A Polite Boy with Not So Polite or Pure Thoughts

2006-03-17T23:40:00.000-08:00

This late hour overwhelms me with a feeling of pure lust and need.

The need to pull someone's hair while they suck my cock.

The desire to bend over and have a girl take my ass.

The fucking urge to be used and to use.

So much energy wasted.

2006-01-19T12:02:00.000-08:00

I was just walking back to my office and was reminded of how the street I was on used to look. Up until a few years ago, this area was filled with porn shops, live nudes, and prostitutes. Now, only a store and one club remain, and the block has been cleaned up. In my years at school, however, it was paradise for a young kid from a small town. It offered plenty of places to get into trouble or to pick up a magazine or to stare at women in various states of undress.

There was one place, the Roman, that had massage parlors upstairs. Downstairs was a huge porn shop, acrid with the scent of pine cleaner that permeates every den of filth I have ever been in, with few exceptions.

If you walked down the hallway, and entered a gate, you could pay $5 for 5 tokens. These tokens allowed you into the room to see a curtain raise, revealing a girl in some state of undress. A thick, clear wall was between the two of you and you were allowed a telephone to speak on. On the wall was lube and paper towels. You really shouldn’t look down on the floor or on the walls.

As the metal curtain mechanically and slowly rose, you never knew what you were getting. Sometimes, you’d be unenthused. Other times, you may be titillated.

This time, however…

I obviously had too much to drink. I believe it was some type of vodka that I’d be ill advised to have ever tried and would shun today. But in those heady pre-legal days, any drink was good drink. One can’t be a snob when one grows up running through the woods clutching a warm six-pack of Old Milwaukee. That said, we were at some party that I can barely remember, on the roof of a restaurant, probably illegally, and drinks flowed, and at some point I just wanted to leave.

I walked the streets with a purpose in mind. I wanted to see someone naked and I knew that if I tried to do it in person, I would just be rude and uncouth. In my own eyes, anyways. I’ve always been a pervert, but I’m unwilling at times to think that anyone else would like to be a part of my reindeer games.

To the Roman, which was a long walk under what was then harrowing streets. Sober, I wouldn’t have even attempted this 2:15 AM run. But bolstered by the literal spirits of Russian potatoes, it seemed like a great idea.

The first few gates that opened in the booth offered nothing special. I was moderately worked up, and let’s face it, in your late teens, any nudity is great. It wasn’t until the last room, with a fresh batch of 5 tokens, that I was smitten.

She had curly red hair and pale, white skin. She was already nude by the time the curtain was up, as she probably had had plenty of customers. As I scanned her cube I noticed a phone, some cigarettes, discarded clothes in a pile, and one of those huge dildos that always seem to get made, but never bought.

Her eyes trailed me, and looking back now, look, I’m no looker. I just wanted to get many look words in that sentence, sorry, I’ve been reading way too much Tom Robbins. That said…

The point is, I was probably the only 19 year old she saw that night. So I’d like to convince myself that her words were genuine. I know now that they may not have been. But let’s, for the sake of fantasy, be nice. Maybe she enjoyed what she saw and wanted to see more. And for the first time in one of those booths, she did. I dropped my shorts and found myself instantly erect. And I realized that this was the first time that I had been nude in front of a member of the opposite sex. Maybe that’s why I was so excited.

The receiver was against my ear. And her words purred in my ears. “Let me see you stroke that cock for me.”

That was all I needed. A heady cocktail of liquor, young lust, and forbidden things all clouded my mind. I saw the head of her dildo disappear inside of her and my breath quickened. Token after token disappeared, and I could barely speak, other than to say, “This is my last one.”

“Then let me give you a show,” she laughed.

Her ass hit the glass hard and she spread herself open, her asshole glistening, winking at me. She looked over her shoulder as I exploded all over the glass. As the curtain closed, our eyes stayed locked. My pants came back to public decency.

I bolted out of the booth, down the steps, and into the streets, my mind racing, and the air growing cold with the start of autumn. It was the first time in my life, of many, that I felt my consciousness float above my body and at the same time, forward in time, in remind myself that this was something important to be remembered sometime later.

2006-01-10T12:44:00.000-08:00

Are blogs the new masturbation? Or worse?

Should I have to know what’s in your head when you get off and do you care to know what’s in mine? In our world’s overwhelming desire to eradicate privacy, is this just another way to destroy what is alone and uniquely yours in your head? Or, better, is this the only way that some of us have to communicate?

This is what keeps me from writing all of the time.

I don’t know who is interested in hearing about my fantasies of lying on my stomach, cock in hand, tugging at myself while I have my tongue inside a girl, coming all over myself more from the taste of her than my own touch?

Is that interesting?

Or looking down on a gleaming, porcelain white ass, streaked pink with the stinging marks of my calloused hands. Sound enveloping the room, liquid and flesh smacking together in a stereo accompaniment.

I guess maybe it could be. Maybe I should just overcome my distaste for the internet and unload all of the evil in my head.

2005-12-14T12:32:00.000-08:00

Like any red-blooded male, I download plenty of pornography. And most of it, to be fair, completely sucks. Because unlike any other red-blooded male, I work in an industry that demands creativity and rigorously reviews all movies, television, music, just let’s say media all for the artistic elements. Things have to stand out.

So I demand proper lighting. A story is not essential, but I want a flow of shot-to-shot. I want interesting camera angles. And I want something different. I could do well without ever seeing fake breasts or peroxide.

It’s kind of sad, in a way, because when you first see porn, it all seems so wonderful and amazing. I could have held onto a page of lingerie from a Sears catalogue for months. A ripped up single picture from Playboy could last almost a year. And now, it’s all so rote and boring. All filled with similar faces and what seems, in most mainstream porn, an almost relentless race toward anal sex and a facial cumshot, dogged by choking and slapping.

Look, I know, looking at these movies, I’m not looking for The Magnificent Ambersons. I’m looking for a prurient release or at the very least, inspiration. I mean, not many people watched Fellini with their dicks in their hands. I’m just saying.

The film I downloaded today had a most unfortunate title. I Banged My Husband in the Ass. Horrid. Just ridiculous. But hey, we’re not here to discuss words, we’re here to discuss sex. Hot sex. Sweaty sex. And this was the sex. Trust me.

The guy in the scene is really scrawny with tattoos, but that belies his girth. Seriously, it made me afraid for the girl a few times. That said, the girl wouldn’t be attractive to me if wasn’t for how hot this scene is. She’s curvy, which is nice, but she has too large plastic breasts and blonde dreadlocks. I guess she’s attractive enough.

What I enjoyed about this video was the fact that unlike most of the femdom type pornography that’s out there, this wasn’t one-sided or mean spirited. This was all about two people getting dirty and enjoying one another’s bodies. Which is what it should all be about.

You could actually see the lust in one another’s eyes in parts of this, as they kiss and she’s stroking his mammoth erection. Or when he’s thrusting his hips, his cock deep inside her throat. By the end, they are both sweaty, he’s just come, and is kneeling inside her thighs watching her rub her clit to climax.

My favorite parts? Well, best of all, a crazily composed shot through his thighs of her licking his asshole while stroking him, his head turned upward in abject excitement, and the camera moving behind them to see her slowly slide fingers in as he takes over playing with his shaft. Or him licking her while stroking himself. That was nice.

The lighting is poor. I haven’t even listened to the sound yet. But it does what all pornography should aspire to…make you feel lust, something I’ve found missing in porn as of late. This movie makes my ass hungry to be teased and fucked and prodded and played with. It makes me hunger for the taste of wet pussy. And it makes me wish that was me, stroking myself as a lover grasps my hips, slamming into me as I make a mess for her.

2005-12-05T15:27:00.000-08:00

You ask me all the time why I can’t share with you in person what I can in prose.

I feel like if the words I had in my head came into the real world and escaped the pixels you read on the screen that it’d be too far, that there would be no going back, and frankly that scares me.

I’m not accustomed to telling people what I need. Or want.

How can I look you in the eyes and tell you how badly I want to lock eyes with you as you slide down my body? That I wonder about the scent of the insides of your thighs? What it’d be like to kiss your wrists, elbows, the backs of your knees? To stroke my hand along your cheek and feel my cock inside your mouth, poking and prodding out, your skin flush and red and hot?

What's on my mind, you ask.

So many things...sometimes, I confess, I can't keep my eyes away from stealing looks. At your forehead. At your brastrap. Just at you in general.

How does someone tell someone that? I’m of the firm believer that fantasy is above reality and I dare not ruin that for you.

Stories

2005-11-30T15:33:00.000-08:00

Revelationary thought...

I dream of being other people, a lot, maybe like a bar fly, romanically drinking my life and art away in some Parisian cafe in the turn of the century or a run down bar in the bowery, cheap rotgut stinging my belly. I don't ever dream of being me, or someone normal. It's always a dream of the movies.

And I realized, our society is nearly tied up in 90 minutes to two hours. Always an ending in an hour to TV shows. And maybe that's why life seemed more simple at one point, because stories like The Odyssey took weeks and months to tell. No one reads books, which take forever and a day, and back then, you could only read during the day or by candle light.

You never see how hard it is in the stories of people affected with a traumatic illness in the movies. Everyone is always brave and strong and true.

No one ever gets tempted, and if they do, they are usually killed or able to reconcile.

Our morality and rules for ethics is shaped by culture and in effect, our attention spans for our lives have decreased while our need and ability to live longer increases.

Bored sameness

2005-11-28T14:53:00.000-08:00

I yearn to talk to someone, to share something, anything.

The same web sites, the same movies, the same, the same, the same...it's all in my head and none of it interesting. I want some spark, I want something different, I want it to not be I and the same - sharing and learning, that's what i want. I feel insulated in an amber of sexlessness and plastic.

Anyone ever feel that way? If a blog falls in the forest, does anyone hear it?

Blogs were made for these

2005-11-28T14:42:00.000-08:00

Life is, or at least it should be, a constant redefinition and search for answers.

I’ve gone the opposite route from Descartes. He questioned everything and then realized that he couldn’t question God and therefore, existence. His round of questioning led him to find something to believe in.

Instead, I sit here in a dark office with headphones on and the only thing I can be thankful is that I like the song that I’m listening to.

I’m overwhelmed at times – when one tries to be understanding to the world, all ones does is become the receptacle for the refuse. Or to put it in better parlance, I’m covered in shit.

Somedays, I add up the times that I get talked down to. Other times, I just sit here and try to will the world…stop it from spinning, but only where I sit, so I can be thrown into space and blow up like a giant balloon and pop, spinning and careening wildly through the ether until I disappear.

I feel like a kid at Christmas, but I don’t even count down to anything positive. I dream of a day when all the hard work pays off and when I can actually believe people when they talk to me and when I can believe in you again. Because really, I don’t believe in anything at all ever.

The other shoe will always drop. The good will always die young. But I’m getting old.

Raccoon eyes

2005-11-10T08:48:00.000-08:00

I don’t know what it is, but for someone who hates makeup, I sure do have a thing for dark eyes. I notice it turns up in my prose quite often, to wit:

“She had those hollowed out, blackened smoky eyes that almost make me wreck my car when I’m staring at them as someone catches my eye in traffic.”

I noticed it again this morning. On the bus. A woman, the whole way in the back of the bus, black teased hair, dark shadowed eyes.

Maybe because it’s not natural and breaks from my pattern of only enjoying natural things.

Then again, I believe that if you try to read too much into what you like, it takes the magic away.

Horrible creature

2005-11-07T08:31:00.000-08:00

I feel like there is some inherent beast within me that demands so much. This beast that sits in front of a monitor at 2 AM, horny and awake with need, one hand on keys and the other on wet, dripping hardness – begging, cajoling, surfing, trying in vain to find some contact and closure and need for sleep.

I wish I could kill this beast – stab it with lances and lead charging horses around it bearing flags and boast of it, like it were a boar we were ritually killing for a king's feast.

But I can't. Today, I'm clear.

Hours from now, the beast will live again.

Breakups, blame, etc.

2005-11-07T08:29:00.000-08:00

One of my students is going through his first breakup.

What a horrible situation to be in, what a mindset to have to challenge through.

To be 19 and a romantic and upset at the world again.

It makes me think of a Morrissey song, "Now My Heart is Full." Seriously, like, every Morrissey song is the end of the world. How he never killed himself is beyond me. And now, I see his new concert film and he's smiling and happy. So, I guess, there is some moral to be gleaned from all of this.

Car Song

2005-10-28T13:22:00.000-07:00

I was thinking of writing this earlier this week, and then I read AlwaysAroused’s blog this morning, and it kind of pushed more of an impetus within me to finally write a little bit more.

The first time I ever made out with a girl was inside a car, about a half hour from Pittsburgh, in a small town called either Industry or Ambridge or Rochester, depending on what mile marker you are on. We were parked behind a former Zayre’s, which was a department store ala Target in the 1970s, but the store had long been closed and reopened in the late 1980s as a Gabriel Brothers closeout store. The last time I drove past it, there was no store there. The point is, at one point, this road was littered with malls and mills and so much traffic, and now, it was a ghost town. The mills had grown as cold as the evening, a mid-March rainy late night, with storm warnings on the radio that we kept on, because we were convinced that a tornado could rip through at any moment.

The entire car was shaking, more from the wind than from us. There were no lights anywhere, save for the blue tones on the dashboard of my parent’s car. We both sat up front, tentative, trembling, not sure where to go or what to do.

Our lips charged and met at one another. I remember the first time I kissed her that this what was I fantasized about my entire teenage years, and I used every waking moment of thought about it to try my best to belie my lack of experience. My lips slid from hers to her throat, across her neck, behind her ear, her breath coming in soft, warm gasps in my ear, ragged, incomplete. I could tell by her pulse that she was enjoying this at least as much as I was as our lips would once again meet; her tongue invading my mouth, bringing with it a sweet flavor that I’ve never encountered before or since, my tongue brushing against hers. Both eyes closed, hand on her cheek and neck, for what seemed like hours, just kissing being enough…and now, knowing that it could never be enough, in these days, but then, it was.

Hands roaming almost everywhere they could, both of us, finally allowed to indulge ourselves, finally alone for once, after months, just the two of us. Away from class, away from parents, from friends, alone in a storm tossed Grand Prix in the middle of somewhere, the radio playing a hockey game as my fingertips touched the smooth skin of a young girl’s belly for the very first time. And again, that’s never enough, especially when your lips feel like they are on fire and your skin is hot to the touch and so is hers and the windows have fogged over more than once.

The first touch of a black satin bra is something to be celebrated. To be remembered. Even now. Seeing a girl life her sweater above her head, exposing flesh pale from the winter, feeling that audible moment when a bra falls away, actually seeing what you’ve wanted to see all those years.

My hands were rough from painting and working and sculpting, but the flesh of her nipples felt softer than anything I could imagine. Her eyes were closed, rolled back, maybe, even. I studied her face, her dark raccoon eyelids fluttering and her chest going up and down as I marveled at her small breasts with thick, round areolas. I had never seen breasts like this before. All I knew was what I saw in movies, in magazines, not a normal girl’s breast that came alive to your touch, that responded to your fingers with growing hardness, that filled your lips as you opened your mouth and took them in, licking small circles around them. Obsessively, my mouth, between her breasts, alternating between them, driven mad by them.

Her hand rubbed my chest, pushing up through my shirt to feel my bare chest, rubbing slowly, slowly, deliriously slowly lower toward my body. Involuntarily, or voluntarily, my hips shook and jumped, trying in my boy way to get my lower body closer to touch. I’m not good at waiting…and what boy is? We give in always so slavishly to our own touch at a minute’s notice, ruining slowness and taking one’s time, until one day we are forced to learn it.

I was embarrassed at first, as we kissed, as I thrusted myself near , I kept trying to keep my growing erection away from her. I wanted her touch, but still, didn’t want her to think that was all I wanted. This being our first time.

“I love to torture you,” she said, as she stared at the bulge in my jeans. Her eyes were on me. Again, a dream, as I had never had anyone do that before.
Her thin fingers tentatively drew a line across the outline of my hardness through the denim, forcing a loud noise from me and a shaking of my body. Never touched, but wanting. My hands pawed with more intensity at her breasts and we continued kissing, her rubbing my stomach and then lower, the side and palm of her hand across my erection.

It was torture. Slow, painful, blissful torture, the longest and most built-up orgasm of my life. I wanted to touch her the same way, but she wasn’t ready. And I respected that. She just wanted to make me feel good, and I did, and when I came, it was still inside those jeans, covering the entire front. The whole time, I looked out, ahead, watching traffic lights buffeted by high winds, their lighst casting trails into the never ending night.

There were only a few more times we were so fortunate to be together like this. The one other time that I remember more, she asked me if she could torture me again. I love that still, that someone thinks of me in that way. That someone wants me in that way, and I miss it sometimes.

This time, I couldn’t stand the pain anymore, and even though she worried and, well, I worried because neither of us wanted to go too far, I unzipped my jeans and she rubbed and tortured me, her words the latter again, through my boxers. It was then I learned that not even that would be enough. I was mad in my desire to touch her, and slowly rubbed her inner thighs as we kissed until she slid her legs apart and rested her feet above the dashboard, opening her jean covered thighs to me as I rubbed between her legs, smelling a woman for the first time as her sex rose from its denim prison. I was so close to orgasming, just from touching her. Her hand pulled back from my cock, and I opened the fly of my boxers. The moment my hand pulled myself free, I came all over the front of the car, her hand, mine, her legs, my legs, possibly everywhere that I could. Uncontrollable.

Even now, fifteen years later, I wish that we had gone further.

All it takes to get me going is remembering her hair. Or eyes. Or her long, but endearing nose. Wondering what it would have been like to feel my fingers slide inside of her. Or to feel her head in my lap.

A dream, interpreted.

2005-10-23T14:37:00.000-07:00

She had me on my hands and knees, nude on display. I could feel the cold in the room through my bare skin, waiting for what she had in store. My cock was hard, but I could barely feel it through the velvet ropes encircling it, wrapped around my scotum, sending pain through me each time my cock lept from its erectness. My eyes were blindfolded and my hands behind my back as the light invaded my eyes, making it hard to adjust.

As things cleared, I could see a line of people, some one at a time, some two. She held me head back, hard, by the hair, and told me that no matter what, I was her gift, her toy to all of these people. Some were masked, some weren't, some costumed.

My hands struggled as a mid-40s woman pushed my head to the floor and mounted my face, laughing as she lowered her thick, round thighs onto my face. All I could smell was her wetness and her weight on me, and hear her booming laughter, so amused, and I thought, all opportunity to choose someone attractive to me has been removed, and that in itself was attractive, and caused my cock to grow harder and more painful still.

She walked away as a younger woman, thinner, short red hair, paler in complexion, backed her thin, bony ass into my face and demanded that I worship her asshole.

Another thicker blonde untied my cock for her slave. The girl, barely 19, was so thin and small looking that normally, I wouldn't be attracted by her, but because we were being forced to touch one another, I could barely contain my lust for her. My mistress saw the look in my eyes and laughed. She pushed the girl away and forced her to watch while I worshipped my mistress's pussy and ass, slapping the young girl in the face as she used my mouth like a cock.

Sudden;y, she stood and grabbed the girl, seized her around the throat, and pushed her head above my restrained cock. "You want this, don't you, whore?" I think she was asking both of us. Slowly, ribbon by ribbon, my hardness was exposed to the air, as my gaze cast around the room, I saw numerous people in various stages of touching themselves and others.

Finally, slowly, tentatively, my cock was open and her mistress was demaning that she open her mouth. Her eyes caught mine and I could see the same want. "Don't take his dirty cock in your mouth, slut. I know youwant to, no?" As she nodden, her forehead rubbed against my shaft and I convolused. We were both slapped and scolded, but this action caused more stirring and finally, her mouth was open. She was permitted to let a large amount of spit cascade from her lips, touching me like no touch before, warm and thick and wet...and then, I was rudely turned upside down.

My legs above my head as I lay on my back, my mistress demanded that the girl clean my asshole for her. I wanted to feel her hands on me, but I knew better. My cock was so close now, a foot or so from my face as I was shoved into this strenuous position. I felt the two mistresses hands on me as that young tongue entertained my ass. Suddenly, I could feel it filled with wet, lubed fingers as I neared orgasm. My mistress just laughed at me again, telling me that if I wanted to come, I had to come in my own face. I couldn't control myself and did, covering my hair and face in thick spurts, nearly passing out as the young sub was forced to clean me.

White thighs

2005-10-10T13:38:00.000-07:00

She lived above an alley, covered with bricks, that went out into the abandoned steel town streets. Cold December night, moon as full and as close to Earth as it gets. Black dress, black hose, black combat boots, black hat, black mascara smeared as her protests easily transformed into pleas and moans and declarations. Our only contact my hand on her sensative thigh, slowly rubbing it, one leg up and balancing. The other around my waist, our sexes meeting between denim and sheer material, incessant need. It was late, too late, and it was a memory that I knew would be a memory while it was happening. I could taste her lipstick the whole way home.

Audio

2005-10-10T08:56:00.000-07:00

In my misspent youth, well, mid-20s, I discovered phone dating lines. Especially the chat ones. And living alone and being somewhat shy and introverted, these were the perfect place to meet girls to talk to. And more to the point, talk dirty to, which I didn’t realize could happen for mostly free (I say this because you had to pay to get into the service).

One of the first times that it happened, I was talking to someone I had been speaking to pretty often and the conversation turned to sex. I was erect the entire call, already, just from hearing her voice and knowing that she was really tall, black hair, bass player for a local band. We eventually were talking about what we liked, and I pretty much told her a variation of this entry that I wrote a few years ago:

“I wish I could stop time, right at the moment when a lover take my cock in her hand and her mouth is open and lunging for it. That's the most erotic and amazing thing I can imagine, when someone gives themselves over to the moment completely and their only motivation in life isn't taxes or work or stress, but in putting your flesh in their mouth or their tongue on your flesh and making you explode.

That split second of time standing still, when the air still hits your nakedness, then to be replaced by the wet, warm feeling of lips wrapping themselves around you.”

Somewhere inside that, I heard a buzzing, and her muffled voice say, “Please tell me that again.”

The next thing I knew, she was moaning into my ear and my wrist and stomach were coated with cum.

So this is how I began my quest to find girls to talk to in the middle of the night. To recreate the thrill of that experience. Alone in the dark, phone up to my ear, stroking myself the whole time, waiting for someone to answer my ad on a chat line, then talking to them.

It pushed me to be a lot more assertive than I was. To almost become dominant if I wanted to hear the confessions that I wanted to hear. To demand that they say the things that I wanted to hear. To allow them to live out fantasies that they could never say in the light of day. To make people who I wouldn't even recognize face to face reveal to me that they wanted to stick their tongue inside of ther best friend.

It was 3:30 AM or worse, our libidos were out of control on hot June nights, alone in our first apartments.

I miss those days.

It just is.

2005-10-05T06:37:00.000-07:00

Being polite is a punishment.

Trying to do the right thing inevitably makes everyone think you only do wrong.

Being innocent of the games of power only makes you naïve.

Trying to help people only leads you to feel weak.

So why keep doing it? Why bang your head against the rock that is sliding downwards in your ascent?

Because you’re a fool. You don’t know any other way to live your life and you’re too dumb to change.

I feel like lashing out at the world somedays. I feel like a fool for writing, sometimes. I feel like if I finally did stand up for myself, like everyone yells at me to do, no one could stand me.

Someone told me when I was younger that it would all get easier. And they lied.

Now, I'm forced to wear a mask and be someone I'm not.

I'm not sure about that.

Random fantasies

2005-10-04T12:19:00.000-07:00

All pulled from my old LJ blog. Hopefully, someone enjoys them, or they can spark something.

Bent over the bed, ass in air, covered in the finest silk panties, black, of course, thigh highs, garter belts, long straps running down her legs, tracing the mucles across the back of her thighs. I was stripped nude, as she asked, she in power, clothed a bit more than me. A frilly black bra covered all of her sex from my eyes. She asked me to come close and kneel behind her.

This was for all the boys in the world that only wanted and never received. I'd be karmically paying women back with this, almost a ritual. She told me to lick her through the thin fabric as she grinded her ass into my face.

I could smell her through the garment, and I was already electric with desire. My hand dropped to my nude sex and she saw, between her thighs, and told me that this wasn't for me, or about me. I did as I was commanded, her forcing me to use the straps of her garters as something to hold me back. I had to keep my hands against her skin, the fabric of them holding my hands away from where they wanted to be, stroking myself.

Her wetness and my saliva made the fabric almost invisble, as I felt her mound press against my chin, almost knocking me back, challenging me. Her legs spread, defiantly, as she raised her rear up and down my face, using me like one would a sex toy, just to get off, to get her fix, leaving me there, hard and horny as she made me, and my gender, pay for their lack of attention, for focusing on themselves.

As my tongue entered her ass, our debt was paid.

Her nude legs spread as she sits on the toilet, pushing my lips against her wetness. Her bending over the seat, offering herself completely open to me. Her holding my cock as I urinate between her legs into the bowl, or standing behind me, pretending its her cock. Her pushing me face first to the floor, pulling my cock between my legs, roughly behind me, licking my ass to the head of my cock as it pokes between my cheeks. Shoving the wood end of the plunger into my ass, making me beg for her rough humiliation.

Her, bent over a chair, spreading her lips and cheeks for me, my tongue up and down her seams, fingers inside her, tongue circling her bud, smelling her sex in my face, slowly working my way to entering my tongue into her asshole, my cock coming alive and hard in my grip, entering her as I push my tongue so deep, tasting her, stroking furiously as I explode all over her legs and feet.

Lying in a tub as she straddles me, lowering her sex to my face to taste, stroking myself as she commands and watches, her fingers inside herself until she lets a hot stream go against my hard cock, covering it as I cum into her spray.

Both of us masturbating across the room from one another, each of us telling each other what to do, her hand showing me just how fast I should go, begging me for more, to squeeze my balls, to spread my legs, to lick my own precum. Wanting to put on a show for her. Her demanding I slide a finger into my own ass and fuck myself for her, two fingers, stroke in time with their invasion of my asshole for her pleasure and cum for her.

I wish I could stop time, right at the moment when a lover take my cock in her hand and her mouth is open and lunging for it. That's the most erotic and amazing thing I can imagine, when someone gives themselves over to the moment completely and their only motivation in life isn't taxes or work or stress, but in putting your flesh in their mouth or their tongue on your flesh and making you explode.

That split second of time standing still, when the air still hits your nakedness, then to be replaced by the wet, warm feeling of lips wrapping themselves around you.

Those are all out of order of date and time. Just sketches, not full ideas. I just had no intention of changing them, just wanted to get them up and out and alive again.

2005-10-04T11:56:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, people bring out the best in me. Or the worst.

She IMs me out of the blue, every once in awhile. I don’t even know her name. Or where she comes from. I don’t know anything about her, other than her screen name and that she’s in college.

And every time she speaks to me, she begs me to fuck her, in those words, like I did the last time. So I dredge up all the evil thoughts I have and try my best.

I’ll try and save some of my stream of consciousness need to get someone off words next time.

Girls of the Past - C

2005-09-29T11:50:00.000-07:00

C

I first met C when I was 13 or 14, as we were in band together. She had a younger sister who was her exact opposite. C felt like a mother before she was a mother. She was nurturing and kind, always seeming to stand up for people. Plus, she had a certain quality about her, I can’t really define it.

I always harbored somewhat of a crush on her, although I was not always aware of it.

I ran into her in a video store after graduation and we had a great, long talk and now that I had finally realized how to talk to women, I thought, I should pursue this. And she ended this conversation by saying that she was going out with M, one of my best friends since grade school. Which is odd, because he and I were great friends, and I think I knew they were dating, but didn’t know how serious. Maybe I just don’t pay attention, which is probably true.

Regardless, I grew to be great friends with both of them. I was in their wedding party and frequently attended parties, almost weekly, at their small apartment. She was the first woman I ever met who kept erotica in the bathroom, or anywhere for that matter.

I remember one drunken conversation about why he never wanted to touch her and it made me angry, as angry as I could get in my numb, constantly trying to escape any feeling youth.

We lost track when D and I broke up. I think in the back of my head I resented her for staying friends with D. I don’t know. I also think I wanted to escape my hometown and become a new person after L and I broke up.

Whatever happened, all I ever got from her were letters for birthdays. Then, I heard that she and M were divorcing. I knew they had problems for years. I called and talked to her for awhile and she sounded rougher voiced, but still the same person I knew, always working her ass off, always making things better for people, a mother to the end, but now with a son of her own and getting rid of M, because she realized finally that she could never change what his family and DNA made him.

All in all, it’s rather sad.

That said, in some small town of 8,000 people, there was one girl I knew who wanted more from lovemaking than thirty seconds in the backseat and read and wrote about it. I’m sure there are more. But she was the first one I met.

Girls of the past - L

2005-09-29T11:47:00.000-07:00

(I wrote all of these for a now defnct Live Journal. I'm presenting them as is, I'm sure I'll write more someday.)

I was remembering the past, again, forgive me, past.

Picking me up at the alien flat airport, showing me that she had been wearing garters and hose all day, was it blue? Or purple? Or pink? Time has erased all the memories of color and shade, but not the flat farmlands spilling out in front of us, able to see for miles, a direct contrast to my mountaineous upbringing.

It seemed like the world could continue forever. That we could continue forever.

Dusty wheels rolling. hand sliding skirt to reveal bare thigh, colored strap contrasting with tanned leg, no panties, no shame, drive on.

(real world me now seeing this in less poetic prose)
When I met my ex in Kansas to take her back here, life seemed so perfect. Me against the world, with her. It seemed like perfection, I couldn't wait to get her back to her dad's house and throw her down on the bed and take her. We'd been talking about it for months. As it was, her whole family was there to meet me, but I made sure, when we went into her room, my fingers took seconds to find her.

I carry fond memories of that two days before the bottom dropped out.

Laying in bed, all the windows open, both naked, the only light a radio playing impossibly great music and her lit cigarettes, one after the other, illuminating her face, short hair, small, perky breasts.

i wish sometimes I could live in those two days.

It's odd, probably my Catholic upbringing, but I was so worked up the last day, she was at work, I jerked off in her bathroom and I was sure that's what screwed it up, that I somehow disrupted nature by doing that there.

I guess you have to understand. I'm crazy sometimes. And I wanted some rational explanation for those two days, why everything was so perfect.

I guess the explanation is that thousands of miles of phone cords made everything seem better than it was.

Who knows.

(ANOTHER VERSION)

I almost got married to L.

A long time ago.

I was young, in love, she was the first girl I ever had sex with. I can be such a romantic at times.

I met her late at the night at the gym. I didn't know then she was a stripper, that she did porn, that she had sex with numerous guys at bachelor parties, that she'd take $100 to fuck a guy.

A question you never want to ask someone you love is how much it costs to fuck them.

But the sex? Intrinsically, the crazier and more messed up in the head someone is, the better the sex, so I have learned. If it wasn't blowjobs in the middle of St. Louis traffic or her masturbating and putting on a show for people as we drove, it was her asking me to mount her face and use her mouth like a cunt. Her words, not mine.

Maybe I see the past through rosier glasses, but a lot of what she did now feels like a movie that didn't happen to me, happened to someone else.

I was lucky to escape with my life. And sanity. She had literally seven VDs on her last test, and I luckily got none of them.

I remember the first night we had sex, she was on her period and even so, I still wanted her so badly. I remember I had to fill out all this paperwork for some relationship test she had set up for us, and she wouldn't let me touch her until I finished. She kept spreading those muscular thighs of hers, showing me her shaved mound, spreading and unspreading. I think I've been horney ever since.

We almost got back together once. We spent all night together and she dropped me off and in the morning, my car broke down. I took it to a garage and I saw a car that looked a lot like hers. I asked the guy at the garage, do you know her? And he told me they do coke with her, fuck her when she passes out and use her car.

So needless to say, the reunion was unsuccessful.

(AND MORE)

I was thinking more of my post about L from yesterday.

I remember, at one point in our relationship, she mentioned that I didn’t fulfill her because I was trying to remain a virgin. Stupid me, I know, but then she bragged about how she’d blown some guy while he had a chain around her neck and led her all around the house on it, all the things and experimentation she’d done.

And now, I’ve probably done more than her, experienced a lot more and with a lot more giving people, who were willing to open up to me and show me, help me, guide me.

And that’s what’s it’s all about, I suppose.

She was never wrong, always so sure of herself, but so wrong.

I can’t even masturbate thinking about her anymore. I haven’t for over a year.

The hardest thing one has to do is kill off the love or lust someone feels for someone, because they know it will hurt them.

Girls of the past - D

2005-09-29T11:35:00.000-07:00

What I'm trying to do is look back on the women (trust me, there aren't many) of my past, and share some remembrances of them.

Little things I remember about her, purely purient:

She had the largest breasts of any girl i have ever been with. Literally, 38D or larger, with thick nipples, large brown areolas. I could orgasm just rubbing the head of my cock against her nipple. Wistful, remembering what it felt like to be between those, or watching them fall when she bent over, looking between her thighs as they hung down, begging for touch.

First girl I did a lot with. My greatest memory is her getting of the tub, no parents, riding my face, her thighs hot from the steam of washing, clean smelling and her fucking my face...and then the surprise of her mouth on my cock.

She loved to suck cock, more than any girl I've ever met, demanding we do it in front of open windows so cars going past could see, doing it in parking lots of malls...never wanted to go near the conclusion of her act, but just the same, she would beg to do it. She'd confess that she'd be imagining it all day.

Once, she tied my cock with her pantinhose, still wet from sweat of a summer day, and stoked me off into them.

Once, I remember her bent over, her thick, full ass covered in white panties as we teenage dry humped. I couldn't stand it any longer, pulled down my boxers and rubbed my naked cock across her satin pantied ass, coming so hard it ended in her thick, curly brown hair.

We did everything but...because I wasn't ready at the time and I don't know if she ever understood.

My song with her was "Chloe Dancer/Crown of Thorns" by Mother Love Bone. An old Seattle band. lead singer died from heroin. A few of the guys went on to be in Pearl Jam. Unfortunately.

Anyways, this popped up on iTunes this morning. Just now, as a matter of fact.

It's not like it's the kind of song you'd just end up hearing on the radio, so I don't remember this person all that much.

That said, i was remembering her the other day when I heard a Deep Forest song. We had this bet once that I'd have sex with her if it came on the radio next on the cheesy Hot 101 station out of Youngstown. God, I hated that fucking station. And I hated this person, I hated myself.

I was young. Dumb. I didn't want to have sex, I wanted to stay a virgin. She used to try to get me to have sex with her. We did everything but. But every night, same deal. I guess you could look at it that I was stupid. She was certainly attractive and we had been togetehr for awhile. But.

She didn't respect my boundaries.

One time, she made me put on a condom becasue she thought it would be hot. And it was, until she got on top of me and tried to slide it inside of her.

I wasn't upset at the time. But now, when I think about it, if I had been another gender and someone had tried to have sex with me like that, I'd feel like I was raped. I felt weird on the way home. I wanted to have sex, but not like that. That kind of drove my resolve not to sleep with her.

I'm still not sure how I feel about the whole thing. Even now, 12 or years later or so.

And here's where we go from there.

2005-09-29T11:24:00.000-07:00

I was raised in a pretty open household, with the exception of anything about sex. It just was never mentioned. Never.

Not even today.

I learned everything there was on my own. I haven't really learned much (except that I tend to use I a lot when describing my own personal situations, but really, what choice?).

Today, I'm married, happily, with an exception. My wife has been ill for years and the medicines that keep her alive sap her sex drive. We're lucky to make love more than a few times in a year. Otherwise, it's all rather fulfilling, but my sexual mind is alive and evil and seeking prey.

This leads one to the dilemna...I don't ever want to be one of those cheating husbands, but I need some form of release...and not just sitting there watching porn, which the majority of which makes me sick in the way it presents women. I also need some other input, because I feel alone enough at times as it is.

Well, that was quite introspective. I hope it gets moreso.

Start with the beginning, really.

2005-09-29T11:19:00.000-07:00

Who am I? Hopefully, we'll both discover that in time.

I feel like there is a side of me that gets hidden from the rest of the world. Thoughts that may be impure, thoughts that one would not speak, actions that one get one in trouble. There is an outlet here, a place to write about how I feel, the things I want…it’s much easier exploring them in fantasy than in the havoc that reality would cause.

And in my experience, fantasy is at times so much better than reality.