, absolving my worry that we would need to get additional lubrication.
As I slowly licked her clitoris, she moaned deliberately, started twisting her own nipples with her thumbs and index fingers, and closed her eyes. That rare and powerful sound came directly out of the depth of her throat and poured some gas on the flame in my groin. I took my time and let her do her thing and quietly enjoyed feeling my expanding and pulsating self exposed in open air in the cool summer breeze. When I lifted my head I remember seeing some fireflies flickering in the nearby bushes.
"Ah...fuck." I remember yelling out softly as I entered her.
As I moved slowly in and out of her, the tip of my penis started to emanate that strong sensual feeling of pleasure. I felt like I was losing it quickly, my sanity, my reservations, my reason, and I pushed my tongue forcefully down her throat, looking for some solace. Instead I found a certain almost spiritual moment of peace and emergence, as the unstoppable contractions began, and the raspy grunts came out of my throat. I felt my eyeballs rolling back and my ordinary being dying in a sensual bliss.
Of course, when it was over, I felt guilty again, as usual, mostly because as it dripped out of her I saw the evidences of my own lack of discretion. I felt some sadness inside of me welling up, followed quickly by that sense of equanimity. I remember somehow feeling less lonely. I remember thinking, hey if this is what being married is all about, sign me up!
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
the lake
There was a cool body of water near my college, not quite large enough to be a real lake, but that was what everyone called it. A couple of my friends from the area liked to fish there. The surrounding neighborhood started developing around the time I started college, and one development was an unremarkable little restaurant called "Ricky's." I still remember the name because Ricky Gervais reminded me of the owner of that place, when I fell in love with that show years later, and made a "that's kind of interesting" moment of synaptic linkage. Ricky's served mostly traditional American food, burgers, club sandwiches, etc. They had a period where they tried to revamp the menu to include more local food, and I liked the way they cooked their fish, but I doubt much of the yield came from the lake.
That was where I had my first date with Minnie, if I could call her that. I remembered it so well mostly because what happened afterward was one of the most intense sexual experiences I've had in my life. She picked me up from that small townhouse apartment. She drove a red American made car, Chevy or Pontiac, as everyone did around here, and my roommate laughed about the clear sexual role reversal when he saw her. Her car was a bit small and I felt a little suffocated in the passenger seat. We bantered a bit, and all I remembered was being strangely aroused the minute I stepped into that car. I really wasn't paying too much attention to what she was saying--a few details I don't even know if it was given to me then or sometime before. She was from a few states over in California. Her father was a dentist and her mother stayed at home. She had two brothers, and I eventually met one of them. She spoke with a certain slow, bewildering tone that was quietly sexual, and I remember distinctly that all I ever wanted to do was to grab her above and below at the same time.
Don't really remember what we had for dinner. After dinner we took a slow stroll down the lake. I remember it being very awkward until we reached a patch of mud, where I made my move. It wasn't very late and the sun was barely set. She took a good look at me and I kept quiet, and said "what?" As dull as I was, it was easy to grab her and kiss her. I kissed maybe a half dozen girls before her, and always marveled at the soft, fluid-filled texture of a woman's lips. But what struck me was how hard her tongue was, as it invaded me in an obvious passionate tension. I remember thinking, nobody kissed me like that before--what does she want from me?
That thought did last very long, and as I slowly touched her breasts with the tip of my fingers through her thin dress, I grew hard pretty quickly, a pattern that continues to this, when seeing a naked body doesn't necessarily turn me on but kissing it and touching it would make me feel that electric link from up here to down there, and that part of me become embarrassingly engorged and indefatigably yearning. The sense of touching is much more erotic to me than the sense of seeing. When that happens I often like to move closer, as I am taller than most women I have kissed, and I like to them to know that pushing right next to their pubis was my pulsating desire.
That night we did something pretty stupid. We had unprotected sex. I suppose she should've taken more responsibilities because of her age, and I always thought that I wouldn't be the type who would do things like that either, but it happened anyway. It was also the first time when I felt, after the sex, that I was falling deeply tangled into something emotionally viscus, like falling into a spider web, or stirring a syrup with a wooden rod. For a few days thereafter I was convinced that this feeling was Love.
That was where I had my first date with Minnie, if I could call her that. I remembered it so well mostly because what happened afterward was one of the most intense sexual experiences I've had in my life. She picked me up from that small townhouse apartment. She drove a red American made car, Chevy or Pontiac, as everyone did around here, and my roommate laughed about the clear sexual role reversal when he saw her. Her car was a bit small and I felt a little suffocated in the passenger seat. We bantered a bit, and all I remembered was being strangely aroused the minute I stepped into that car. I really wasn't paying too much attention to what she was saying--a few details I don't even know if it was given to me then or sometime before. She was from a few states over in California. Her father was a dentist and her mother stayed at home. She had two brothers, and I eventually met one of them. She spoke with a certain slow, bewildering tone that was quietly sexual, and I remember distinctly that all I ever wanted to do was to grab her above and below at the same time.
Don't really remember what we had for dinner. After dinner we took a slow stroll down the lake. I remember it being very awkward until we reached a patch of mud, where I made my move. It wasn't very late and the sun was barely set. She took a good look at me and I kept quiet, and said "what?" As dull as I was, it was easy to grab her and kiss her. I kissed maybe a half dozen girls before her, and always marveled at the soft, fluid-filled texture of a woman's lips. But what struck me was how hard her tongue was, as it invaded me in an obvious passionate tension. I remember thinking, nobody kissed me like that before--what does she want from me?
That thought did last very long, and as I slowly touched her breasts with the tip of my fingers through her thin dress, I grew hard pretty quickly, a pattern that continues to this, when seeing a naked body doesn't necessarily turn me on but kissing it and touching it would make me feel that electric link from up here to down there, and that part of me become embarrassingly engorged and indefatigably yearning. The sense of touching is much more erotic to me than the sense of seeing. When that happens I often like to move closer, as I am taller than most women I have kissed, and I like to them to know that pushing right next to their pubis was my pulsating desire.
That night we did something pretty stupid. We had unprotected sex. I suppose she should've taken more responsibilities because of her age, and I always thought that I wouldn't be the type who would do things like that either, but it happened anyway. It was also the first time when I felt, after the sex, that I was falling deeply tangled into something emotionally viscus, like falling into a spider web, or stirring a syrup with a wooden rod. For a few days thereafter I was convinced that this feeling was Love.
Monday, June 4, 2012
college sex
It occurred to me that I should write more about my sex life in college, which was not all that much, but nevertheless. After my first tryst that I told you about, I had a long period of involuntary abstinence. I lived in a dorm for the first two years, and the rooms were pretty small, and I remember long nights of myself jerking off to the flickering screen of my clumsy desktop. I learned a lot of techniques from online sources, and while I never considered my self a geek, I was an engineering major who was not part of a fraternity. It was a big school with lots of attractive girls congregating, and I had no game. I was still underage so I couldn't go to any of the bars on campus, and I had no car. The campus was in the middle of a small college town that emptied up during the summer. I went home for the first summer, but for the second summer I stayed behind to work for a local company as a quantitative analyst for their corporate development division. The internship paid pretty well, enough for me to get a moderately attractive used car. It was also where I met my first girlfriend.
She was 3 years older than me. She was a couple of years ahead of me at the company, just graduated college and working in the marketing division. I ran into her at a company function. It was very awkward that someone who was a full-time worker would approach me, who was clearly younger and insecure about his role in the hierarchy. The company was a regional powerhouse, and had a very conservative culture, and I remember wearing a pretty ugly department store suit at this particular party, while she was wearing a stylish red dress that was made out of a shiny material that I couldn't name. She looked substantially older than most of the college girls that I knew, yet her skin was impeccable. She walked over with a glass of white wine in her hand, and said, "I've never seen you around."
It was gutsy for her to approach me like that. I was at least 5 inches taller than her and a lot heavier--I put on some weight eating unhealthy cafeteria food. She asked me where I was from and so on, and told me that we should hang out and work on this particular project. This didn't make any sense to me because the project itself was unrelated to what I was doing. While I remember some bits and pieces of the conversation, what I really remember was the moment I realized that she was interested in me, and while I was still making conversation I started paying closer attention to her body. I could see her beautiful curves plainly in that dress, and when I looked into her eyes I was thinking about running my hands down her smooth back, over her buttocks, grabbing them and simultaneously feeling that tight grasp when I was inside of her. That is often my thought when I meet an attractive woman, that feeling of smooth, moist tightness around me. Because she was so small, I also had these images of grabbing her and moving her up and down, on top of me. I distinctly remember my own fantastical images, feeling that uncomfortable expansion in my groins, a sense of slight embarrassment tinged with longing, and that almost involuntary clench that tightened my groin muscles and produced some pre-cum on my underwear. I hope she didn't notice the change that happened inside of me. It's interesting how these details come back to you when you write about them. It was a very uncomfortable pair of pants.
It was the middle of the summer and the A/C was full blast, but I was sweating pretty heavily. I made an appointment to see her--an idea came to me while I was fantasizing: the lake. I told her about it but apologized about not having a car. "I'll pick you up," she happily obliged.
She was 3 years older than me. She was a couple of years ahead of me at the company, just graduated college and working in the marketing division. I ran into her at a company function. It was very awkward that someone who was a full-time worker would approach me, who was clearly younger and insecure about his role in the hierarchy. The company was a regional powerhouse, and had a very conservative culture, and I remember wearing a pretty ugly department store suit at this particular party, while she was wearing a stylish red dress that was made out of a shiny material that I couldn't name. She looked substantially older than most of the college girls that I knew, yet her skin was impeccable. She walked over with a glass of white wine in her hand, and said, "I've never seen you around."
It was gutsy for her to approach me like that. I was at least 5 inches taller than her and a lot heavier--I put on some weight eating unhealthy cafeteria food. She asked me where I was from and so on, and told me that we should hang out and work on this particular project. This didn't make any sense to me because the project itself was unrelated to what I was doing. While I remember some bits and pieces of the conversation, what I really remember was the moment I realized that she was interested in me, and while I was still making conversation I started paying closer attention to her body. I could see her beautiful curves plainly in that dress, and when I looked into her eyes I was thinking about running my hands down her smooth back, over her buttocks, grabbing them and simultaneously feeling that tight grasp when I was inside of her. That is often my thought when I meet an attractive woman, that feeling of smooth, moist tightness around me. Because she was so small, I also had these images of grabbing her and moving her up and down, on top of me. I distinctly remember my own fantastical images, feeling that uncomfortable expansion in my groins, a sense of slight embarrassment tinged with longing, and that almost involuntary clench that tightened my groin muscles and produced some pre-cum on my underwear. I hope she didn't notice the change that happened inside of me. It's interesting how these details come back to you when you write about them. It was a very uncomfortable pair of pants.
It was the middle of the summer and the A/C was full blast, but I was sweating pretty heavily. I made an appointment to see her--an idea came to me while I was fantasizing: the lake. I told her about it but apologized about not having a car. "I'll pick you up," she happily obliged.
Friday, June 1, 2012
Comments
Again I want to urge you to leave comments. Blogging is by definition an interactive process. Please let me know what you think. Anonymous comments are completely ok. I know you are reading it. Let me know what you think of it.
here we go again
I couldn't deal with it anymore last night. D still would't do it, so I had to take things into my own hands. It was around 11PM. I scrubbed myself clean and walked buck naked downstairs into the living room. I looked around for anything interesting to play with, and saw some magnetic clips on the fridge. I took a couple off and clamped my nipples. Immediate turn-on. It's a hard to understand this connection--as I slowly stroke the very tip, it becomes a little erect, and a warm sensation flowed down up deeply into my pelvis.
I suppose I could get caught, but who cares? Everyone has blocks of time everyday when he is by himself, and this I am sure is the kind of perverted thoughts and acts he does: if he is not playing video games, he is playing with himself.
I always like looking at myself becoming bigger and bigger. When I first discovered, around 8 years old, that it could change in size inordinately delighted my curiosity. I cleaned it over and over, as every time I cleaned it, it got bigger, and after a moment it shrank again. I thought maybe it just wanted to be really really clean. I took a bucket from the bathroom and filled it with warm water, and dunked my little penis into it, and felt my body relaxing and time slowing down.
The living room was dark. I sank into the black leather couch with resignation. It had a mind of its own, and even though I felt a little guilty and a little pathetic, it resolutely, like a king, wanted to be pleasured with impunity. I felt like using my middle finger of my left hand to softly brush behind my sac, a slight tender motion, and a nasal moan. I closed my eyes and images of tits and other pink things scattered, like neon billboards flashing by on a busy highway. I could almost hear the loud, lascivious moans, sounds that were produced for no reason other than to titillate. Pleasure arrived pretty quickly in waves and I didn't hold out, except I squeezed a few times, feeling it moving up and down with each squeeze, and the seminal fluid flowing up my sacrum, trying hard to jump out. I let it go, and feeling the enormous contractions taking over my whole body, and clenched my teeth. A low pitched noise came out of my throat. I felt like an animal that bled all over the floor.
I suppose I could get caught, but who cares? Everyone has blocks of time everyday when he is by himself, and this I am sure is the kind of perverted thoughts and acts he does: if he is not playing video games, he is playing with himself.
I always like looking at myself becoming bigger and bigger. When I first discovered, around 8 years old, that it could change in size inordinately delighted my curiosity. I cleaned it over and over, as every time I cleaned it, it got bigger, and after a moment it shrank again. I thought maybe it just wanted to be really really clean. I took a bucket from the bathroom and filled it with warm water, and dunked my little penis into it, and felt my body relaxing and time slowing down.
The living room was dark. I sank into the black leather couch with resignation. It had a mind of its own, and even though I felt a little guilty and a little pathetic, it resolutely, like a king, wanted to be pleasured with impunity. I felt like using my middle finger of my left hand to softly brush behind my sac, a slight tender motion, and a nasal moan. I closed my eyes and images of tits and other pink things scattered, like neon billboards flashing by on a busy highway. I could almost hear the loud, lascivious moans, sounds that were produced for no reason other than to titillate. Pleasure arrived pretty quickly in waves and I didn't hold out, except I squeezed a few times, feeling it moving up and down with each squeeze, and the seminal fluid flowing up my sacrum, trying hard to jump out. I let it go, and feeling the enormous contractions taking over my whole body, and clenched my teeth. A low pitched noise came out of my throat. I felt like an animal that bled all over the floor.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
how does this work
I was watching TV, and D came by and whispered to me, "I want to fuck your brains out."
It was 1AM. I was very tired, so I went to take a shower. When I walked into the bedroom I saw her beautiful naked body lying on newly washed satin sheets.
"I warmed myself up for you," she said. In her hand is a 3 inch long pink vibrator that shaped like a little penis that she bought a while ago. She claimed that it made it easier for her to cum during sex, which was already frequent enough to me without it. She closed her eyes and slowly moved the vibratory buzz up and down her flesh, seemingly absorbed in her own pleasure.
I climbed on top of her and started kissing her shoulder blade. She opened her eyes and looked down, and said, "you look like you aren't very turned on tonight."
"I'm really tired," I flustered, "but I just need some time."
"That's ok. I am really tired too. I just need to sleep." She glibly skipped back into the bathroom to take her birth control and wash her face.
I felt lonely and out of control. I squeezed my nipples a bit and grabbed myself and gave myself a few good tugs, and unexpectedly it grew in size and became engorged. Maybe she will get on top of me and ride me for a bit so I don't have to move too much, I thought to myself sarcastically. I imagined doing it doggie style, and not seeing her face might make it easier for me to not think about what exactly had been going on between us while losing control over my involuntary contractions.
In her bathrobe, she leaned against the door frame and said in a surprising voice, "oh, you got yourself warmed up."
"Wait, I thought you wanted to do it."
"Well that was before. I thought you didn't want to do it. Now it's too late, and I have to get up early tomorrow."
Alright. I smiled uncomfortably. The pale of silence dropped between us as she turned off the light. I wonder if she could sense my anger. I wonder if she would care. She always falls asleep so quickly. I stumbled back into the living room. Feeling my testicles full of fluids, I needed a release. I was naked and rough with myself, and it came out suddenly and in a somewhat terrifying way, as if I was in a sustained electrocution with that addictive, volcanic quality of oozing. I squeezed a few more times to let the last drop fall squarely on the brand new linoleum floor that we installed a few months ago, and wiped it off, miffed, with a large piece of paper towel.
It was 1AM. I was very tired, so I went to take a shower. When I walked into the bedroom I saw her beautiful naked body lying on newly washed satin sheets.
"I warmed myself up for you," she said. In her hand is a 3 inch long pink vibrator that shaped like a little penis that she bought a while ago. She claimed that it made it easier for her to cum during sex, which was already frequent enough to me without it. She closed her eyes and slowly moved the vibratory buzz up and down her flesh, seemingly absorbed in her own pleasure.
I climbed on top of her and started kissing her shoulder blade. She opened her eyes and looked down, and said, "you look like you aren't very turned on tonight."
"I'm really tired," I flustered, "but I just need some time."
"That's ok. I am really tired too. I just need to sleep." She glibly skipped back into the bathroom to take her birth control and wash her face.
I felt lonely and out of control. I squeezed my nipples a bit and grabbed myself and gave myself a few good tugs, and unexpectedly it grew in size and became engorged. Maybe she will get on top of me and ride me for a bit so I don't have to move too much, I thought to myself sarcastically. I imagined doing it doggie style, and not seeing her face might make it easier for me to not think about what exactly had been going on between us while losing control over my involuntary contractions.
In her bathrobe, she leaned against the door frame and said in a surprising voice, "oh, you got yourself warmed up."
"Wait, I thought you wanted to do it."
"Well that was before. I thought you didn't want to do it. Now it's too late, and I have to get up early tomorrow."
Alright. I smiled uncomfortably. The pale of silence dropped between us as she turned off the light. I wonder if she could sense my anger. I wonder if she would care. She always falls asleep so quickly. I stumbled back into the living room. Feeling my testicles full of fluids, I needed a release. I was naked and rough with myself, and it came out suddenly and in a somewhat terrifying way, as if I was in a sustained electrocution with that addictive, volcanic quality of oozing. I squeezed a few more times to let the last drop fall squarely on the brand new linoleum floor that we installed a few months ago, and wiped it off, miffed, with a large piece of paper towel.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
without my kids
Things are not going too well with D. She took the kids with her and went to her parents house on Memorial Day without me. She called twice over the weekend, once for me to pick up the groceries and the other time to do some paperwork for some investment that we jointly own. Her voice was emotionless and strained, and she seemed exhausted. I don't think her parents have ever been particularly helpful with the kids. I tried to engage her in a conversation, because I wasn't even sure that she was angry because of me.
"I don't really want to talk about that right now." That has been a pretty frequent response these days.
Over the weekend I had no sex drive whatsoever. I watched some porn: xhamster is always my favorite, and I find that I often get turned on by amateur porn. I always think that the best sex is between one and someone he loves, if not for the fact that the subjective experience of love gets you away from all the inhibitions. I have been an avid Internet porn consumer since the early 1990s, when the best you can get is newsgroups. I remember sitting at the computer at my school's computer lab, all the way in the back corner, and looking at these pictures and getting hard. Back in the days they never checked who logged on and when, and I was therefore never reprimanded. My parents later warned me of the dangers of looking up porn at work, as an elderly gentleman got fired at my father's firm for porn hunting with the company's computer.
"They gave him 2 hours to clean out his shit," said my father sternly over a bowl of chilly, "he got two paper boxes."
I remember going to the bathroom at the library, and jerking off furiously fantasizing over the sketchy, evanescent memory of the photos. Sometimes I would have a couple of more elaborate fantasies, stories of pillage and seduction, begging, power struggle, themes and reflections of my deepest insecurities. Coming back to the computer station, I was always flushed and a bit paranoid, wandering, trying to figure out if anyone had figured me out. Nobody had.
D came back last night, and was pretty satisfied that all the housework was done. I cleaned the bathroom and vacuumed. I was allowed back into my bed at night, and the summer has become scorching in my part of the country. The backyard looked parched and I didn't feel like doing anything about it. I mused over the work that needed to be done with the pool and the deck furniture. After dinner, which I cooked out of the ordinary, I poured myself a big glass of whiskey and pulled out a dining room chair to sit outside. I sucked on a cigar for a while. D didn't want to talk so I stayed outside alone and watched the evening sky turned azure, then purple, then tinctured with handful of blinking stars--it was cloudy. My two-year-old toddler briefly waddled out to the pergola and tried to have a conversation with me, but he couldn't get me interested. I wonder how he's doing at daycare. The baby is quiet today. She has always been the good one, and doesn't need nearly as much attention as her brother did at her age. I wanted to take her portable swing out in the backyard but D said it's still too cold at night and she'd catch a draft. I didn't feel like arguing with her. I am not sure what's going on with my marriage. I'm scared that it might be getting close to the end.
Friday, May 25, 2012
big fight
I just had a big fight with D. I'm in the living room now and she's in the bedroom. I don't even know what this is all about. The kids are asleep. I don't know what I'm going to do. It's only 10:30PM and it sure looks like I'm not gonna get any tonight.
I guess I just didn't want to see her parents this weekend. It's a long weekend and I wanted to rest and be at home, writing long and barely comprehensible run-on sentences on my blog, instead of spending hours bantering with her pretentious father and neurotic mother. Is this really so out of ordinary? I needed to hide this diary from her. Yesterday she saw me typing into my iPhone and asked me, "what are you writing?" Maybe she saw the "sex" in the title in big letters. I lied to her. I said it was for work. Why did I lie to her? Why can't I just tell her straight: I am not getting enough from you so I am venting to the web, because at least I have an audience there, listening to me masturbating to practically everything.
Whenever we fight she just says "I don't really want to talk right now." She storms into the bathroom, puts on her bathrobe and ignores me. We never raise our voices to each other--look at us, a nice, college educated, well employed couple who have lots of friends in the area and barbecue on weekends. It is Memorial Day after-all. Two cute little kids, well-behaved, no trouble whatsoever at day care. And look at us, our sex life, twice in the past two months. Sometimes, like right now, I am so angry, and I look at myself, my aging, wrinkling body and I feel so alone. Nobody understands because I drive an Infinity and have a 4 bedroom house. I smile and I watch sports. People just assume that I don't have feelings because I have a beer gut even though I go to the gym and I work on my Powerpoint whenever I have time off. I have feelings. I have lots of feelings. I really want to yell at someone all the time but I can't--I am Mr. Nice Guy. I am a reasonable, quality husband and father. I am your next door neighbor. I don't gamble. I don't have a gun. I shoot some hoops in the backyard. That's all I get to do these days. I haven't even bought a decent pair of sneakers for years. And my own wife would not appreciate me because I dared showing some hesitation driving 5 hours to see my decrepit yet self-aggrandizing in-laws.
So I beat off. I abuse myself. I do it over and over and watching every kind of ridiculous porn I can get my hands on. Because what else can I do? I suppose I will have to apologize to her a little later and crawl pathetically back into our bed, because she would want me to and she would want a warm body next to her. I can't yell at her. She's the only thing I've got and I'm terrified of losing her. Absolutely positively petrified.
I have that vision of myself, 50 lbs heavier, sitting in a pile of my own excrement, inside a dirty, dingy apartment--no, a motel room, divorced. A dirty canvas couch, grime on the wall, stained carpeting. Nothing would be left. Maybe I would just beat off, eat a slice of pizza, beat off some more, vomit... and that would be my life.
I am gonna grab a glass of Bourbon.
I guess I just didn't want to see her parents this weekend. It's a long weekend and I wanted to rest and be at home, writing long and barely comprehensible run-on sentences on my blog, instead of spending hours bantering with her pretentious father and neurotic mother. Is this really so out of ordinary? I needed to hide this diary from her. Yesterday she saw me typing into my iPhone and asked me, "what are you writing?" Maybe she saw the "sex" in the title in big letters. I lied to her. I said it was for work. Why did I lie to her? Why can't I just tell her straight: I am not getting enough from you so I am venting to the web, because at least I have an audience there, listening to me masturbating to practically everything.
Whenever we fight she just says "I don't really want to talk right now." She storms into the bathroom, puts on her bathrobe and ignores me. We never raise our voices to each other--look at us, a nice, college educated, well employed couple who have lots of friends in the area and barbecue on weekends. It is Memorial Day after-all. Two cute little kids, well-behaved, no trouble whatsoever at day care. And look at us, our sex life, twice in the past two months. Sometimes, like right now, I am so angry, and I look at myself, my aging, wrinkling body and I feel so alone. Nobody understands because I drive an Infinity and have a 4 bedroom house. I smile and I watch sports. People just assume that I don't have feelings because I have a beer gut even though I go to the gym and I work on my Powerpoint whenever I have time off. I have feelings. I have lots of feelings. I really want to yell at someone all the time but I can't--I am Mr. Nice Guy. I am a reasonable, quality husband and father. I am your next door neighbor. I don't gamble. I don't have a gun. I shoot some hoops in the backyard. That's all I get to do these days. I haven't even bought a decent pair of sneakers for years. And my own wife would not appreciate me because I dared showing some hesitation driving 5 hours to see my decrepit yet self-aggrandizing in-laws.
So I beat off. I abuse myself. I do it over and over and watching every kind of ridiculous porn I can get my hands on. Because what else can I do? I suppose I will have to apologize to her a little later and crawl pathetically back into our bed, because she would want me to and she would want a warm body next to her. I can't yell at her. She's the only thing I've got and I'm terrified of losing her. Absolutely positively petrified.
I have that vision of myself, 50 lbs heavier, sitting in a pile of my own excrement, inside a dirty, dingy apartment--no, a motel room, divorced. A dirty canvas couch, grime on the wall, stained carpeting. Nothing would be left. Maybe I would just beat off, eat a slice of pizza, beat off some more, vomit... and that would be my life.
I am gonna grab a glass of Bourbon.
Starbucks
Friday afternoons are my obligatory time at the Starbucks. It's a little one sitting quietly down that strip mall 5 minutes from my house. I like to drive home a little early on Fridays, because things are often slow at the office. I get to the Starbucks and order a tall vanilla soy mocha and take out my laptop and check my E-mail and read the newspaper and occasionally write my blog. This is one of those days.
The Starbucks isn't very full. It's mostly suits--men like me who are working diligently in a city that just recently expanded because of the arrival of a couple of coastal financial houses. They live here, often with a couple of young children, just like me, with their smart phones that have the family photo as the screensaver. Occasionally there are a few attractive women there, though they aren't usually very young. People from my parts are still attached to the old school values, and more than a handful of men have their wives stay at home and care for the children.
One of those ladies today was sitting at a corner table with her son, a beautiful toddler with blonde curls and blue eyes. I myself have always been a little jealous of blondes, that whimsical eastern European blood in me boiling with a frequent and physical inferiority complex. I watch the slightly plump woman tending to her son and wondered what it would be like if I did something violent to her. I occasionally have these violent thoughts, which sometimes disturb me, but my old therapist told me that intrusive thoughts are normal things as long as I realize that all of us have them and none of us, save a few, would act on them.
I imagine myself tying her up in long leather belts. She's naked. She's lying on a large soft pillow top bed--itself wrapped up in a plastic cover. Her hands were grasping at things involuntarily. Her wrists were tied up to the bed frames--a bit rusty. It was a dark, damp, dusty basement in a suburban house. My house, maybe, where all my old furnitures are stored. Her mouth was stuffed with my socks. My dirty, sweaty, smelly socks that I just took off. She is struggling a bit now and making muffled noises, but her red lips are still as titillating as ever. I climb into the bed, slowly unbutton her translucent skirt, and a couple of smooth round sweet things jump out at me, and I squeeze them really hard. I bite down on them. She squirms a little. Her feet are kicking. I slap her hard, and her lips start to bleed and she stops kicking. I slowly slip her panties down. It was black and silky. I lick her slowly, deliberately, listening to her failing miserably in holding her moans. I put my finger into it, feeling that moist warmth inside. I am still in my office gear, and I decide to take her right then. I unbutton my pants, pull off my underwear and direct myself straight at the depth of her and push onward. I roll up my sleeves and grabbed her ankles so she can't struggle. I hold her legs up high so I can penetrate her as deeply as possible. I feel the tightness and the squeezing motion. I curse a few dirty words at her. I can already feel the tide of pleasure coming up higher and higher--I know I wasn't going to last very long and suddenly through that flood gate I give into that fall, into an abyss, and I wake up.
My imagination makes me erect for a few minutes, and my underwear is stained with a few drops of clear liquid. I see her smiling at me and saying hi to me. I reciprocate the courtesy. I wonder how much she knows and how much she would want to know.
The Starbucks isn't very full. It's mostly suits--men like me who are working diligently in a city that just recently expanded because of the arrival of a couple of coastal financial houses. They live here, often with a couple of young children, just like me, with their smart phones that have the family photo as the screensaver. Occasionally there are a few attractive women there, though they aren't usually very young. People from my parts are still attached to the old school values, and more than a handful of men have their wives stay at home and care for the children.
One of those ladies today was sitting at a corner table with her son, a beautiful toddler with blonde curls and blue eyes. I myself have always been a little jealous of blondes, that whimsical eastern European blood in me boiling with a frequent and physical inferiority complex. I watch the slightly plump woman tending to her son and wondered what it would be like if I did something violent to her. I occasionally have these violent thoughts, which sometimes disturb me, but my old therapist told me that intrusive thoughts are normal things as long as I realize that all of us have them and none of us, save a few, would act on them.
I imagine myself tying her up in long leather belts. She's naked. She's lying on a large soft pillow top bed--itself wrapped up in a plastic cover. Her hands were grasping at things involuntarily. Her wrists were tied up to the bed frames--a bit rusty. It was a dark, damp, dusty basement in a suburban house. My house, maybe, where all my old furnitures are stored. Her mouth was stuffed with my socks. My dirty, sweaty, smelly socks that I just took off. She is struggling a bit now and making muffled noises, but her red lips are still as titillating as ever. I climb into the bed, slowly unbutton her translucent skirt, and a couple of smooth round sweet things jump out at me, and I squeeze them really hard. I bite down on them. She squirms a little. Her feet are kicking. I slap her hard, and her lips start to bleed and she stops kicking. I slowly slip her panties down. It was black and silky. I lick her slowly, deliberately, listening to her failing miserably in holding her moans. I put my finger into it, feeling that moist warmth inside. I am still in my office gear, and I decide to take her right then. I unbutton my pants, pull off my underwear and direct myself straight at the depth of her and push onward. I roll up my sleeves and grabbed her ankles so she can't struggle. I hold her legs up high so I can penetrate her as deeply as possible. I feel the tightness and the squeezing motion. I curse a few dirty words at her. I can already feel the tide of pleasure coming up higher and higher--I know I wasn't going to last very long and suddenly through that flood gate I give into that fall, into an abyss, and I wake up.
My imagination makes me erect for a few minutes, and my underwear is stained with a few drops of clear liquid. I see her smiling at me and saying hi to me. I reciprocate the courtesy. I wonder how much she knows and how much she would want to know.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
my first time
Hmm. My first time. What do I remember about that?
It was in college. It was a beautiful campus. Lots of trees. It was sometime in the spring--I was up in the north and I remember it as a rainy night in sophomore year, slimy and moist, but not very cold. I was in a band, and sometimes I would make up little songs and sing them under a tree, sitting on grass, and that's how I met her during freshman year. My voice was not very pretty but I was a good guitarist. My father insisted on me learning it, having grown up in the bluegrass region. Guitar and fixing cars, those were the two loves of his life, and even though he tried to teach me how to fix cars and I can deal with minor issues, I never really loved doing it much. I met her during freshman orientation, and she loved sitting next to me to listen. I was going through a religious phase, getting gung-ho about my daily prayers, participating in the campus Christian organizations and we just talked and talked. She was an atheist and didn't really care much about Jesus, but I was drawn into discussions with her about god and faith, and sometimes sex.
She had a boyfriend then, and even though she had a great ass, the rest of her wasn't terribly attractive. I was pretty bogged down by freshman year, planning on becoming an engineer and suffering through the prerequisites. She was never girlfriend material in my mind, but gradually we talked more and more, often about my troubled dating life and my yearning for true love. I was tall and muscular, and was on the crew team--I guess a lot of girls told me that I was attractive--but I always felt really awkward with women, and as hard as it might be to believe, I never even kissed a girl during all of freshman year.
I thought about getting a hooker, and being a virgin at 19 was an unbearable shame. Thinking back, the incongruence between my sexual desire and the strict, Byzantine religious teachings was pretty jarring in my subconscious. I lied all the time to people about the girls that I supposedly slept with, even though I felt pretty insecure about sex in general, and especially my lack of any experience. I was joined a fraternity the second half of freshman year, and spinning that tale was the only way for me to fit in.
Nevertheless, with all the booze and burgeoning internet porn, I didn't really care if she liked me or not. That night I invited her over to watch Star Wars, because I hadn't seen it yet and it was such a classic. I remember the smell of her perfume, some kind of summer flower, very clear and somehow befitting the gaudy orchestral score. My room was on the small side, and an enormous TV was stuffed squarely into the middle. I remember seeing her watching that movie and wanting to lick her from top to bottom. I don't really know which part of me was driving my desire but I made a move, and kissed her, and all of the sudden I was really hard and we were groping each other. I remember grabbing her small, barely post-pubescent breasts, and was in awe of such small things giving me so much pleasure. I took off her panties.
"We need a condom. I'm having my period."
Luckily I bought a few condoms months ago. Sometimes I use condoms to jerk off when I want to fall asleep immediately and don't want to clean up. But that night when I tried to put it on it went soft.
I remember still my heart pounding. I remember her whispering softly to me, "it's ok."
I wasn't ready to give up. I tried and tried, with my hands, with her hands, and it finally got to the point of penetration, and I gave it a shove. I remember her moan as a soft, sustained decrescendo, "aah..aah.aaaaah~~" And a few seconds later, it came out, without my consent, without an inkling of pleasure, my heart pounding still. I pulled it out, dumped the condom, and surveyed the damage. Fear and guilt was overwhelming. Would she get pregnant? Did she have an STD? Why did she do this? Would we have to be married at this point? But I wouldn't date her. I couldn't. Was I the biggest jerk in the world?
"I'm trying to figure out if I should like you more or less," she said. "Less, of course," I retorted lugubriously. I couldn't date her. She was too ugly for me.
After she left, I sent her a long E-mail explaining to her why I couldn't see her again. She called bullshit on me, as expected. She was not dumb. I late found out that it was her first time too. I remember dumping the bed sheet because of a few bloody spots. That summer she left for a study abroad program. I haven't spoken to her since. I've heard that she became a lesbian and now lived in Hong Kong, but I don't know.
It was in college. It was a beautiful campus. Lots of trees. It was sometime in the spring--I was up in the north and I remember it as a rainy night in sophomore year, slimy and moist, but not very cold. I was in a band, and sometimes I would make up little songs and sing them under a tree, sitting on grass, and that's how I met her during freshman year. My voice was not very pretty but I was a good guitarist. My father insisted on me learning it, having grown up in the bluegrass region. Guitar and fixing cars, those were the two loves of his life, and even though he tried to teach me how to fix cars and I can deal with minor issues, I never really loved doing it much. I met her during freshman orientation, and she loved sitting next to me to listen. I was going through a religious phase, getting gung-ho about my daily prayers, participating in the campus Christian organizations and we just talked and talked. She was an atheist and didn't really care much about Jesus, but I was drawn into discussions with her about god and faith, and sometimes sex.
She had a boyfriend then, and even though she had a great ass, the rest of her wasn't terribly attractive. I was pretty bogged down by freshman year, planning on becoming an engineer and suffering through the prerequisites. She was never girlfriend material in my mind, but gradually we talked more and more, often about my troubled dating life and my yearning for true love. I was tall and muscular, and was on the crew team--I guess a lot of girls told me that I was attractive--but I always felt really awkward with women, and as hard as it might be to believe, I never even kissed a girl during all of freshman year.
I thought about getting a hooker, and being a virgin at 19 was an unbearable shame. Thinking back, the incongruence between my sexual desire and the strict, Byzantine religious teachings was pretty jarring in my subconscious. I lied all the time to people about the girls that I supposedly slept with, even though I felt pretty insecure about sex in general, and especially my lack of any experience. I was joined a fraternity the second half of freshman year, and spinning that tale was the only way for me to fit in.
Nevertheless, with all the booze and burgeoning internet porn, I didn't really care if she liked me or not. That night I invited her over to watch Star Wars, because I hadn't seen it yet and it was such a classic. I remember the smell of her perfume, some kind of summer flower, very clear and somehow befitting the gaudy orchestral score. My room was on the small side, and an enormous TV was stuffed squarely into the middle. I remember seeing her watching that movie and wanting to lick her from top to bottom. I don't really know which part of me was driving my desire but I made a move, and kissed her, and all of the sudden I was really hard and we were groping each other. I remember grabbing her small, barely post-pubescent breasts, and was in awe of such small things giving me so much pleasure. I took off her panties.
"We need a condom. I'm having my period."
Luckily I bought a few condoms months ago. Sometimes I use condoms to jerk off when I want to fall asleep immediately and don't want to clean up. But that night when I tried to put it on it went soft.
I remember still my heart pounding. I remember her whispering softly to me, "it's ok."
I wasn't ready to give up. I tried and tried, with my hands, with her hands, and it finally got to the point of penetration, and I gave it a shove. I remember her moan as a soft, sustained decrescendo, "aah..aah.aaaaah~~" And a few seconds later, it came out, without my consent, without an inkling of pleasure, my heart pounding still. I pulled it out, dumped the condom, and surveyed the damage. Fear and guilt was overwhelming. Would she get pregnant? Did she have an STD? Why did she do this? Would we have to be married at this point? But I wouldn't date her. I couldn't. Was I the biggest jerk in the world?
"I'm trying to figure out if I should like you more or less," she said. "Less, of course," I retorted lugubriously. I couldn't date her. She was too ugly for me.
After she left, I sent her a long E-mail explaining to her why I couldn't see her again. She called bullshit on me, as expected. She was not dumb. I late found out that it was her first time too. I remember dumping the bed sheet because of a few bloody spots. That summer she left for a study abroad program. I haven't spoken to her since. I've heard that she became a lesbian and now lived in Hong Kong, but I don't know.
i'm pathetic
I spent hours watching porn and jerking off last night since D wasn't home. This morning I slept right through my 8:00 appointment. I really need a porn detox.
Monday, May 21, 2012
my sexual awakening
D wasn't my first. I am starting to doubt that she would be my last. I was a late bloomer. I couldn't find the right girl to go to the prom with, so I went with my skinny, tall friend from gym class. Nobody thought she was terribly attractive, but I just wanted to go and see. I got a nice little pink corsage and I still remember driving her to that place--the backside of some mega-church, a big ball room full of parents and no alcohol. I thought it was cool even though deep down I knew it was a sad, lonely place that sat at the boundary between my adolescence with my adulthood. My date danced with me, made fun of me, hugged me, and kissed my face. I remember not shaving that night, thinking a little bit of stubble would make me look more masculine, but it was probably not true.
I remember going back into the car with her. We kissed passionately. We licked each other's tongues. We grabbed onto each other, two lonely souls braiding for that cold spring night. I fondled her breasts and moved my kisses downward, her neck, her collar bone. I pulled off her bra and licked her nipples. I still remember her beautiful small nipples--smaller than D's, but tender and erect, with their wrinkles, exposing themselves ruthlessly with that extreme texture, their bare essence of sensitivity, in my mouth, massaging my lips. I remember being so hard, so ready to let it all out, and giving myself up to that feeling of heat and sacrilege.
I remember her pushing me away. She pulled herself together and told me to take her home.
I remember being in that empty car. She waved me good bye. I remember feeling lonely and crying, even though I didn't think that she was necessarily the one for me. I remember driving into a dark, quiet corner in a neighborhood park, parking under a dense canopy. I remember the moonlight, and I was bawling. Then I jerked off. I pulled off my tuxedo and came all over the dashboard. Pathetically, it was my father's car. I cried some more after that, wiped it off with my handkerchief and drove home.
I never told anybody and I don't expect anybody to understand. That was how my adolescent ended, with a rejection and a whimper. I never talked to her again.
A request for comments
D is away this week at her folks with the kids. Thank god! Well I ask you my dear readers to post some comments about what you want to hear about other than my perverted fantasies. I have all the time this week to write.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Finally!
Finally a reprieve! D was lying in bed wearing her delicate little black nightgown, and winked at me. "Do you want to fuck?". She reminded me of Nicole Kidman in that movie, Eyes Wide Shut, with something slightly sinister about her. I was worried about the kids. After all, they could wake up. But I just couldn't care much anymore. Taking her gown off revealed two perfectly sized, round, gorgeous things, and when I squeezed them slightly she squirmed a little, then moaned softly, which was a huge turn on. She reached under me and grabbed me, and I felt her warm hand. I started biting on her nipples. Just a little bit, a little harder. "Aw," she said, "you have to be gentle." I moved downward, toward her beautiful, pink luscious place. She made a long, melodic sound. It was heavenly.
Her skin was so soft. I love feeling her thighs up and down. As I went down on her my mind started to wonder again. I have this habit of thinking about irrelevant things when I do that. Cars, food, other women, sports, etc. Sometimes I even go soft a little because of that. It's not that I don't love eating her up, I do. It's just that there is always something mechanical about that aspect of sex that is only pleasurable to one person, and it's almost work. This makes me not want to have her go down on me for very long, because I dread that thought that she might be thinking about other men while going down on me. On the other hand, I suppose I don't care about that much.
As I entered her, I still appreciated every time how smooth and soft and warm and wet it felt, and it always amazed me what a perfect fit the two of us shared. Well, evolutionary forces pushed toward maximizing pleasure. As I moved in and out, I felt that amazing pleasure first near the tip, then gradually extending to the entire shaft, floating gently throughout the pelvis. I felt the seminal fluid climbing, up and up, slow, gliding into the back of my perineum. I couldn't help myself. I bit her, squeezed her, grabbed her legs. I fucked her hard. It has been three weeks. I finally ejaculated when she jumped on top of me. My legs were parted in a lotus position, and her bottom could touch my balls with every move. I love that position. Sometimes I can't control myself in that position and just come instantly when she rides me. But tonight it was different. I was slowly savoring every bit of that moment. Sometimes the pleasure was so intense I curled up my toess.
Fuck, this was it. I could feel that it was a big one. It went all the way down deep inside of her. Three seconds later she erupted too, amazing. And it was only 15 minutes.
I love how efficient we have become.
Her skin was so soft. I love feeling her thighs up and down. As I went down on her my mind started to wonder again. I have this habit of thinking about irrelevant things when I do that. Cars, food, other women, sports, etc. Sometimes I even go soft a little because of that. It's not that I don't love eating her up, I do. It's just that there is always something mechanical about that aspect of sex that is only pleasurable to one person, and it's almost work. This makes me not want to have her go down on me for very long, because I dread that thought that she might be thinking about other men while going down on me. On the other hand, I suppose I don't care about that much.
As I entered her, I still appreciated every time how smooth and soft and warm and wet it felt, and it always amazed me what a perfect fit the two of us shared. Well, evolutionary forces pushed toward maximizing pleasure. As I moved in and out, I felt that amazing pleasure first near the tip, then gradually extending to the entire shaft, floating gently throughout the pelvis. I felt the seminal fluid climbing, up and up, slow, gliding into the back of my perineum. I couldn't help myself. I bit her, squeezed her, grabbed her legs. I fucked her hard. It has been three weeks. I finally ejaculated when she jumped on top of me. My legs were parted in a lotus position, and her bottom could touch my balls with every move. I love that position. Sometimes I can't control myself in that position and just come instantly when she rides me. But tonight it was different. I was slowly savoring every bit of that moment. Sometimes the pleasure was so intense I curled up my toess.
Fuck, this was it. I could feel that it was a big one. It went all the way down deep inside of her. Three seconds later she erupted too, amazing. And it was only 15 minutes.
I love how efficient we have become.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
meetings
One of my superiors is a woman in her late 40s. Once or twice a week she gives an office presentation. Her presentations are pretty boring, but she is quite attractive for her age. Likely she was frankly stunning when she was in her 20s. Her hair is now graying, but her body is still taught, with nice curves. Whenever she speaks I end up not hearing her, and my mind wanders. I think about what it would be like if I was with her, somewhere nice, somewhere with green grass and wildflowers, and sunshine. I turn and look at her, and suddenly she notices the tension--our eyes meet. Then I simply grab her and kiss her, and tear her $500 charcoal gray jacket apart with my arms, and keep going at it until it was standing bare, her skin showing some signs of aging. I would then push myself deeply into her, and listen to her shut up about whatever it is she wanted to say, and simply cry out in pleasure, in pain.
As I sit in the chair I would feel myself getting hard, and smile a bit inside. I am looking at her still going on and on, and her loyal ass-kissers in the audience making a few clever remarks here and there.
I would pump her up, ride her, on top of her, grab her wrist and manhandle them, no matter how delicate they are. They are pinned on top the grassy soil, as I assault her, over and over again, and bring her to the inexplicable peak of pleasure, and eventually dump every drop of my power in her, as she shuts up helplessly underneath me. Then I take myself off of her, stand up, naked, towering over her, eclipsing the sun. I spit on her, and I feel the suffusion of pity and joy simultaneously as I see her lying on grass, wanting more.
The meeting is over. We better go back to work.
As I sit in the chair I would feel myself getting hard, and smile a bit inside. I am looking at her still going on and on, and her loyal ass-kissers in the audience making a few clever remarks here and there.
I would pump her up, ride her, on top of her, grab her wrist and manhandle them, no matter how delicate they are. They are pinned on top the grassy soil, as I assault her, over and over again, and bring her to the inexplicable peak of pleasure, and eventually dump every drop of my power in her, as she shuts up helplessly underneath me. Then I take myself off of her, stand up, naked, towering over her, eclipsing the sun. I spit on her, and I feel the suffusion of pity and joy simultaneously as I see her lying on grass, wanting more.
The meeting is over. We better go back to work.
shower fun
Pornography. The modern technology's little peccadillo. There is even a book for married men sex detox, detailing a 12-step way to be freer of porn and closer to god. But really, what is the point of spiritual blueballs when you can find a release on your own?
"I can't do it tonight. I have an early presentation tomorrow."
That is what I hear every night. A man's gotta take care of himself. I took off my T-shirt and underwear and stepped into the shower. I looked at my shrived manhood, feeling a moment of profound envy at a youth that quickly swooshed by, like the warm, leisurely jet coming out of the brushed nickel shower head, spiraling into the dark drain hole. Suddenly I was inspired. I pulled the shower head out of the mount, switched it to massage mode, and aimed the faster, more focused spray directly at the back, above the frenulum, like a laser beam, and a soothing warmth rose from within my pelvis. I let my mind wander, thinking about pink, soft, slippery things, and me on top of her, ravishing her. I squeezed my nipples with my left hand, feeling the sensation somewhere between pain and pleasure. I felt the muscles between my legs tighten involuntarily and moaned softly with pleasure--am I taking too long to shower? Will she hear me? I bet she doesn't care anyway. The pleasure built up slowly, but definitely, in waves after powerful waves, and suddenly reached its apogee and with a series of cataclysmic contractions. Yet and again. Me and myself. Live together, die alone. I quickly rinsed it off the tiles--the advantages of doing it in the showers--waited a few minutes for the tumescence to resolve itself and dried myself off with a towel.
Perhaps I will sleep better tonight.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Sexless night
Another sexless night. After putting the kids to sleep, D jumped into the bed buck naked. She engulfed me with her silky smooth body, and I can feel myself harden and a cloud of warmth rising from deep inside my loin. But she was too tired, she said, and so was I. She would have a bad dream and we would not want that. Alas, perhaps this weekend, if we drive somewhere nice and the sitter can spare us a day.
Now I'm up drinking a cup of coffee. The sitter's not here yet and she is already gone. As I write these things down I feel the desire again, but it's a workday. There is no time. I need to get the car started.
Now I'm up drinking a cup of coffee. The sitter's not here yet and she is already gone. As I write these things down I feel the desire again, but it's a workday. There is no time. I need to get the car started.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Morning routine
I see her every morning at work. She is maybe 35, blonde, pretty but in a non-threatening way. I see her across the big conference table and I imagine her naked, taking each layer off slowly, first her pink velvety sweater, then her graphic t, finally her large cups, and me fondling her big round nipples. Then I imagine myself sucking on her nipples. Often time would pass by quickly when I let my mind go free like that. It was hard otherwise to listen to the same inane drivel everyday. She once invited me to her birthday party, even though she knew I was married. I wonder what she wanted from me. I was tempted to go, but I supposed I would have needed to bring my wife with me.
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