Food, booze, & girls

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When a banquet is laid out before me, fresh strawberries and glazed pastries and luscious sauces for pasta and spices, herbs, steam rising, I can’t not eat. I just can’t.

Sometimes I wish I had the willpower. It does occasionally get me into trouble. I just came back from a lunch where there were five kinds of potato chips, and I just could not resist the barbeque flavored ones, even though I know they’re not real food, and they’re awful for me - they’re never something I would buy for myself.

But when they’re right there? Just, right there, in my reach, in front of me? I cannot resist.

And booze, too. “Another drink?” My friends ask, poising the bottle of wine above my glass. Well, no - I’m drunk enough, I’m comfy and feeling no pain. But why not? It’s right there.

And then there’s girls.

I know better, half the time. I know it’s trouble to kiss your best friend’s girlfriend, or even worse, your best friend’s sister, or even to kiss this girl who’s been coming onto me all night but in whom I have little interest.

But sometimes they’re all stunning and seductive, and I give in, I give over. I cannot resist.

Does it sound like a cop-out to say I’m rendered powerless against these feminine wiles? I always thought that was such a sexist stereotype: “I’m just a big dumb guy, I can’t possibly be held accountable for my actions once a woman seduced me.”

But sometimes, that’s how I feel. That’s exactly it. I start to feel like we are so well matched, that my soft places are just where she’s hard, that her hard places are just where I’m soft, and that she knows exactly where to stroke my thin underbelly before she digs her nails in.

I cannot resist when she starts giving me those under-the-eyelashes looks of submission and seduction and permission to step in and take her. The way she begs with her skin and fingertips and the way she sips a drink and flips her hair. I can’t not take her down. I can’t not go inside and see.

Maybe that makes me a pushover. My buttons get pushed and I respond, knee-jerk reactions. But I want, I ache for it when it get close to me, like my teeth starting to sting and my tongue starting to water when a beautiful china plate with German chocolate cake gets placed in front of me, knife and fork in hand.

How could I possibly walk away?

Break-up Aura

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I could have taken her home. She asked me to. Said her name was Drea. She didn’t like the whole thing, Andrea, it was too common. Drea was edgier. It clearly fit her better.

She ordered a gin and tonic at the bar, making eye contact with the bar tender, flirting; the bar tender was providing extra-strong gin and tonics, Drea was kind and grateful and seemed genuine, and already a little flushed from the alcohol.

She was sitting with friends, but before returning to them she noticed me nursing an already half-empty Jameson on the rocks, and said, “So did she leave you, or did you leave her?”

I smiled into my drink, thought about this. Tipped my glass enough to knock a piece of ice into my mouth and sucked it. “Not exactly either,” I said. “This is my usual drink.”

“Oh it’s not the drink, it’s the … well, forgive my hippie moment, but it’s the aura. Break-up aura.” I considered this and looked at her.

She, like the rest of the fashionably-conscious girls in Manhattan, had pulled her spring fashion out from her storage locker. Her legs were encircled in a flowy skirt with many layers, maybe a wrap-around, with a big flowery pastel pattern, aquamarine and salmon and honeydew and peach and beige, petals askew and overlapping, and she wore a white tank top, silver glitter and sparkles at the neck, tight and round over her breasts. Her cornsilk light-brown hair was layered just past her shoulders; she kept tossing her head to keep it out of her face, but gently as to not disturb its positioning. Not so edgy, maybe; but she had an energy to her, a way of slicing through things, a sharpness that made her more than just an uptown Andrea.

She took my silence for recoil. “Your heart looks broken, that’s all,” she said, and shrugged, making to pick up her drinks and turn back to her table, but giving me one more chance to respond, attempting eye contact, searching my face for - something - what? - and waiting.

“You’re not far off,” I said. “That’s one way to say it. But it’s been a very slow separation, not the shatter-crunch I’m used to. This was … like a buttonhook needle in the sternum, an unraveling, fiber by fiber.” I’ve been reading too much Sarah Waters. She nodded, as if understanding, sympathetic. Touched my hand as we chatted. Flirted. Gave me the eyes.

It didn’t take long for her to take me to the back, to our own booth in the shadowy corner, tongues damp with another round. Her hand playfully pushed my shoulder and made an excuse to feel the muscles of my arms and wrap her fingers around my wrist, as if checking its girth.

“You have beautiful hands,” she said, and took one hand in both of hers, pulling my fingers back, exposing my palm. “Long fingers.”

Her hand moved to my thigh without any fanfare. My hand tangled in her hair at the back of her neck and her tongue was tangy, sweet and strong with gin.

She would have taken me home with her. Wouldn’t have hesitated to have me follow her into the restroom and let me finger her, fuck her. But as she attempted trick after trick to get me off, get me interested, I could only think that her mouth wasn’t as supple as yours, wasn’t as soft, and that she tasted nothing like you.

Let go, just let go

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I adore the sounds a girl makes when she’s being fisted. Gutteral, that’s why that word was invented, to describe the sounds from her mouth, her throat, her chest, her belly, her cunt. Such deep noises coming from the center of her.

It didn’t start as fisting. It started as me, strapped on, fucking her, her on her back, me above her, her knees bent, pulled back, held to her chest, calf on my shoulder. But there was some place in her I wasn’t reaching, she kept pressing against me to make my cock hit just the spot, my cock which was really her cock, her strap-on, because I did not come prepared. Her cock wasn’t very large. Slim and decent, sure, but nothing I would call thick.

I turned her onto her stomach. Hips bent over the edge of the bed, toes on the floor. Spread her open with one hand pressed her hips up into that perfect little spiral curve and slipped a finger inside. Two fingers. Just to find the angle, the placement, the mark where my cock would be going. Instead I found her open, so open, opening wider as my fingers moved deeper, three fingers, four, slid in so easily and still hadn’t filled her. I didn’t ask for her permission, didn’t tell her what I was doing, I assumed she could feel it and I tucked my thumb under, pushed inside. Easily. Slid in to my wrist.

And she was filled. With me, my fingers, my palm, my thumb, my wrist.

I don’t know if I’ve ever felt a girl’s cunt open like that before. Lock-and-key open. Dark clouds parting to reveal blue sky open. There is a certain point in the … orgasm arc that they do tend to open deeper, pull my hand cock tongue in even further, but oh so rarely do I feel a girl making a space for my fist inside her.

What a feeling: my whole hand inside her body. This hand, the one I’m using to type. Such connection happens when I can feel every ripple of her body from inside. How her hips gyrate and buck. How her stomach contracts. The noises from her mouth that begin where my knuckles touch muscle and press.

I took her clit in my left hand and attempted, tried, cajoled, but I don’t think she came. She certainly had a release, of some sort, but I think she may have been generally too overstimulated. That’s just a theory. An observation.

Slid out of her slow. I didn’t want to let go of her for a long time after.

That was definitely my favorite part of Saturday night, though the caning, the candle wax, the rope binding, the orgasm that nearly made me cry, and the pigeon family nested on the balcony were also very notable.

I can still hear her whisper, in my ear next to my cheek, her skin so fucking smooth, “let go. just let go.”

The Prettiest Girl in the Bar

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“You,” I said, lips right next to her ear, the gardenia scent on her neck more tangible at such close range, “are the most beautiful girl in this whole place.”

The music thumped, colors from the lights fluttered. I’d been watching her for half an hour, since I got here, and had danced next to her for the last two songs. I couldn’t hear my own words but trusted she could.

She could. She flushed, bowing her head a little, looking up at me through her lashes. Tossed her thin, long blonde hair.

“Can I buy you a drink?” I asked.

She nodded, still shy, eyes flashing. Interested. “Vodka cranberry?”

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The Changing of the Seasons

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It’s spring again.

We’re all coming out of the long hibernation, dragging our bodies out into the light and sun again, rediscovering picnics, parks, promenades, pool tables.

We’re putting away our winter woolen suits and outing our skin, letting it breathe again, letting the gym work pay off (or letting the lack thereof be noticed).

And me, I notice the girls: you’re everywhere. Seasons changing brings new fashion in a big city like mine, and I cannot help but to stare at the shift in shoes, in hemline, in neckline, in sleeve cuffs, in ankles.

These moments make me fear I objectify women too much. The feminist in me occasionally recoils. But isn’t there a difference between rude objectification and deep appreciation for the female form?

Of course, it is not just appreciation. Changes in season bring out the teenage-boy-in-heat in me, the desperation to fuck. I watch your swishy skirts and strappy sandals and I wonder how your hips move, how well you follow orders, how hard you like the pounding. How does your face flush when you come? Would your hands grasp for me, or for the mattress, or for the headboard?

Making women come: it is a skill I will never fully master, but for which I will always strive to perfect. Such infinite variation of pleasure, pain, release, surrender, power. I want a magic touch, I want a full year’s graduate study of the female orgasm, I want clipboards and a white lab coat to observe woman after woman getting off.

Not only because I aspire to be a good lover - also, I crave it. Need it like oxygen, water, like I need to finish a book once I get to the last ten pages. Something deep in me shudders and releases when I can hold you, shaking, until your body calms. Something in me is soothed to heal, to leave you better than when I found you, to convince you of your inherent beauty, if only one night, if only one moment, to bring you a little heaven in a little death.

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