Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Have my cake and eat it too?

This story is about a boy.

All stories are eventually about boys, aren't they? No matter how many hand-over-heart pledges I make to stay boy-free, the flesh is weak and I never seem to last more than a few days, except for a brief girl-fling phase that I had a couple of months ago, which was nice, but not nice enough. You know what I missed? Hint: it wasn't the football.

But like I said, this is about a boy, one boy in particular, and funnily, not one of the dozens with whom I've amused\satisfied myself with these last few months. I feel like I've been doing hardcore scientific research in the name of humanity -

Hypothesis: E.S.P. would greatly improve our success in dating.

Data collected: Hours of mattress-time with consensual lab partners.

Conclusion: Thank god in heaven we cannot read each others' minds!

(I think any good scientific research should give god his props).

As if I don't already get myself into enough trouble as it is, comments like:
"Jesus, that's a lot of hair!", and
"Lord that feels good, I just hope it lasts for a l- -....oh, never mind.", and
"I'm glad he's enjoying himself but if he doesn't quiet down a bit, China is going to lodge a noise complaint.", and
"Maybe if I roll over and spread em, he'll take the hint."

wouldn't really help. Oddly (or fittingly), it's comments of a very different nature that cause me trouble - comments like "I'm just here for the sex" and "Please try your hardest not to fall in love with me." Okay, I've never really said either of those things to dates, but you get the gist.

There's a myth out there that boys like sex. Not that I've ever heard any complaints, but you'd think that they'd be not only grateful but maybe a little enthused to have sex with no strings offered to them on a plate (I've tried offering myself on a bed, which is more traditional and far more practical, but there's something about a parsley garnish that really gets motors running).


It's not really working out that way.

I don't want a boyfriend. I don't want a relationship. I think it's fair of me to be upfront about that, and the boys invariably nod eagerly with that "Woohoo! Free sex!" glint in their eyes, but before you know it they're leaving "Baby I miss you\Why don't you return my calls?\Why won't you meet my mom?" messages on my cell. And if these half-relationships (their half, obviously) were the worst of it, I'd consider myself a lucky girl. Unfortunately, I've been treated to begging (ew!), bar fights (if you spill my appletini, a blowjob is automatically out of the question), and a bizarre situation in which Grant, who is on the small side, took on the naked man in my bed and lost (which was kind of hot, and kind of not). My weekends are bipolar: Fridays are fun and fancy-free, Saturdays are hot & heavy, Sundays are for messy breakups over waffles. Now why do I have to keep ruining my holy brunch time breaking up with people I never went out with in the first place? It's a mystery. A mystery that usually leads to Monday-morning vows of sexual retirement.

Boys these days. They'll put out, but they've all got commitment on the brain. Whatever happened to good old fashioned fucking?

Which brings me to Mike. Mike is THE BOY. Mike, so far, lives up to The Standards. He's tall, and broad, and insanely handsome. He waits until I've swallowed my wine before making me laugh. He appears to spend a good portion of disposable income on footwear. He's read Proust, and Dilbert. He buys me drinks two at a time. Clearly, he is the perfect man.

So, shockingly, I'm thinking I might like him to stick around. That being said, stick around in a non-committed, non-relationship, non-boyfriend, totally casual and unserious kind of way.

How do I tell him I'd like to ravage him on a semi-regular basis, with possibly a couple of movies or dinners thrown in when he has to rehydrate, but without the cuddling, hand-holding, playing pool with his buddies, borrowing his oversized sweatshirt, renting a cottage for the summer, getting a dog together, signing up for a joint checking account or looking at rings in the shiny glass case?

Sunday, May 18, 2008

Notorious SDC

You take your tongue and you start from the bottom and run it slowly to the top in one long motion. Take the tip between your lips, give a soft suck, tease it gently until you get a taste.

Grasp the base firmly with one hand and swirl your tongue around the rest with short but assertive strokes. Make it yours. When there are drips (there are always drips), lap them up with the very tip of your tongue, and try not to moan too loudly in delight as you swallow it down.

If your fingers get sticky, know you're doing something right. Messy is sexy. Do yourself a favour and make it last. Use your hot mouth to make it melt. Run your lips softly up the side, leaving a trail with your tongue, and if your lips come away a little creamy you've hit the spot, so lick them clean and keep it up.

A little nibble never hurt, just don't get greedy. Let your tongue do most of the work. If you get breathless, take smaller bites, and take the time to really enjoy the feel of it hitting your throat. At some point, you just let your instinct take over and you get lost in the pleasure: your jaw opens wider to accomodate more, your hand starts to slide up and down in eagerness, you know the end is near and you'd like to slow it down to enjoy it longer but instead your tongue just goes faster and faster and you can't help but work that oral fixation for all it's worth.

That's right bitches: ice cream season is back, and Little Miss Small Dipped Cone just got majorly creamed. Eat up.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Where My Mouth Is.

He kissed me on his front porch, stooping to fit his frame to mine, folding himself around me, taking my face in his hands, his huge and deliciously calloused hands, and he kissed me so gently even my socks were surprised. He softly kissed the corner of my mouth until I felt the berry juice start to run, and it may not have been my house but I asked him in anyway.

He introduced me to his sexy shower, and the glories of making out fully clothed underneath a rain head, letting the warm droplets slither down into the sticky curves of my body, the heat of his hands sliding over every inch of me, fingers in the wet curls of my hair, my back against the blue tiled wall, his mouth crushing mine and his tongue proving that he wasn't always such a gentleman.

He stripped me of my sopping clothing, peeling each piece with aching precision, and when I was naked, he was suddenly shy until I grabbed him by his big belt buckle and freed him of his pants.

We never made it to the bed.

We did, however, make it to (make it on?) the rug in front of his bed (twice) (hello, carpet burns in funny places!), and on his kitchen counter with the blinds (and my legs) wide open, up against the hood of his truck in the garage (hood -ornament-shaped-bruise on my belly), and the hot tub.

Oh, the hot tub.

Ooooohhhh, the hot tub. Oooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Oh, the naughty, slippery things we did underwater while the heat made me drunk, and weak in the knees, and properly aimed bubbles made me blush, and convulse, and strongly mixed margaritas made me brave, and his stubble made the places where grazed my skin with his lips tickle, and a big strong cowboy made me cumcumcum.

And just when I thought I barely had the energy to find where my panties were tossed hours ago, I somehow managed to find just a little bit more so we screwed up against the back of the house, with my legs wrapped tightly around his waist and the privacy hedges doing very little to block the sound of my moans from the poor guy barbecuing next door.

When I woke up, it was dark out, and I was already having a slow fuck in the soft grass, underneath stars that winked back at me, with a man who is at this moment walking around with my teeth marks in his shoulder.

And that's what life is all about.