Warning:
This entry has a level of sexuality unusual to the blog. If you are sensitive to this type of material, do not continue reading.
========================================================
Her apartment was painted a deep blue. Cerulean, dark, but dreamier than navy. It had a pulse, like a night sky over city lights. I can't remember if she painted the walls or if her roommate did. Sitting there, trying to pretend she wasn't sliding my pants off, I decided that her roommate must have painted the walls.
I enjoyed the walls. They were comforting.
I needed to be comforted.
She, despite her actions, was not comforting.
I felt guilty for enjoying the walls the roommate picked out. I'm sure she did not intend for me to bask in her impeccable blue walls while carrying on like this. It seemed like a slap in the face.
I was happy for the aqua-green wall-to-wall carpeting covering the apartment and warming my toes. It complemented the walls nicely and seemed a miracle of feng shui.
Does feng shui have anything to do with carpet color?
I was stalling. I was thinking about anything other than the obvious: she had taken my pants off. Boxers too.
I was naked.
The window shade was up.
I was naked in front of a window shade that was up.
Her apartment was on the fourth floor and it was across from other apartments.
I was in her mouth. I couldn't believe that I was given no warning.
This was what they called "third base."
I was positive everyone was watching us through the window, like a peep show. Like Raymond Burr in "Rear Window". I wondered what all the peeping toms thought about my penis. I went from having a secret dick to having a public spectacle for the entire North Side.
One of the best feelings in the world is being extremely cold, wearing only pajamas and dive-bombing into a nice cozy, warm bed. The warmth of wrapping a feather comforter around my head, snuggling my toes into the flannel sheets...
That's what her mouth felt like around my penis.
But "third base" is strange and uncomfortable. Penises are gross and I couldn't imagine it being very fun down there.
I wanted her to come back closer to my face. I wanted to rip her little shorts off, I wanted to kiss her and see that her eyes were no longer red.
I wanted to remember this.
I wanted to remember everything about it.
I tapped her on the shoulder, not knowing the protocol for getting someone's attention when they're down there. I tapped her again on the shoulder, as the top of the head seemed disrespectful. Like she was a small child.
I quickly expelled any further thoughts of small children.
I whispered her name. I wanted her attention, but feared that if I startled her, she'd bite. I whispered it again and tapped her on the shoulder as I did it. I held her red locks and tugged them slightly. Then I cupped her ears and pulled. She finally took the hint and moved up to me.
We immediately kissed and I calculated the percentage of my own penis I tasted in that kiss. I began playing with her breasts again. I was a little more confident now without knowing why. She smiled and stood up, but I still couldn't see her eyes.
I wondered if I was failing her. I wondered if she was enjoying this, if it was real.
She went into her bedroom. I didn't follow her. I'm not sure why I didn't follow her. My head wasn't clear. The blue walls, the peeping toms, the puffy eyelids, the exposed member.
I was reminded of my nudity and of the big open window. I rushed past the recliner and pulled the shade down. She came out of her room, topless but still wearing her shorts. She told me to sit back down.
I was still hard.
She stood in front of me as I sat back on the couch and told me to take her shorts off. I did. There was nothing abnormal about her area.
It was like looking into the face of Jesus – it was an epiphany, but familiar all at once. Like meeting your favorite celebrity or finally remembering the name of the song whose tune you've been humming all week. I'd seen many, many vaginas before, but none were this close, the real.
She was close-cropped but not bald and there were no scars or signs of disease.
It was a condom she retrieved from her bedroom.
Thinking back, I'm not sure why she didn't ask me into her bedroom, but I imagine it had something to do with her penchant for candles. She had an abnormal amount of candles in her room. They surrounded her bed, lit up her room like Rudolph on Christmas Eve. It seemed dangerous to do anything in there with all those candles.
She might also have wanted her roommate to walk in on us.
I might have wanted that too.
Who was I kidding? She'd slipped the condom on and I shook with fear. What could I have possibly wanted with a second girl, when I couldn't handle the first?
She stood over me once again looking at my newly encased penis. I leaned forward - incredibly vulnerable - and rubbed her thighs. She smiled at me and I wished she wouldn't. It hurt. She hurt and her smile just made me more aware of it. I wanted her to be angry. I wanted her to get dressed and cry on my shoulder some more. I wanted her life to be better than it was. I wanted her to say something.
We never said a word to one another.
I smiled. She smiled back. We were ready.
I wasn't, but we were.
I kept rubbing her thighs, they were smooth and tight and safe.
She bent forward, still standing over me, and put both her hands on my chest. I was sturdy and it felt good to be leaned on. She aimed herself at my penis and slipped in easily. I wasn't sure if I was in, but it was suddenly much warmer. She was sitting on top of me.
No going back now. This one was for the books.
I wanted to remember everything.
I wanted to remember everything but the bad parts.
I wanted her to forget the bad parts.
I wanted her smile to signify happiness, not surrender.
She made several pained sounds and I worried I was doing it wrong, hurting her.
I worried that the walls were thin and I wondered what the auditory version of a peeping tom was. An eavesdropper, that's what it was. I wondered if apartments 403 or 405 were eavesdroppers.
She moaned some more.
I pulled her ear close to whisper. I wanted to know if this was okay. She nodded, gyrating her pelvis around. Her eye closed tight, she wasn't smiling. She was grimacing in concentration, moaning breathlessly. She finally looked peaceful. Her face was reddening. Her eyes blended into blush.
Her hair tickled my chest like a spring breeze.
Her anger was manifesting.
I sat there, gripping her from behind. I felt strong sliding my hands from the curve at the small of her back to the backs of her thighs.
She was an Irish girl; red hair, blue eyes, fair skin. Her face was filling with blood and I could feel myself becoming more and more excited. Her sounds were what did it. It was the only indication I had that she was enjoying herself.
I was in shock. Her breasts knocked together making a wet sound, like a hand slapping a marble slab. She kept gasping. Her face growing more.
She was happy.
Success.
She moved faster now and hurt my hips. I didn't care.
I was close.
I wanted everything to be different. I wanted her eyes to open and smile, to match her face. I wanted her life to improve. I couldn't save her, I couldn't save anyone. I wanted a bigger dick. It seemed big enough. I wanted it bigger. I wanted everything as blue as these walls. I wanted the roommate to walk through the door. I wanted to put my clothes back on and start over. I wanted a different ending. I wanted everything to be different. I wanted to see her smiling eyes. Her big blue smiling eyes. I wanted to hold on. I wanted to please her, save her. I wanted to remember everything.
It ended.
She stopped moving and I pressed her close to me.
Her head was buried into my collarbone. I worried that she'd begin crying again and slobber all over my bare neck. I hoped she wouldn't start crying again until I could put my shirt back on.
The stillness ached. So did my hips.
I wanted to see her eyes.
I gently grabbed her head and guided it away from me. Her eyes were closed. She opened them.
The red left her face, but remained encircling her blue-splashed eyes.
They say you never forget your first time; that you remember every little detail for the rest of your life.
I hope they're wrong.
The End.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Thanksgiving 1998, part 2
WARNING:
This blog is sexually graphic. If you do not wish to read material more graphic than what usually appears on this site, you best skip this one. You've been warned.
================================================================
She began fiddling with the strap on her bra. I was thankful for this because I had no previous relationship with bras or their straps. I'd seen a few from afar and had theorized how they held into place, but I'd never undone one. I knew I'd just get in the way, so I didn't offer to help. After I let her squeeze snot all over my jacket, undoing her own bra seemed the least she could do.
I focused on myself wherein I realized I was shirtless.
I had no shirt on.
Which, as you know, is another way of saying that I was shirtless.
She had never seen me without my shirt on. It seemed like a good sign that upon first viewing, she hadn't begun laughing or crying.
I wondered whether anyone had ever been rejected based on the appearance of his chest or abdomen.
There was tension in my brain, a tight pain caused by worry. My chest had hair on it, but nothing unmanageable. It's hard to tell how girls feel about that stuff. There are social signals hinting toward how certain girls prefer their men to dress or act or dance. There aren't many signifiers of a girl's predilection toward a boyish figure or a grizzly one.
Luckily, I don't have any weird scars or moles and my nipples are of appropriate size, so really it all comes down to chest hair.
She unlocked (unhinged? unguarded?) her bra while keeping one hand on my chest the entire time she did it. As with my jean button, her bra came off with a simple flick of her wrist. Did she practice this? It seemed like a real talent. I wondered how many wrist flicks it took her to get to this point. How many other pants buttons had she undone before mine?
She slipped the tank top off her head and I forgot whatever it was I had just been pondering.
Breasts.
Up until this point, breasts were always just tits or boobs. Tits are what men call breasts when they are attached to girls they don't know, or what they call breasts when they know they'll never actually get to see them. Boobs are what girls call their own breasts long after the novelty of having them has worn off. Men identify breasts as boobs if they belong to a girl they have no sexual interest in whatsoever.
Sisters, buddies, gym teachers.
What I had in front of me were breasts; the first breasts I had ever seen up close not glossed over by the veneer of "Playboy" magazine.
They were mine and they bounced. My, oh my, how they bounced.
She had tiny erect nipples. No scars. I don't know why I assumed so many people walked around with big awful gashes across their chest, but it must have had something to do with all the G.I. Joes I played with as a kid.
G.I. Joes all had cool scars across their chest.
She had more experience than me. She undid my pants and her bra, managed the flannel fiasco and presented me with the sweet dessert before the meal.
I had done some comforting earlier in the evening, which was about 90 seconds ago, but the interest accrued from all that was spent with the flannel shirt. I had to bring something to the table. She was sitting up on my lap now, looking down at me.
I wanted all of this. I think I did, I wasn't sure if I wanted this or if I was just aware that many other guys in this situation would. I felt trapped, strapped on a roller coaster seconds before it started.
I chose this, but maybe I shouldn't have.
Her eyes were still red, but she was smiling. Taunting me into making her feel good. Daring me not to.
All I knew about breasts I learned from old 80's movies. They don't make movies like that anymore. Nowadays, you need a reason for your actors to get nude and even then, it's usually artistically done. PG-rated comedies from the 80's would have totally naked women in it.
For no good reason.
For fun.
I cupped them gently. It seemed to be the safe move. Hell, it was a move, which at that point was all that mattered.
She threw her hair back and I wondered if she was acting.
She was, after all, an actress.
And if she wasn't acting, she seemed to be preparing for some sort of unimaginable pleasure. Considering that cupping my hands around her breasts was the big news from my holiday weekend, I couldn't imagine I'd be instilling much pleasure in her.
I allowed myself to enjoy feeling her. I kissed her nipples. I wondered in my naïve stupor whether or not I could coax milk out of her breasts. I feared that if I did, it would freak me out beyond recovery.
I knew very little about the female anatomy.
These actions continued and I realized there was nothing stopping us from moving further. She and I hadn't yet moved further, but tonight seemed to be aligning for us.
But let us go back to her breasts.
Staring up at them, I was awed. I'm not someone who would consider himself a breast guy.
I like butts. I cannot lie.
But breasts are the name brand of a woman's anatomy, the leader in their field; the Nike or the McDonald's. Breasts might not be your brand of choice, but it is understood nevertheless that they are going to lead in consumer dollars.
Advertisers entice with breasts, retailers delight in displaying and enhancing breasts, and for a period of time babies live off breasts. And when you have never seen a real pair bouncing directly in front of you...
...Breasts make the headlines.
I massaged them, but it didn't take me long to sense a serious lack of breast activities. I placed both my hands on her back and hugged her close. I couldn't see her face because her head was still thrown backwards, her red hair falling well past my knees.
She seemed more than happy to be hugged, so I continued. I couldn't imagine what she was getting out of it though. Hugs aren't sexy; comforting perhaps. It seemed we'd jumped the "comfort ship" a few minutes ago.
She sat there on my lap sliding slightly forward then slightly back, moaning gingerly each time.
It occurred to me that all this had nothing to do with my stupid hugs, but more to do with the feeling of her thin cotton shorts rubbing against my...
...And this is where we pause for discussion. What should a guy call his penis? "Penis" seems too clinical and sterile and no one wants to think of penile sterility. "Cock" and "dick" seem too pornographic and everything else seems like adjectives from Adam Sandler movies.
We'll just go with "member". Is "member" okay?
Over time, I came to realize that women are very self-conscious about their breasts. It is the one physical feature society puts a lot of pressure on girls to have above all else.
And even if you have them, they have to be a certain size or shape. And if they're not the right shape, society gives women many options on how to deal with their supposed imperfections. Then the nipple has to be right. Not too big, not too pointy and so on.
Sure, you could ignore all that and just be proud of who you are, but this is America and the chances of you getting away with that seem pretty slim.
What breasts are to women, the penis is to men.
As the realization struck that she was I guess, pleasuring herself on the feeling of my member, my mind traveled a billion miles away. I may have been erect, but I wasn't quite enjoying myself.
How could I? In a few short moments, my member would be taking the stage. In physical interactions between men and women, there is no portion of the stripping process more suspenseful than the penis unveiling.
There are two reasons for this - and it should be noted that I came up with both of these ideas as she - more forcefully now - began sliding back and forth on top of my jeans. The first reason is that there are no female parts as taboo as the penis. Breasts are hard to hide and are, in fact, encouraged to be displayed. The penis is just a big (or small) secret. Women in general, are just smoother, sleeker; more contoured than a man, less hair, scars, bruises.
Women are faire.
The second reason is there's nothing riding on breast size – sexually speaking. The breast size of a woman gives no indication as to what kind of intercourse she will provide. The man's penis, on the other hand, can certainly give a general overview.
The solution seemed simple: if I had a big dick, I'd use it and if not, I'd deal with it. The problem was I hadn't a clue as to how big mine was.
A common misconception is that men constantly walk around one another with their wangs hanging out ("wang" being a term I heard in an Adam Sandler movie). I've never seen any of my friends naked. It's something we've strived to avoid. It's never really been discussed, but I've always been fearful of seeing the members of my closest guy friends. Nothing good can come about gaining this information.
The outcome is simple. Either they're bigger then me or they're smaller. The repercussions from such knowledge, however, would be immense. If I were bigger, I'd always have that over them. I'd always get the final word if there were an argument. I'd always have one last burn armed and ready if I needed it. But if I were smaller, I would just want to kill myself. I'd want to kill myself because the very firepower I was just explained would now be locked and loaded against me.
It's also why I could never be with a girl one of my friends had been with first; because she'd know. Like a member of the Academy the day before the Oscars are announced. Knowledge is power.
Somewhere along the line men and boys get it in their head that penis size is the single most important attribute a guy can have.
I blame porn.
Most of the guys doing porno are not attractive men, sometimes they're fat or hairy or have some smug look on their face, but… they've got foot-long penises thick as soup cans.
My penis is not a foot long. There I said it.
Secret's out.
The penis itself plays tricks. I swam at the local YMCA when I was 12-years-old. I remember accidentally catching a glimpse of an older kid, maybe 18 or 19, switching into his swim trunks. His penis was a foot long if it was an inch, but it was real floppy.
The word I'm looking for is flaccid.
It wasn't until health class four years later that I was told that some penises grow much larger when erect while some hardly grow at all, but are larger naturally.
"Growers versus show-ers", I believe it was termed.
What I'm trying to explain is that she was going to finish what she started with the loosened top button of my pants and I was scared to death of her reaction. What's worse, I hadn't even a ballpark clue where I stood – phallically speaking. I've mentioned that she was more experienced than me, she's seen more members than just mine, and she's had a few control specimens to judge from.
I had no idea where I might fall on the scale.
It was all very tricky.
To be concluded in Part 3...
This blog is sexually graphic. If you do not wish to read material more graphic than what usually appears on this site, you best skip this one. You've been warned.
================================================================
She began fiddling with the strap on her bra. I was thankful for this because I had no previous relationship with bras or their straps. I'd seen a few from afar and had theorized how they held into place, but I'd never undone one. I knew I'd just get in the way, so I didn't offer to help. After I let her squeeze snot all over my jacket, undoing her own bra seemed the least she could do.
I focused on myself wherein I realized I was shirtless.
I had no shirt on.
Which, as you know, is another way of saying that I was shirtless.
She had never seen me without my shirt on. It seemed like a good sign that upon first viewing, she hadn't begun laughing or crying.
I wondered whether anyone had ever been rejected based on the appearance of his chest or abdomen.
There was tension in my brain, a tight pain caused by worry. My chest had hair on it, but nothing unmanageable. It's hard to tell how girls feel about that stuff. There are social signals hinting toward how certain girls prefer their men to dress or act or dance. There aren't many signifiers of a girl's predilection toward a boyish figure or a grizzly one.
Luckily, I don't have any weird scars or moles and my nipples are of appropriate size, so really it all comes down to chest hair.
She unlocked (unhinged? unguarded?) her bra while keeping one hand on my chest the entire time she did it. As with my jean button, her bra came off with a simple flick of her wrist. Did she practice this? It seemed like a real talent. I wondered how many wrist flicks it took her to get to this point. How many other pants buttons had she undone before mine?
She slipped the tank top off her head and I forgot whatever it was I had just been pondering.
Breasts.
Up until this point, breasts were always just tits or boobs. Tits are what men call breasts when they are attached to girls they don't know, or what they call breasts when they know they'll never actually get to see them. Boobs are what girls call their own breasts long after the novelty of having them has worn off. Men identify breasts as boobs if they belong to a girl they have no sexual interest in whatsoever.
Sisters, buddies, gym teachers.
What I had in front of me were breasts; the first breasts I had ever seen up close not glossed over by the veneer of "Playboy" magazine.
They were mine and they bounced. My, oh my, how they bounced.
She had tiny erect nipples. No scars. I don't know why I assumed so many people walked around with big awful gashes across their chest, but it must have had something to do with all the G.I. Joes I played with as a kid.
G.I. Joes all had cool scars across their chest.
She had more experience than me. She undid my pants and her bra, managed the flannel fiasco and presented me with the sweet dessert before the meal.
I had done some comforting earlier in the evening, which was about 90 seconds ago, but the interest accrued from all that was spent with the flannel shirt. I had to bring something to the table. She was sitting up on my lap now, looking down at me.
I wanted all of this. I think I did, I wasn't sure if I wanted this or if I was just aware that many other guys in this situation would. I felt trapped, strapped on a roller coaster seconds before it started.
I chose this, but maybe I shouldn't have.
Her eyes were still red, but she was smiling. Taunting me into making her feel good. Daring me not to.
All I knew about breasts I learned from old 80's movies. They don't make movies like that anymore. Nowadays, you need a reason for your actors to get nude and even then, it's usually artistically done. PG-rated comedies from the 80's would have totally naked women in it.
For no good reason.
For fun.
I cupped them gently. It seemed to be the safe move. Hell, it was a move, which at that point was all that mattered.
She threw her hair back and I wondered if she was acting.
She was, after all, an actress.
And if she wasn't acting, she seemed to be preparing for some sort of unimaginable pleasure. Considering that cupping my hands around her breasts was the big news from my holiday weekend, I couldn't imagine I'd be instilling much pleasure in her.
I allowed myself to enjoy feeling her. I kissed her nipples. I wondered in my naïve stupor whether or not I could coax milk out of her breasts. I feared that if I did, it would freak me out beyond recovery.
I knew very little about the female anatomy.
These actions continued and I realized there was nothing stopping us from moving further. She and I hadn't yet moved further, but tonight seemed to be aligning for us.
But let us go back to her breasts.
Staring up at them, I was awed. I'm not someone who would consider himself a breast guy.
I like butts. I cannot lie.
But breasts are the name brand of a woman's anatomy, the leader in their field; the Nike or the McDonald's. Breasts might not be your brand of choice, but it is understood nevertheless that they are going to lead in consumer dollars.
Advertisers entice with breasts, retailers delight in displaying and enhancing breasts, and for a period of time babies live off breasts. And when you have never seen a real pair bouncing directly in front of you...
...Breasts make the headlines.
I massaged them, but it didn't take me long to sense a serious lack of breast activities. I placed both my hands on her back and hugged her close. I couldn't see her face because her head was still thrown backwards, her red hair falling well past my knees.
She seemed more than happy to be hugged, so I continued. I couldn't imagine what she was getting out of it though. Hugs aren't sexy; comforting perhaps. It seemed we'd jumped the "comfort ship" a few minutes ago.
She sat there on my lap sliding slightly forward then slightly back, moaning gingerly each time.
It occurred to me that all this had nothing to do with my stupid hugs, but more to do with the feeling of her thin cotton shorts rubbing against my...
...And this is where we pause for discussion. What should a guy call his penis? "Penis" seems too clinical and sterile and no one wants to think of penile sterility. "Cock" and "dick" seem too pornographic and everything else seems like adjectives from Adam Sandler movies.
We'll just go with "member". Is "member" okay?
Over time, I came to realize that women are very self-conscious about their breasts. It is the one physical feature society puts a lot of pressure on girls to have above all else.
And even if you have them, they have to be a certain size or shape. And if they're not the right shape, society gives women many options on how to deal with their supposed imperfections. Then the nipple has to be right. Not too big, not too pointy and so on.
Sure, you could ignore all that and just be proud of who you are, but this is America and the chances of you getting away with that seem pretty slim.
What breasts are to women, the penis is to men.
As the realization struck that she was I guess, pleasuring herself on the feeling of my member, my mind traveled a billion miles away. I may have been erect, but I wasn't quite enjoying myself.
How could I? In a few short moments, my member would be taking the stage. In physical interactions between men and women, there is no portion of the stripping process more suspenseful than the penis unveiling.
There are two reasons for this - and it should be noted that I came up with both of these ideas as she - more forcefully now - began sliding back and forth on top of my jeans. The first reason is that there are no female parts as taboo as the penis. Breasts are hard to hide and are, in fact, encouraged to be displayed. The penis is just a big (or small) secret. Women in general, are just smoother, sleeker; more contoured than a man, less hair, scars, bruises.
Women are faire.
The second reason is there's nothing riding on breast size – sexually speaking. The breast size of a woman gives no indication as to what kind of intercourse she will provide. The man's penis, on the other hand, can certainly give a general overview.
The solution seemed simple: if I had a big dick, I'd use it and if not, I'd deal with it. The problem was I hadn't a clue as to how big mine was.
A common misconception is that men constantly walk around one another with their wangs hanging out ("wang" being a term I heard in an Adam Sandler movie). I've never seen any of my friends naked. It's something we've strived to avoid. It's never really been discussed, but I've always been fearful of seeing the members of my closest guy friends. Nothing good can come about gaining this information.
The outcome is simple. Either they're bigger then me or they're smaller. The repercussions from such knowledge, however, would be immense. If I were bigger, I'd always have that over them. I'd always get the final word if there were an argument. I'd always have one last burn armed and ready if I needed it. But if I were smaller, I would just want to kill myself. I'd want to kill myself because the very firepower I was just explained would now be locked and loaded against me.
It's also why I could never be with a girl one of my friends had been with first; because she'd know. Like a member of the Academy the day before the Oscars are announced. Knowledge is power.
Somewhere along the line men and boys get it in their head that penis size is the single most important attribute a guy can have.
I blame porn.
Most of the guys doing porno are not attractive men, sometimes they're fat or hairy or have some smug look on their face, but… they've got foot-long penises thick as soup cans.
My penis is not a foot long. There I said it.
Secret's out.
The penis itself plays tricks. I swam at the local YMCA when I was 12-years-old. I remember accidentally catching a glimpse of an older kid, maybe 18 or 19, switching into his swim trunks. His penis was a foot long if it was an inch, but it was real floppy.
The word I'm looking for is flaccid.
It wasn't until health class four years later that I was told that some penises grow much larger when erect while some hardly grow at all, but are larger naturally.
"Growers versus show-ers", I believe it was termed.
What I'm trying to explain is that she was going to finish what she started with the loosened top button of my pants and I was scared to death of her reaction. What's worse, I hadn't even a ballpark clue where I stood – phallically speaking. I've mentioned that she was more experienced than me, she's seen more members than just mine, and she's had a few control specimens to judge from.
I had no idea where I might fall on the scale.
It was all very tricky.
To be concluded in Part 3...
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