Summer Game Plan

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She saw me the moment I walked into the bar. I saw her, too, just a moment before she looked up from her vodka tonic and gave me the once-over, by which time I’d already looked away (keeping her in my periphery) and began greeting the regular barflies that were starting to recognize me. The bartender gave me a nod and poured me a Jameson rocks.

She was sitting at a table near the bar with a small group of girls of varying degrees of heteroflexible, one in sporty clothes and looking very uncomfortable, and one androgynous poster-dyke who clearly knew her way around the place and was just returning from the jukebox, which she had no doubt taken over and pumped full of quarters to last the next three hours.

The girl was in a summery dress, white with thin black lines, that tied at the shoulders, one of those perfect a-skirts that twirls a little and swishes when she walks. The ones that make me stop and stare on a busy street before I realize it. That turn me into a teenaged boy, drooling and tugging at my jeans to hide my embarrassing arousal.

And the shoes - they were low strappy sandals, my favorites, criss-crossed over the top of her feet, gently nestled against each other on the legs of her tall barstool chair.

The other dykes in the bar disregarded her, I could see it as they walked in and scanned the place. Straight, they thought. But she wasn’t.

I knew the same way I knew her friend was - I just knew. Something about her femininity was deliberate, thought through. Her nails were short. Her hair was pulled up off her neck and twisted into a clip, wispy around her face. Cheeks flushed from the recent streak of sunshine and heat, maybe she’d been playing in the park today.

And she checked me out.

(That’s how I really knew.)

Straight girls don’t look at me the way femmes do. And femme bottoms don’t look at me the way femme tops do - the tops have a self-satisfied smirk, a command, an external push of energy. The bottoms hold their breath, lower their eyes and wait a moment before checking to see if I’m still looking.

I am.

I settle at the bar. Okay, game plan: she’s with friends, but already noticed me. Wants me to make the first move (I tell myself) but I need an excuse to say something, to get her alone. And what’ll I say?

Jesse - the bartender and one of my best friends - chats with me casually as the place fills up and gets increasingly busy. She goes off to pull some beers and I’m deep into my second James when I get a tap on my shoulder.

“Excuse me.” It’s the girl. Dammit, I was going to say hi first. I turn my shoulders, not my legs, and raise my eyebrows.

“Could you get the bartender’s attention? I’ve been standing here five minutes … ” I shoot a look to Jesse and she’s smiling in that way that means she’s about to crack up, deliberately not looking at me.

I simultaneously think, “you asshole,” and “thanks.”

I give Jesse a nod when she meets my eyes and she nods back, to me and the girl, who is reassured.

I suspect it wasn’t Jesse’s attention this girl really wanted. “I’m Sinclair,” I say. The barstool next to me is suddenly vacant and the girl moves in to rest her elbows on the bar.

“Moira,” she says, and looks at me sideways, slyly, with a little shy smile, chin in her shoulder.

“Well, Moira. What are you drinking?”

“Vodka tonic. Stoli raspberry.”

I nod. Jesse approaches and I repeat: “Stoli raspberry and tonic, thanks man.”

We sit in silence a moment and I take a watery swig of the end of my James. Jesse puts a new one down in front of me next to her drink, I peel a twenty out of my pocket, throw it on the bar.

“Can I buy you a drink?” I say.

She almost blushes. A warm flush. Her few freckles deepen. “Thank you. I mean, I think you just did.” She crosses her legs at the knee and picks up her drink, discarding the lime on the napkin and taking a sip through the two thin bar straws, swiveling on her stool slightly to face me.

“So,” she says, “I guess that bought you a drink’s worth of conversation. I’m curious - does this kind of thing work on lots of girls?” Her eyes are flashing, lips curling at the edge. Playful.

“Well, I … uh … ” I want to tell her there are no other girls, there haven’t been in months. I’m in a dry spell and I like it that way. Sure, they catch my eye, but they don’t keep it. I want to tell her not to come home with me because she’ll just determine like all the others that my heart is broken, that I’m broken. I want to tell her I love her shoes. I want to taste that drink in her mouth, feel her slender fingers in the short hairs on my neck.

I breathe in, out. Then shrug. “Sometimes.”

She laughs. Jesse looks over at me from behind the beer taps and smirks.

this is how I want you next

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In lingerie like tonight. Black stockings, seamed. Strappy sandal heels. Fresh red predicure. Pushup bra.

But unlike tonight: hair tight up off your neck. A clip would be good, chopsticks would be better. A wrap-around dress with no buttons, only ties.

Greet me at your door like this. Have my drink ready – you know what it is. Be ready to bend over for me. Be ready to get on your knees. Be ready to say please in that lovely aching way you do – with desperation, longing.

What I Would’ve Done

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Since we didn’t, since we couldn’t, let me tell you what I would’ve done.

First, I’d want you on your knees in front of me. I’d want the back of your head in my hand. I can still taste the back of your neck from when you sat in my lap, leaned back into me; still feel your haircut, those short hairs around the edges of your ears, under my fingers.

I’d want to unzip unbuckle unbutton slow and watch you watch me. Like you did on the couch, I saw you. Strawberries in your mouth. Bourbon. The shrimp I didn’t try.

Honestly, I’d want to know what you want. I’m a gracious top that way: my favorite scenario would be the one where you tell me what you’d want done to you, and I’d do it. I’d put my own flare on it, you can bet - but you’d get what you asked for.

So what is your fancy? What do you want? Here this is the quiet piece in me, the one that sits back and watches you, the one that takes photos and sucks the cap of my pen, that is all aflutter to know.

But I don’t know. You know I don’t. We operate communicate with a guise of lust and girl-intuition that takes us along the narrative just fine, but we’ve never had that kink/sex conversation over coffee. Likes, dislikes. Secret fantasies. Perhaps we never will, it isn’t really that kind of thing between us. And though I can have at you through your writing (honestly, what comes - ahem - to mind is cocksucking, something I would oh so happily oblige, you know, if I must) I still don’t really know what you love.

So.

Given that I don’t know, I will do what any top would do: improvise, and take.

It becomes about me, quickly, in this scenario then. But that’s okay (it works for me, at least). And I have found, underneath most fetishes, the underlying desire is often the same: we all want to be wanted.

And you know I’m a top. You know how I seek to take. I said it last night (to you) but I’d (eagerly) say it again: I know how to take you. And you’d want that, wouldn’t you? You’d give me your (eager) permissions, that look in your eyes in your face open willing coy submissive and that’s all I ask for, that’s all I need to set my own desire in motion, that tiny moment of permission and submission.

And oh what would I do to you?

Oh what I would do to you.

Ask For What You Want

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I want you to only address me as Sir.

I want you to start playing with your clit ten minutes before I arrive, but under no circumstances are you allowed to come.

I want you wearing high heels and a short skirt with nothing underneath.

I want your safeword to be carnation, which means, you can yell no all you like, but I will not stop.

I want you ready to bend over my lap struggling as I spank you. Lift your dress up and turn your ass-cheeks red until my hand hurts. And then you’ll kiss it, suck my fingers, make it better. I’ll scold you for making me all hard and wanting, and you’ll straddle me and ride.

I want your explicit consent. I want your permission and submission.

I want you to know how to draw it from me. I am afraid of my own power. I want you to pull these cruelties from me, to beg for them. I want to take your energy and mine into one huge fireball that I will weild and you will receive. I want your surrender. I want you to make me feel like the biggest, baddest top in the room, even if I’m not.

Can you do that for me?

The Question of Cocksucking

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I stood at the foot of the bed. Standing up made me realize that my jeans were still unzipped, belt unbuckled, falling around my hipbones. I hedged my bets: would my cock get sucked tonight? Is it presumptuous of me to keep my fly down? I decided: yes. I began to button the jeans.

“What are you doing?” she clearly didn’t agree with my decision. We started laughing.

We weren’t going to fuck, I knew it already. That was okay - I went to see her, to meet her, to hang out, with only the expectation of the company of a smart, pretty girl, and hopefully some flirting.

And oh I got that.
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Lipstick …

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… on my cock. Red, a mess of it, and on your mouth, wiped to your cheek where I smeared it hard with my fingers. My hand in your hair, pressing deeper into your throat. Under my desk maybe, or in the board room on that big oak table with huge windows that look over the shopping center. Black leather chairs with high backs that roll. Glass water pitcher in the corner. Ice cubes.

I bet the table height is just right. Bend you over it, push the mess of fabric out of the way to smack your bare ass, hard, leave a red imprint of my hand. Tease your lips, thrust my fingers in. Press your cheek down onto the smooth oak wood, hand tangled in your hair. I think the door is locked; there’s a conference call phone unit in the center of the table. Perhaps it’s on. Perhaps someone is listening in. They could be.

In the server room. Against a mess of wires and humming of machines, gasping, fast movements of desire. Your hands under my shirt. The thrill of your fingers. Mouths wet and hungry.

There’s an empty office down the hall. Still the desk is a mess of paperclips, a stapler, binding clips, an empty inbox. Lift you up to sit on the edge and pull myself close, between your legs, in an blue office chair with wheels. A letter opener rips through whatever thin fabric you might be wearing so I can taste you. Your hands on the back of my head, knees bent, head bent back. Shoulders against your thighs.

I can’t look at any of these flat surfaces without thinking of bending you over it, lowering you onto it, lifting my knee to it for leverage. Empty rooms, hidden corners, chairs all become enticing. Wracked with lust. Please, work me over till I’m spent, pull it from me, leave me empty instead of always bursting.

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?

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