Jackson Pollock Got Nothin’ on Me: A True Story of Producing an Unintentional Masterpiece

I sit on one of the two couches in the communal living area, relishing the deep cushions and plush fabrics.  I have a thing for old furniture.  It’s softer, more pliable, because of its lived-in character, and this couch is exceptionally old.  It feels lovely under my intoxicated fingers.

Beside me, a young woman chatters away about her dream of becoming an “alternative fashion designer”.  Before the six-pack and ninth shot kicked in, I’d asked her what that meant, and she’d described a number of designs she had in mind based on insect anatomy.  I recall being vaguely horrified by the idea of a woman made up to resemble a praying mantis, given that the females of the species are sexually cannibalistic following copulation, and that my only real interest is in her sexual qualities makes it particularly concerning.  But she’s attractive enough that I’m willing to risk having my skull eaten.  She’s tall  with little curvature, save for one of the more amazing racks I’ve ever seen–perky, round, at least a large C, made all the larger by her slender frame, barely covered by a skin-tight black tanktop.  She wears nothing under the tank or her baggy green cargo pants, based on the view she’d inadvertently given me bending over earlier.  She sports a nose ring and multiple earrings, and a colorful tattoo creeps up her back, along her neck, onto her buzzed scalp.  I have no idea what her name is, but I’ve never fucked a girl with a shaved head, and damn if her decidedly punk appearance isn’t driving me crazy.

Or rather, it would be, if the ethanol hadn’t suddenly kicked in with full force.  It’s making me much more interested in the upholstery than I should be.  But I do my best to nod and appear interested as she describes, in more detail than one would imagine possible, her idea to recreate a moth’s wing patterning using black embroidery on a grey dress.

“That’s cool,” I say absently.  “Though I’m not sure there’s much of a market for that kind of thing here in the South.  Maybe Chicago or Detroit, someplace with a larger punk subculture?”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking!”  She starts to say something else, but a noise behind her distracts her.  A noise best described as slobbery.

We both look over her shoulder, to the other couch in the living area, where Hank and a European girl are making out.  Intensely so.  She’s laying on top of him, her shirt tossed across the room, her jeans open and half down around her hips.  His lips smack loudly against her tongue, producing the slobbery sound.  It’s not as pleasant as one might imagine.  (Or, perhaps, precisely as pleasant.)

“How did I miss that,” I mumble to myself.  I glance at the punk girl.  “I suddenly feel decidedly left out.”

“Yeah, me too.”  She shrugs.  “Wanna make out?”

I blink.  “Umm… yes?”

In one swift, sudden movement, she straddles me and wraps her arms around my shoulders.  She kisses me deeply, immediately moaning, as though this were something she’d been considering and desperately wanting for hours.  It catches me off guard, and I laugh against her lips.

She responds by biting my lower lip and muttering through clenched teeth, “Shut up,” grabbing my hands, and placing them firmly on her breasts.  They’re every bit as firm as I had imagined, yet pliant, moving under my touch in the way only natural flesh can.  The laughter is replaced by a groan in the back of my throat, and I grind my hips up against hers, kneading flesh and smelling gin and tasting stale cigarettes on her tongue.

She abruptly pulls back and looks at me, panting, her chest rising and falling heavily.  Her eyes are wide with what my inebriated brain interprets as desire.  “Bathroom,” she says simply.  “Now.”  I’m too drunk to argue (not that I would, mind you).

She leaps to her feet, pulls me to mine, and leads me down the hall, into the bathroom.  She slams the door shut behind her and pulls her shirt off in one deft motion.  Her cargo pants are so baggy that all she does is unbutton them, and they fall to the floor, leaving her in nothing but a pair of combat boots.  Her body is long, lean, completely smooth and without a single hair.  She drops to her knees in front of me, releasing my jeans with practiced ease.  Perhaps a bit too practiced.  But my concerns evaporate as she pulls my semi-turgid length into her mouth.  She helps me out of my jeans, and I pull my shirt over my head, allowing her to do as she pleases.  My head falls back and I close my eyes, sighing contentedly as I listen to the wet, slippery noises she produces.

I can still hear Hank slobbering on the European girl.  It makes me giggle.

Without warning, she jumps to her feet and moves around me to the bathroom sink.  She hops up onto it, sitting precariously on the edge, while pulling me toward her.  “Now, fuck me.”

“Who am I to tell a pretty girl no,” I answer, my best inebriated attempt at wit.

She reaches up and puts her hand over my mouth, her voice breathy.  “No, don’t talk.  Just fuck me.”

Well.  Yes ma’am.

I close what little distance remains between us and press my length against her.  She’s incredibly moist, so much so that I imagine her cargo pants must be soaked.  One easy thrust buries me inside of her, and she cries out softly, quietly.  She wraps one leg around my hips, the heel of her boot against my lower back, and plants her other foot on the long bathroom counter, spreading herself wide, taking me in as deeply as she can.  She places her hands squarely on my ass, holding me against her as she rocks her hips, guiding my movements precisely the way she wants them.  There is very little thrusting–it’s more a gyration, my shaft rotation clockwise inside of her, her smooth groin gliding against mine.

It’s almost like I’m a sex toy.  I like it.

I relax and let her show me precisely what she wants.  She presses her breasts against my chest and hides her face in my neck, whimpering with each movement, whispering words of encouragement and complimenting my size and skill between moans of approval.  I let my hands explore her back, tracing her spine, her shoulder blades.  I kiss her ear, her temple, smell the alcohol in her skin, feel her loins tighten, the muscles contracting rhythmically, pulling at me, as she gasps against my throat, almost growling through her orgasm.  I hear her whispering, “You too… you too… cum for me…”   And I grind harder against her, at her prompting.  I gasp once, grunt… and she pushes me back, dropping to her knees and grabbing my length, stroking hard, fast, furious.  My breath catches in my throat, my eyes close, and I release, her hand moving expertly along my shaft, guiding me through my own orgasm, coaxing every bit of life out of me that she can.

As I come to, I open my eyes and look down at her.  I expect to see her chest or face covered in my cum, but I am surprised–hell, more than surprised–to see that she actually jerked me off onto her head.  The thick white ropes cling to her shortly buzzed hair, pooling in some places, stretching out in others, drawing lines and amorphous shapes across her scalp and forehead.  It looks remarkably like a two-tone abstract painting.  I can’t help but laugh.

“Now that’s a hell of a sight,” I say contentedly.  She grins and sucks the last remaining bit from the head of my cock, making a little *pop* in the process.

“Most guys like that,” she says, standing and stretching languidly before me.  “It’s unexpected.”  She runs her hands over her head in a most unladylike fashion, scraping as much off as she can before washing her hands.  I step behind her and press my slowly relaxing length against her ass.  She growls playfully and pushes back against me.

“Next time, maybe I’ll consider eating it for you,” she casually remarks as she dresses.  I start to respond, but she covers my mouth again, kisses my cheek, and whispers into my ear,  “You’re a damn good fuck, honey.  Don’t spoil it by talking now.”  She steps back and gives my cock a playful squeeze.  “I’ll see you again real soon.”

And she exits the bathroom, leaving me standing naked in the bathroom.

I look down at my clothes, then at myself.  I grin.  “Well.  That was fun.”

All How You Play the Game: A True Story Wherein Everyone Wins, Part 3

Oh lord, am I ever happy you only turn 30 once.  I celebrated this in the most debauched manner possible.  (I didn’t know my body was still capable of processing that much ethanol in one sitting.)  Fortunately, I survived, with a few more battle scars, and another notch on the ol’ bedpost.  Maybe I’ll share in the near future.  But, for now, here is the conclusion to my most recent memory.  Enjoy.

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I lift my head and place two fingers under Jenny’s chin, turning her face toward mine.  Her eyes are closed, but she opens them as I place my hand against the side of her neck.  We look at each other, and I practically count the seconds as they tick by, waiting for the right moment.  But Jenny surprises me by lifting her lips to mine quickly, and with more eagerness than I had anticipated.  Her tongue grazes my lips, and I hear a faint sound of longing emanate from her throat as we kiss on the front porch swing.

She may not be skilled at flirting, but Jenny is a remarkably talented kisser.

She wraps one arm around my shoulders, and her other hand rests comfortably against my sternum.  Whatever hesitance had previously possessed her has gone; she begins squeezing my shoulders, my upper arms, my chest, almost as though exploring, testing the consistency, the “give” of my body under her fingers.  As her hands discover new places to examine, her kisses increase in intensity, the occasional lash against my lip developing into a full dance between our tongues, moving from my mouth to hears, with an occasional break when she ducks her head just enough to permit her to bite my lip, tugging it insistently, pulling me closer to her, maneuvering me with her mouth against mine.  Before I realize it, she’s pulled me to the middle of the swing and has vaulted onto my lap, straddling my waist.

She breaks the kiss and looks down at me, eyes glassy, lips parted as she pants softly for breath.  I place my hands on her hips and pull her down against me, knowing that her skirt has left only her undergarments between her skin and my jeans.  She rocks back and forth along my zipper, and the hardness beneath, and her glassy eyes almost roll back into her head, which falls back as she groans softly.  She grips my neck, bracing herself as she moves along with the motion I’ve established, and lifts her head to look at me again.

“We need a place to go,” she whispers between thrusts.  ”Right now.”

I contemplate this, as deeply as my one-track mind will permit.  ”Well… the bedroom is being used by the potheads, so that’s out…”  I glance toward the parking lot.  ”We could take my truck someplace, if you wanted, but it will be cramped…”

“UGH.  FUCK that.”  She leans back and begins grappling with my belt.  It only takes me a moment to catch up to her train of thought, and I practically slap her hands away to more quickly free myself.  Jenny reaches under her skirt, and I feel her hand wrapping around my shaft.  Sensitive skin rubs against cotton, then against her own bare flesh, hot and incredibly moist.  She positions herself against me, adjusts the lay of her skirt to more fully cover us, grips the sides of my neck again, and relaxes her legs.  Gravity forces her down, slides my cock into her until I can feel her cervix pressing against me.  Her expression is somewhat pained at first, but as she begins to rock, her face gradually relaxes.  I try to match her movements, but the sway of the porch swing under us prevents me from from discovering a comfortable rhythm.  She is seemingly unbothered by the swaying, using it to keep herself moving with minimal effort, and is too caught up in the moment to notice my difficulty.  Instead, I slide my hands along her stomach beneath the tank top, enjoying the feel of baby fat beneath my hands, the softness diminishing as I move further up along her torso, her breasts small but quite firm beneath my touch.  I explore her body as she explored mine, testing the softness of her skin, the tension of her muscles as she rocks against me, as she finds her release, and I find mine.

Jenny catches her breath and slides off of my lap, groaning in the process.  She adjusts her clothing again as she sits beside me on the swing, then puts her head on my shoulder with a long, satisfied sigh.  “That was truly enjoyable,” she comments.

I sigh and give my own grunt of affirmation.  I slip my arm around her shoulder and pull her in closer to my side.  “Enjoyable, and thoroughly appreciated,” I answer.

Jenny gets situated against me, her head back in the follow below my collar.  I hear her say, almost timidly, “That was a one-time deal, wasn’t it?”

I look down at her.  “That depends,” I say, the concern obvious in my voice.  “If you mean, was that the beginning of an unexpected relationship… I’m afraid the answer is no.  But if you’re asking whether we can do this whenever we want… well, I suppose that’s up to you.”

“You have a girlfriend,” she says matter of factly.

“Which is why this isn’t a relationship.  Well, not yet, anyway.  I don’t know about the future.  I just try to bask in the present.”  I kiss the top of her head.  “And presently, I am thoroughly enjoying your company, and would have whether this happened or not.”

Jenny says nothing for a few moments, then she says, almost defeatedly, “That’s what I was afraid of.”  She turns her head and kisses my chest.  “For what it’s worth, you’re probably the most incredible guy I’ve ever met.  But I’m no one’s plaything.”

“I understand,” I answer honestly.

Jenny quietly rises from the swing, picks up her melted drink, and goes back inside.  I retrieve my scotch, also thoroughly melted, flick the june bug off the rim, and take a long, hard pull.

All How You Play the Game: A True Story Wherein Everyone Wins, Part 1

I have a confession to make.

I am a nerd.

Not just any old nerd.  I’m a super nerd capable of giving the fellas on The Big Bang Theory a run for their money.   I own every video game system that’s been released in the U.S. since the original NES, and my collection of games is truly impressive.  I even have a special chair for retro gaming–a big, comfy papasan that I can burrow into while playing Final Fantasy VI.  I spend thousands of dollars on custom computer gaming rigs just to make sure I can run the latest titles at maximum resolution and settings.  I am a connoisseur of classic and modern board games, from chess and backgammon to Carcassonne and Ghost Stories.  I’ve not only played Dungeons and Dragons for almost fifteen years; I’ve been a DM for seven.  I can (and will) argue that video games are a valid art form, as are comic books.  I watch cartoons, and science fiction television, with unapologetic passion (The Highlander, Invader Zim, Dragon Ball Z, and Death Note are some of my favorite television series ever).  I read Jim Butcher (my favorite modern author), R.A. Salvatore, and Simon R. Green.   The random contraptions I’ve built would bring a tear to the eye of the most avid MythBuster.  And finally, I do science, not because it pays well (it doesn’t), but because I genuinely think it’s cool.

Fortunately, I’m just as passionate about physical fitness as I am recreational gaming and reading.

I say this to give you a bit more information about me, and to provide a bit of background for the following.  It’s my first multi-part post in a long while, because I just don’t have the time to keep writing tonight.  Enjoy.

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My fingers are laced together, obscuring my mouth from view as I contemplate the scenario before me.  The relative probabilities of success surge through my mind in binomial equations and density curves.  I see multiple avenues of approach, but nothing that comes without a hefty risk.  But the potential rewards…

Beside me, Hank grumbles, “Dude, you’re taking forever.”

“World conquest isn’t something one pursues hastily,” I answer.

I survey the board, assessing troop placement, reinforcements per turn, and relative army strengths in what is the most intense game of Risk I have ever played.  Today is–Lord, this is hard to admit–day three of the game.  What started as a friendly six person Thursday afternoon game has gradually become a cut-throat battle between me and the person across the table: Jenny.

I glance up at her, a lovely specimen of gamer chick, with her fit, pear-shaped frame.  She is observing the board as intently as I am, lips pursed, blonde-and-chocolate highlights framing a slender, almost angular face and blue eyes that flit to and fro in concentration.  I see her focus on Australia.  I’ve been amassing forces there for the better part of two days, preparing for a major siege of Asia.  She knows it’s coming, and she’s been fortifying her territories there.

Hank grumbles again, “Dude, seriously, are you ever going to go?”

I click my tongue and shake my head.  “Patience, padawan.”  I casually reinforce Australia, and drop another few on Greenland and Alaska for good measure.  A quick skirmish from Alaska.  Fortify Alaska.  Then Jenny moves.  As expected, she fortifies Siam, India, and China, ready at a moment’s notice.

But it’s all a ruse.  In Chapter XX of The Prince, Machiavelli wrote that the problem with a fortress is that it draws attention, which is precisely what I wanted.  While she’s been focused on my upcoming Australian attack, she’s left Africa relatively unguarded, poorly enough that I can sweep through from Brazil.  By simultaneously attacking from Australia to keep her from moving her forces, I can control Africa in no more than two turns, then it’s a simple matter of pushing through Europe from Greenland and North Africa while keeping her Asian forces occupied from Alaska and Australia.

My turn.  Drop every reinforcement on Brazil.  Full attack from Australia, Greenland, and Alaska.  Fortify Brazil from Venezuela.  I hear Jenny whisper, “Oh fucking hell,” and I smile.  She sees it coming, but it’s too late.  On my next turn, I unleash plastic figurine hell.  The game is over in 20 minutes.  Hank and Jenny stare at the board, now dominated by my blue armies.  “Dude, fucking really?  I didn’t see that shit coming.”

“I’m the Keyser Söze of Risk,” I answer with a smile.

Jenny busts out laughing.  ”Seriously, you had me so freaked out about Australia and Alaska that I never imagined you’d try from South America.  You just brain fucked me.”

“The greatest trick the Devil ever played,” I say as I start cleaning up the board.  Jenny chucks a six-sided die at me.  I let it hit my chest.

Following clean-up, I grab a glass of scotch and excuse myself to the front porch.  The sun has long since set, and Hank has resumed drinking heavily and chatting up the few remaining girls from a party in which I’d taken no part.  I’m mentally exhausted from the three day long battle, and I have no desire to deal with loud music and drunk women.  Instead, I light a cigarette and sit on the porch swing, watching the fireflies dance through the yard, basking in the warmth of the summer night.  I recap the game in my mind, piecing through my errors and considering what to do in similar situations in the future.

“Glad to see you’re enjoying your victory.”  Jenny’s voice yanks me from my reverie.  I look toward the door and see her leaning against the door frame, arms folded as though judging me, but she’s smiling quite genuinely.  She holds up her own glass, a dark soda-based concoction, and asks, “Mind if I join you?”

A Fistful of Condoms: A True Story of Making Marvin Gaye Proud

Kelly’s lips are pressed firmly against my own.  She’s a surprisingly talented kisser, occasionally darting her tongue teasingly across my lips, nipping at them, varying the pressure of her kiss and turning her head slightly to keep things interesting.  Her hands grip my shoulders, and mine rest comfortably on her round, well-muscled ass.  I’ve never kissed anyone this good, or with a body this fantastically toned, and the sensation of her lean, petite frame pressed against mine is maddening.

She suddenly breaks the kiss and takes a deep breath, her eyes wide, and she whispers through panting breaths, “Do you have any condoms?”

I blink in confusion.  She and I had made out once before, but she had been slightly drunk and was in a relationship with a guy back home, so I wasn’t expecting such an abrupt question, or even the opportunity to actually pursue something physical with her.  So all I can manage to say is, “Umm… no?”

“That’s a shame,” she says.  Her fingertips trace circles on my stomach–wait, when did she unbutton my shirt?

“A shame?” I repeat blankly.  “Why?”  Master of witty rapport, that’s me.

“Because if you did,” she answers calmly, “I’d fuck you right now.”

Consider my mind fully blown.

“Do you want me to–”

Kelly cuts me off by grabbing my crotch.  She bites her lower lip as she gives my hard length a tentative squeeze between forefinger and thumb, gasping in what I think is surprise.  “Holy… yeah, that will do.”  She steps away and sits on my bed.  “I’ll wait here.”

I bolt out of my dorm room faster than any man in history has moved before.  In a heartbeat, I’m knocking insistently on my neighbor’s door.  He opens it and immediately starts laughing at me, standing in the hall with my half-buttoned shirt hanging open, my hair unkempt from the aggressively physical make-out session.  “Dude, nice outfit.  She fuck you or what?”

“Not yet!”  I say, a little louder than I had intended.  ”You owe me a condom.  Pay up.”

He laughs again as he retrieves a wooden cigar box, which he holds open to me.  “Take your pick.  Lubed or unlubed, colored, ribbed?  I even have some glow-in-the-dark ones that are usually good for a laugh.”

“Don’t care,” I reply.  I take a mixed handful of the small square packages and quickly about-face.  I hear him say something to the effect of, “Optimistic, aren’t we?” as I close the door to my dorm room behind me.

Kelly is still sitting on my bed, leaning back casually on her elbows.  “Did you get one?”

“More than one,” I answer, tossing the fistful of condoms on the bed beside her.  “I took the potluck approach.”

“I bet we can use them all tonight,” Kelly says, her voice suddenly more husky, almost raspy.  The sound makes my heart race in anticipation, and she beckons–literally, with one crooked finger.

I step forward, and she quickly, and a little too expertly, hooks her thumbs through my belt loops, pulling my hips toward her face.  I watch in astonishment as she leans her face toward me, biting at the button of my jeans and tugging, pulling it through the slot with a deft turn of her head.  She grips the zipper with her lips and draws that down as well.

Without thinking, I mutter, “Hope you’re not planning on gnawing your way through my boxers.  This is my favorite pair.”  I immediately remind myself to shut the fuck up.

Kelly looks up at me, eyes gleaming wickedly, and simply says, “Nah.”  Her thumbs hook under the waistline, and she pulls down, freeing me from my jeans and boxers in one easy pull.  She looks away from me, to my fully erect member, and I hear her gasp again.  “Holy shit, are you kidding me?!”  She wraps her hand around my shaft and moves me around as if inspecting me.  The scrutiny makes me slightly uncomfortable, but the feeling disappears as she draws me into her mouth.  I can’t stop myself from groaning as I feel her throat muscles contract, pulling me down her throat.  She makes a small, unpleasant choking sound as she pulls her head back, and she gasps, this time for air.

“Nope, can’t deepthroat you,” she says as she wipes her mouth.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to choke you,” I mutter.

Kelly laughs brightly.  “Don’t worry, it’s a good thing.  Besides, there are plenty of other things I can do with this.”  She stresses “this” by grabbing my shaft again and squeezing gently.  I can barely breathe, I’m so…  Aroused?  Horny?  No, I think the only appropriate word is maddened, driven to the brink of insanity by the anticipation of what’s to come.  Every nerve in my body is tingling, and I am hyperaware of every touch of her skin against mine as she removes my shirt… the sight of her standing and disrobing, exposing pale flesh, tiny yet perky breasts, a well-groomed landing strip… the sound of rumbling bass and high guitar chords…

…wait, what?

Through the walls, I hear, “I’ve been really tryyyyyyyyyyin’, baaaaaaby…”

Oh no.

The music continues, and Marvin Gaye croons to us.  “Tryin’ tah hooold back this feelin’, for soooooo looooooooooooooooooong…”

Kelly and I both look to the wall, eyes wide.  “And if you feel like I feel baby… come on, whoa, come on…”

Kelly quickly presses her fully nude body against mine, dancing against me, and sings along, “Let’s get it ooooooooooooon…………”  She nails the falsetto squeal and laughs again as she rests her head on my shoulder.  “Your neighbors have a fucked up sense of humor.”

“Yeah,” I say numbly, “sorry about that.  I got the condoms from him, so I guess he thought this would be funny.”

“Well…”  She looks up at me, and the wicked gleam in her eyes returns.  “If they want to be spectators, we may as well give them a good show…”

Within minutes, and for the next several hours, the music is drowned out by Kelly’s high-pitched, pleading cries, and I can’t help but think that this is what Marvin had in mind.

The next morning, I walk bleary-eyed into the communal kitchen of my hall, and am immediately greeted by thunderous applause and cheers from my hallmates.  My neighbor gives me a firm thumbs up.

All I can do is bow.

And Now Here’s Something We Hope You’ll Really Like: On Being a Hackneyed Author, Erotic or Otherwise

I like to think I’m good at spinning a yarn.  I’m a storyteller at heart, completely at home when I’m in front of an audience.  Once I get into the zone, Henry Rollins ain’t got nothin’ on me.  It’s probably why I enjoy, and am rather good at, teaching.  Undergrads frequently compliment me on my flamboyant teaching style, how I flail my arms and bounce around and crack jokes and chuck chalkboard erasers across the room.  I’ll do anything to capture and hold another person’s attention.  Their adoration sustains me.

But mine is a face-to-face talent, forged in poor self-esteem, tempered by a desperate need to be accepted, and honed by the overwhelming desire to mate with every conscious female I meet.  It requires eye contact.  Feeling the energy in the room.  Recognizing what the listener wants and finding a way to deliver exactly that.  Some people can’t do it, but I pride myself in knowing that I can, for better or worse.

This skill, however, does not necessarily equate to prose.

I want to be a good writer.  I have no desire to write professionally, with the exception of the scientific publications required by my career, and even those I can do without.  I want it for my own satisfaction.  I believe, deep down, that I am at least above average in terms of written proficiency, and I want that belief to be validated by the glowing positive comments I sometimes receive here.  Unfortunately, I find it difficult at times to produce something I find worthy of submitting to public scrutiny.  They say you should write about what you know, but most people don’t want to hear about science and field work, and it takes a special set of circumstances to produce a riveting field story (reference “Back Road to Crazy” for some rare examples).  Besides, such stories fall outside the purvue of this blog.

The only other thing I know is sex.  And fuck is that hard to write.

I have so much respect for those of you who can write about sex.  The best examples that immediately come to mind are Gillian of Black Door Press, and Hyacinth of A Dissolute Life.  I admire their writing more than I can describe.  I am constantly amazed by the openness and honesty in their writing, and I am envious of their creativity and command of sexual vocabulary.  They can describe things in ways that I just can’t.  They don’t reuse the same words and imagery.  Nothing is recycled.  Everything is fresh.  And I pour over their writing, not because it turns me on (it does, but that’s not the point!), but because I want to absorb their style.  I want to be able to write about myself the way they do, with that same intensity and flair and disregard for societal niceties.

That’s my biggest issue, I think.  Sure, I have a hard time coming up with new ways to describe things, or different words for the same thing (I am not a sexual thesaurus, despite whatever persona I attempt to put forward).  But I get nervous talking about things.  It’s hard for me to be honest.  Much of it is out of concern for being somehow discovered by Ashley, reinforced by the decades-long drive to hide who I am.  But some of what I write here still strikes me as taboo.  I’m afraid to describe a vagina as being a “pussy” or “cunt” because I am afraid it will come across as crass, or even misogynistic.  We aren’t supposed to say things like that in public.  In the bedroom, sure, all bets are off, but in public?  No way champ.  Not without making the people who read this think, “Whoa, this guy is a complete and total prick!”  Then the mighty Index Finger of Rightousness descends upon the DELETE key with a finality usually reserved for an executioner’s switch, and I have earned another not-gonna-follow-this-shit-anymore.

I really need to get over that.  This whole thing began as an experiment with honesty, and censoring or otherwise altering my vocabulary seems to fly in the face of this blog’s intended purpose.  I shouldn’t care about earning followers.  I should care about putting what I think and feel on paper.  (Or on keyboard.  Or monitor.  Shut up.)  But, now that I have earned many regular readers, I am afraid of offending you all and sending you running for the hills.  It’s the same fear that leads me to lie and hide my feelings.  And I don’t want that to happen here.

Doesn’t mean I can’t work harder to improve my writing style, though.  Gillian and Hyacinth, buy a plane ticket to <REDACTED>.  We’ll meet up in a pub or cafe and talk style.  Make it a convention or something we can put on our resumes.  “Eroticon: Writing Your Way Into Your Partner’s Pants”.

Not really.  I’m not a creeper.  (Least I don’t think I am.)

I know, I’m a bit pathetic.

I’ll have another post up soon.  Question is, what the hell am I going to write about…

Of Shackles and Riding Crops: A True Story of Springing Bondage on the Unwary

Wow, what a hectic week this has been.  Sorry I’ve been away for a few days, but I had to play catch-up with the backlog of work and research while keeping up with Ashley’s newfound sexual appetite.  (I swear, it’s like being married to a whole new person.)  But I’ve finally caught up, so regular posts should resume this coming week!

By request, the following is a retelling of my one failed experience with anything resembling BDSM.  Not my best ending, but this is just the way it happened.

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I walk through the door to my apartment and hang my backpack on the coatrack.  The apartment is dark and quiet, but as I begin removing my outer layers, I notice the pungent aroma of sandalwood and catch the distinct flickering of candlelight from the slightly cracked door to my and Kelly’s bedroom.  It’s a clear indicator that she has something special planned for us this evening.  I grin and lock the door behind me.

“Kelly?”  I move across the living room to the hall.

“In here…”  Her tone is deep, sultry, and possessed of a certain quality that I can neither describe nor replicate.  It’s an inviting sound mingled with her own arousal and anticipation, something she’s perfected over the years we’ve been together, and she knows its effect on me.  My breath immediately quickens as my body responds exactly how she’s conditioned it to.  I push the door open and step into the bedroom, eager to see what she has planned for us.

I am immediately struck by the sight of Kelly sitting up on the bed, completely nude, her back against the headboard, her legs spread wide open, her knees up and feet planted on the bed.  The candlelight makes her already pale flesh seem almost porceline.  Her left hand slides up her bare thigh, across her stomach, to her small breasts, which are barely half of a handful, but lovely and soft to the touch.  The fingers of her right glide lovingly across her clit, and I can clearly tell how aroused she is by the glistening moisture around her open lips.  She has clearly been doing this for a while, waiting for me to come home and find her like this.  She gives me the slightest of smiles and nods to the rest of the room.  “You like what I’ve done with the place?”

I have been so caught up in Kelly’s inviting posture that all I have noticed about the room is the candlelight and thin wisps of incense hovering in the air.  Now I take in my surroundings fully.  And I am more than mildly surprised.  The candles and incense rest on several tables that have been set up around the room.  They seem out of place surrounded by more sexual accessories than I’ve ever seen outside of an adult toy store.  One table holds a selection of restraining devices–handcuffs, iron shackles with soft felt padding, a cloth gag, various clamps, and two braids of rope of different thickness and consistency.  Another holds a set of dildos ranging from large to monstrous, anal beads, and a plug.  Still another displays a collection of riding crops, paddles, and even a cat o’ nine tails.

Holy hell.  I’ve always known Kelly had a kinky streak, but I am overwhelmed by the vast array of bondage-and-discipline equipment littering the room.  I laugh nervously.  “Wow, this is quite the setup you have here.”

“I borrowed it from Megan,” Kelly says softly.

“I didn’t know Megan was into this kind of thing.”  I examine the padded shackles absently, but Kelly steals my focus as she slides off the bed and walks toward me, her steps slow and measured and possessed of a dancer’s grace.  She stops in front of me and lifts the shackles with her left hand, smiling down at them briefly before looking back up at me.  Her eyes shine, whether from the candlelight or sheer desire, I can’t tell.  When she speaks again, her voice is little more than a whisper.

“I want you to abuse me.”

I know I look absolutely shocked.  “Uh… what?”

“I want you to abuse me,” she repeats.  “I am giving you the authority to do whatever you want to my body.  Put whatever you want inside me, wherever you want.  Tie me up.  Hit me.  I don’t care.”  Kelly steps back and picks up a riding crop.  She puts it in my hand, and I’m surprised by how light it is.  She guides my hand, making the short stick draw circles around her nipple.  “I want to be your victim.”

Are you fucking kidding me?

She turns and walks back to the bed.  She lies face down, her lower torso hanging off the bed, and reaches behind her to spread herself open.  “This is yours to do whatever you want.”

I stare stupidly at her for a moment before my brain finally catches up with the situation.  She has given me permission to do anything I want.  To use her body in whatever manner is most pleasing to me.  But I know this isn’t just about me.  She wants to derive pleasure from her total submission to me.  She wants me to control her, to dominate her.  To hurt her.  The thought makes me feel queasy, and dizzy.  But I don’t want to disappoint her.

I walk toward her numbly, holding the riding crop in my hand.  Kelly moves her hands above her head, gripping the bars of the headboard in anticipation.  Tenderly I rub the tip of the riding crop across her bare bottom.  Her hips wiggle a little in response, so I let the tip trail down lower, across the backs of her thighs, then her moist center.  I hear her breath catch, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief.

Maybe I can do this after all.

I give the crop a quick flick against her bottom.  But I underestimated the flexibility of the thing, and that one flick bends the crop deeply and sends it snapping back against her ass with a loud pop.  Kelly cries out in pain.

Holy fuck no I can’t.

I practically throw the thing across the room, distancing myself from it as much as possible, and fall down beside her.  “Are you okay??  Oh fuck, did I hurt you??”

Kelly looks at at me with wide eyes, her confusion obvious.  “What the fuck?  Why did you stop?”

“I’m sorry, I thought I had really hurt you!”

“No!  Well, yes, but that’s okay, it’s what I want!”

I sit on the floor beside the bed in total bewilderment.  I look around at the tables, then back at her.  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can do this!”

She sighs in exasperation and stands up.  “Christ, don’t be such a pussy!”  She storms out of the bedroom, and I hear the bathroom door slam shut.  She continues to rant, though I can’t understand a bit of her tirade.  I’m too focused on the riding crop, which is propped up against the corner of the room, almost proudly.  I am again overwhelmed by the sheer number of bizarre and intimidating devices around me.

“Fuck this,” I mutter to myself.  I return to the living room and collect my coat and backpack.  I can still vaguely hear Kelly griping to no one in particular through the closed bathroom door as I exit the apartment.

Black Sand and Rosemary: A True Story of Doing Things the Caribbean Way, Part 3

A brief justification for my writing style.

I feel that, in my attempt to pour as much honesty as is humanly possible into my blog, I have to share as much background as possible to bring whoever may be reading up to speed.  I could have started this memory at the beach, cutting out the first two entries entirely.  But that would have left out what I feel are two key components of this story–my first exposure to rosemary rum, and my and Marisha’s first encounter at the sea turtle event.  They may not be the sexy bits, but I believe that my behavior is about more than the sexy bets.  It’s about meeting people.  It’s about the connections I harped on a few entries ago.  And to omit those connections, erotic or otherwise, would be a disservice to the memories and my attempts at sincerity.  I’m sure the multi-part entries are a bit frustrating to read, but I really can’t find a better way to tell them.

Plus, I’m a bit of a showman anyway, and I love storytelling.

Anyhow!  Without further ado, I give you Part Three, the thrilling climax to Black Sand and Rosemary.  (Well, maybe not thrilling, but there’s definitely a climax.)

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Marisha’s definition of “a little way down the road” is a bit different from mine.  We walk for the better part of an hour along cramped, winding streets, always hugging the coast.  Most of the islanders are in for the night, but occasionally we pass the few night owls still loitering on porches and under overhangs.  More than a few people call out to me in passing, “Heeeey, white boy!”  We laugh and I give them a friendly wave, but we keep walking, sharing stories from our childhoods, comparing and contrasting our lives in the States and the Caribbean, and passing the rosemary liquor back and forth between us.

By the time we reach the beach, we’re both quite lit, but I’m sober enough to appreciate the beauty of the place.  Everyone talks about beach sunsets as though they’re some magical thing, but I’ve never understood it.  A sunset is always lovely and colorful, but it’s the same image anywhere you go.  Under a full moon, however, the scene transforms.  The moonlight doesn’t reflect off the water as it does on a still lake.  Each wave catches the light and throws it at you for the briefest of moments before winking out.  The ocean twinkles, creating a second night sky seemingly more alive than the one above you, always moving, mutable, and I am separated from it by frothy white sea foam that writhes on a black sand beach.  As I step onto the sand, I feel as though I am stepping into nothing, a sensation made more palpable by the intoxicating spirits in my hand.

I make it a few yards down the beach before I become too disoriented and fall into the sand, laughing drunkenly, playing it up a bit for effect.  Marisha joins me, lying beside me, the two of us staring up into an impossibly deep night sky.

“You know,” I remark quietly, “I’ve been here for weeks, and I am still amazed by how beautiful this place is.”

Marisha laughs again, rolling onto her side to snatch the bottle away from me, then taking a long pull from it.  ”Yeah, it’s beautiful.  But most of us don’t see it anymore.  Dis is just de way we live here.”

“I think it would be hard for me to become accustomed to it.”  I take the bottle back and sip gingerly at it, continuing to admire my surroundings.  We sit in silence for a few moments before Marisha tries to take the rum again, but falls onto her face on my shoulder.

“I think you’ve had enough,” I say lightheartedly.

“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough, white boy!”  Marisha swipes at the bottle, but I’m a professional keep-awayer, and I hold the bottle out of reach in my left hand, keeping her at bay with my right.

“If you want it, you’ll have to take it,” I state plainly.

Marisha grunts and pushes my hand out of the way.  She tries to crawl across my body, but the sand and her intoxication make this a nontrivial task, and she falls on top of me again with a laugh.  I drop the bottle in the sand, wrap my arms around her, and roll easily to my right, pinning her under me.  We both laugh now, thoroughly inebriated, covered in fine black sand.  She looks up at me, eyes bright in the moonlight, her smile brilliant.  And I kiss her.

Marisha immediately returns the kiss with more force than I had applied, her hands seeking my bare skin, fingertips digging into my back, holding me tightly against her.  I didn’t expect such a vigorous response, but I respond in kind.  Our tongues dance lightly against each other, and the smell of rosemary overpowers the salty ocean air.  It’s not the most intense kiss I have ever experienced, but it’s close.

I’m so caught up in it that I’m unprepared when she suddenly rolls over, now pinning me and sitting on my pelvis.  I can only make out her silhouette against the night sky, but I can see enough to watch her stand.  She removes her denim shorts and resumes her position on top of me, gently rocking her hips, grinding against me.  The cloth of my shorts rubs uncomfortably, but I am too focused on her to care much.  She undoes the buttons of her shirt, leaving her shoulders covered, and places my hands on her bare chest.  Her breasts are not very full, but exceptionally supple, and she gasps as I trace the shape of her nipples with my thumbs.  She leans down and kisses me again, the action somehow more demanding, insistent.  Her hands work on my zipper, but I offer no assistance, instead pinching and tugging on her nipples, forcing another gasp from her.  She bites my lip in response, the tip of her tongue tracing its shape, and I feel her hand slide into my shorts and grasp my length, exposing me to the night air.

It’s my turn to gasp as she presses down against me, not taking me inside of her, but just rocking back and forth, sliding along the length of my member.  I can tell she doesn’t groom herself, but the intense warmth and wetness of her overwhelms the coarse feeling of the hair.  I’ve never had a woman do this before, and I silently curse the darkness around us for preventing me from watching her move in detail, because I imagine it looks as pleasant as it feels.  Marisha sits up and braces herself against me, palms down in my chest, and just grinds her hips down against me, rocking back and forth, slowly at first, then increasing in speed and intensity and she begins to pant softly.  It only takes me a moment to realize where she’s going, and I release her nipples to fully cup her breasts, kneading them gently, rotating my hands to apply the faintest hint of friction, hopefully intensifying the sensation of my hands against her.  She groans gratifyingly in response, the rocking motions shorten, and her breath becomes ragged.  She quivers, and her arms give out under her, causing her to collapse on top of me, gasping for breath and pulling her pelvis up slightly.

I tense my lower body, grab her hips, and gently slide my now well lubricated cock into her in one easy motion.  It’s too dark for me to see anything, so I simply close my eyes and relax.  She does all the work.  Marisha hides her face in the crook of my neck and begins to rock her hips again, much slower than before, gasping and panting and whispering something I can’t understand into my ear.  Her technique is slow, methodical, every upward slide taking me almost completely out of her, her breasts gliding across my stomach and up to my chest.  Then back down, her torso lifting off of me as she takes all of me back inside of her.  She waits for a second, then begins again.  Forward, slide, lift, back, wait.  Forward, slide, lift, back, wait.  It’s almost a dance, and she follows her own rhythm, maddeningly slow, my body aching for a release that builds gradually over God knows how many minutes.  It could be hours, or seconds, and I wouldn’t be able to tell.  But finally, with one last push back, I feel myself giving in, and I haul her off of my lap.  Marisha moves without question, but turns back to face me, taking my cock in her hand and stroking me slowly with a vice-like grip.  I feel the warmth of her mouth around me, and I fall over the edge, my voice caught in my throat, her hand still moving along my shaft, her head still as every nerve in my body ignites.

Several moments pass before she sits up beside me.  I hear her sigh, contentedly I think, as she puts her shorts back on, then she fixes mine for me.  Without a word, she crawls across my body, grabs the overturned bottle of rum, and takes a long swig.  She then lays down beside me, her head on my shoulder.  ”Dat was unexpected.”

I laugh and put one arm around her, holding the bottle in my free hand.  I smell the rum on her skin, and I kiss her forehead, tasting the sweat and ocean spray mingled.  ”Yes, it was.”

We lay there, thoroughly inebriated, covered in fine black sand, surrounded by the smell of rosemary and ocean salt.

Black Sand and Rosemary: A True Story of Doing Things the Caribbean Way, Part 2

ARGH THIS MEMORY NEVER ENDS.

Sorry everyone.  I am utterly exhausted after a very long day of field work and can not possibly write any longer.  This is going to have to be a three-parter.  (Don’t worry, I’m ashamed of myself, too.)  The conclusion will be posted tomorrow night, I promise!

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Her name is Marisha.  She’s barely shorter than me, with shortly cropped hair and the figure of a person who spends hours in the ocean every day, which is currently clad in denim shorts and a plaid button-down.  I met her at the leatherback hatchling release I operated with the conservation group.  The day had been organized around a series of games and awareness activities for sea turtle conservation, one of which I was running, showing the hatchlings to attendees and explaining the reproductive ecology of the turtles.  Marisha, an aspiring conservationist, sat in on my demonstration three times.  I was so impressed by her that I broke protocol (only a little) and let her hold one of the hatchlings.  I’d never seen anyone so excited.  I must have made an impression, because she recognizes me immediately.

“Turtle boy!” she squeals as she rushes through the passage from the main part of the house.  She hugs me tightly, almost knocking me and my chair over in the process.

I laugh and return her embrace, steadying myself.  ”Whoa, hi Marisha!  I didn’t know you lived here!”

“Yeah, dis is my father’s house,” she says, grinning.  ”I live here when I’m not in school.”  Marisha notices our glasses.  ”Hey, no one is drinking rum without me!”  She turns and looks for the bottle, and I can’t help but watch her hips as she does so.

I suddenly remember Ronnie and his half-giant cousin, Marisha’s father.  They’re looking at me with obvious amusement.  I’m fairly certain my face could teach red a new trick or two.  ”….sorry, couldn’t help it,” I say softly, hoping Marisha doesn’t notice our conversation, and that the inhumanely large man doesn’t break me in half for ogling his daughter.

Goliath just laughs and punches me in the arm, lightly I’m sure, but being clobbered by a bus at 5 miles an hour is still being clobbered by a bus.  ”Is okay white boy, don’ worry,” he reassures me.  ”Marisha is a smart girl!  She can make up her own mind!”  I would defend myself, but Marisha has come back to the table with the bottle and a glass.

“Make up my mind about what?”

“WHETHER YOU WANT TO DRINK OR NOT!”  I fairly scream the response before Ronnie or Fezzik have a chance to spell it out for me.  Both of them laugh again.

The evening passes pleasantly.  Ronnie and Jotun drink heavily, and their heavy accents gradually thicken and become completely unintelligible to me.  Marisha and I busy ourselves talking about the turtle awareness event, what she enjoyed most, and why she wants to be a conservationist.  She’s a smart girl, well-read and educated.  I have a good time talking to her, which I ensure doesn’t change by minimizing my alcohol intake.  She, however, doesn’t, and the three of them continue drinking long into the night.  Eventually, Ronnie staggers home, having consumed enough ethanol to strip-shine a bumper, and his cousin excuses himself (presumably to resume bearing the world on his inebriated shoulders), leaving Marisha and I alone in the bar extension.  I check my watch and am shocked to see that it’s only 11:00.

“Wow, it’s not nearly as late as I thought,” I comment.  I look at the bottle which still contains little of the amber liquid, and a thought crosses my mind.  A daring bit of sneakthievery.  (Well, maybe not, but I think it’s clever.)  I look at Marisha.  ”Want to finish off the bottle down by the water?”

Marisha makes a face.  ”Not on dis beach.  Too many rocks.  But there’s a good one a little way down de road, if you want to walk!”  She grabs the bottle and stands, stretching and exposing a few inches of smooth dark skin as she does so.

I grin.  ”Well, who am I to tell a lady no?”  I pin a few bills on the table beneath the spent shotglasses, more than enough to cover the bottle, and rise beside her.  We exit the extension and proceed to walk through the warm Caribbean night air toward the beach.

Black Sand and Rosemary: A True Story of Doing Things the Caribbean Way, Part 1

A brief comment before the story begins.  I adore the way islanders speak, but try as I might, I cannot accurately capture the dialect of the Dominican people in writing.  There is an almost musical quality to the way they speak, with lots of very round vowels and unusual intonations that text just can’t relate.  I toyed with not even trying, but settled on using misspelled words that, when spoken aloud, sound as close as I can get them while maintaining legibility.

Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this story.  It’s another multi-parter.  I would apologize, but there’s just so much to tell that doing this in one entry while keeping it at a manageable length would be totally impossible.

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“You’re sure this is the right place?”

I look dubiously upon the little shack before me.  No other term is more appropriate.  The wooden walls look ready to collapse with a strong gust of wind, and the flat roof, covered in dead palm detritus, doesn’t look like it’s been swept in months.  A small porch with no chairs circles around the structure, and a doorway with no door leads inside.  Not the kind of place I would associate with a bar, but then again, this is Dominica.  What the hell do I know.  And it’s twenty feet from the beach, so I really shouldn’t complain.

“Yeah boy, don’ worry, mah cousin run de place!”  My friend, Ronnie, is an island native and the first person I met when I decided to explore the island on my own.  He is very friendly, always smiling, always laughing, always eager to show me new places and give me a taste of real life on the island.  He hasn’t steered me wrong yet, having shown me places in Rosalie that the tourists never see and introduced me to people so hospitable that you would never think I wasn’t from the island, too.  He’d even gotten me into a community fishing experience, my first seine netting exercise, an activity usually reserved for two or three families and considered a bonding experience by many.  I had worked hard that day to help pull in and manage the net, entitling me to a portion of the catch.  However, since I didn’t need it and they were obviously dependent upon the haul, I had given my share to the rest of the group, and in return for this perceived generosity, Ronnie was going to buy me a drink on the beach.  I told him it was unnecessary, but he insisted, and so I found myself at his cousin’s bar, run out of an extension to his home.

I shrugged.  ”Hell, when in Rome.”

I followed Ronnie inside.  The place was deserted, but I could see movement through another doorway leading into the house proper.  Ronnie yelled something unintelligible, and through the doorway burst maybe the largest man I have ever seen.  His response was just as loud and unintelligible, but it was an exuberant exclamation that made me grin, and the two exchanged hugs and intricate handshakes too quick for me to follow.  The big guy looked at me and said, “‘Ey, you mus’ be de white boy Ronnie be tellin’ so much about!”

Another shrug.  It’s hard not to feel awkward under such politically incorrect scrutiny, but my time in foreign lands has made me accustomed to it. “I guess I must be.  Ronnie tells me you have the best rum on the island, so I had to come and check it out.”

“Bah!”  Ronnie’s cousin punches him solidly on the arm–damn, that had to hurt–and laughs.  ”He always tryin’ ta bring de white people here, tryin’ ta get some free rum off de boat.”

“Not tonight, boy!”  Ronnie pulls a few bills out of his pocket and passes them over to his cousin.  ”White boy is no tourist!  He pulled in de seine and gave me his fish, so tonight I buy de rum!”

There’s a hint of derision in Ronnie’s voice when he mentions the tourists.  A lot of Caribbean cruises stop at Dominica for shopping and brief island excursions, usually older people and newlyweds with little interest in the island beyond its beaches and cheap vacation memorabilia.  It’s a point of some pride for me that the people I have met don’t regard me the same way.  I had come to the island for public outreach and education for a local sea turtle conservation organization, and I had made it my mission to get to know the locals, and to make myself known.  I guess it had worked.  I had developed a reputation, the nature of which I didn’t fully comprehend, and everyone knew me and referred to me as “the white boy”.  But they respected me, I think, at least on some level.  After all, a tourist would never have been invited to their homes for fresh salted fish and grilled plantains, or to a seine net haul.  And they certainly would never have bought a tourist a drink.

Ronnie’s cousin looks at me, clearly sizing me up.  My tattered blue pearl snap shirt and quick drying outdoor shorts are my go-to field biology attire and make it easy for me to get in and out of the water quickly, but they don’t exactly show off my fighter’s build.  He nods and smiles.  ”Alright, we got something good for him, I think!”

He turns and pulls a bottle down from the only booze shelf.  It’s an unmarked clear bottle filled with several long, leafy branches I can’t identify through the deep amber liquid.  He deftly pours three shots and passes two to me and Ronnie.  I sniff the stuff and am greeted by a pleasantly sweet aroma, almost coniferous.  ”What is it?” I ask, inspecting the bottle on the counter.

“Rosemary soaked in rum,” Ronnie answers happily, and he downs the shot easily.  He sighs contentedly and points to my glass.  ”Try it!”

When in Rome.  I throw the shot back, expecting it to be harsh, but something about the rosemary takes almost all of the bite out of the liquor.  It’s very smooth and goes down easily, leaving a strong herb aftertaste and immediately clearing my sinuses, though I can’t smell anything but rosemary and the salty air.  I look at the glass in shock.  ”Wow.  This is really good.”

“I told you, Ronnie gonna take good care of you, white boy!”  He and his cousin laugh boisterously, so loudly that I almost don’t hear the footsteps of the newcomer entering the bar.  They don’t pay her any notice, but I do.

How to Deflower a Virgin Forest: A True Story of Geocaching Done Right, Part 2

Wow, what an exhausting day this has been.  And yet I am still overly verbose.  Regardless, I promised Part 2, and thus I deliver Part 2.  It may not have actually been quite as sexy as I’m making it out to be, but damn if this wasn’t good.  Sorry for the length, but I DID shorten it by cutting out the rest of the story at the end.  I’ll try really hard to keep it down in the future.

Now, if you will excuse me… I need a fucking cigarette after writing this one down.

Author’s Note: VERY NOT SAFE FOR WORK OR KIDS OR ANYONE OFFENDED BY SEX AND FOUL LANGUAGE YOU’VE BEEN WARNED DON’T COME GRIPING TO ME IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT GO READ SOMETHING FAMILY FRIENDLY AND WATCH ABC.

Author’s Other Note: I’ve been waiting to drop that alliteration in the second paragraph since I started writing this.

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I know I must look horribly confused, because Rosalyn is laughing at me as she stands up.  ”Hope your hike wasn’t too difficult!”

“Umm, not really,” I say as I approach the tent.  The tone of my voice is making me begin to laugh at myself as well.  ”What the hell are you doing out here, with a tent, in a non-designated camping area, Ranger Rosalyn?”

“Oh it’s okay, this used to be a camp site for hikers doing multiple days,” she responds as though it were common knowledge.  ”I come here sometimes on my off days, if the weather’s nice enough.  I can only stand park housing for so long.”  She tosses her book into the tent and draws out a thermos, which I gratefully accept.  ”Figured I’d come out today and see if you wanted company on the hike.”

I fall into the grass beside the tent and sniff the contents.  ”Oh… real coffee.  I could kiss you.”

“Say that now, just wait ’til you try it,” she teases, producing a mug from the tent and sitting beside me.

I fill the cup for her and drink mine from the thermos lid, and we savor our coffee in silence as I brood on the situation.  I don’t know exactly how long Rosalyn has been out here, but given that I could have arrived early and found nothing at the “IF YOU ARE TIRED” waypoint, it’s been long enough to make sure she didn’t miss me.  She’s wearing lightweight hiking wool and trail shoes, so she seems serious about hitting the trail with me. But that seems like an awfully convoluted way to join someone on a romp through the forest.  I glance her way, weighing my odds.

“You know, this is an awfully convoluted way to join someone on a romp through the forest,” I repeat out loud.

She shrugs.  ”Maybe I wanted to surprise you.”

Fuck it.  I roll the dice.

I turn my head to face Rosalyn.  She notices me looking and turns to meet my gaze.  We hold that stare for a moment.  Two moments.  Long enough to make most people feel uncomfortable.  It’s a trick I learned a long time ago to determine if a girl is interested in you.  Not much of a sex trick, really, as you can use it on just about anyone to gauge their feelings for you.  Hold their gaze without saying anything.  Normal, well-adjusted people don’t hold a gaze unless they’re very comfortable with the person they’re looking at.  It’s particularly true with potential sex partners.  If the person isn’t interested at all, she’ll maybe look at you for a second or two, then avert her eyes.  If they hold your gaze for more than a few seconds, they’re interested.

Ten seconds in, and Rosalyn doesn’t look away at all.

I gently take the cup out of her hands.  She doesn’t resist.  I set them aside and face her on my knees, taking her hands and pulling her up into the same kneeling position.  I pull her body against mine, still holding her gaze, breaking it only long enough to pull her shirt over her head.  A trim, well-kept outdoor body, the faintest hint of abdominal muscles under tight skin, small but perky breasts under a simple sports bra.  I would remove it, but she’s one step ahead of me and pulls it off in one smooth motion.  I quickly follow suit, and she presses against me again.  Christ she feels good, her nipples hardening in the chill air, her body heat warming my now exposed chest.  I trace my thumb along her jawline, our faces an inch apart, eyes still locked.

Then I ask, bluntly, “So, you got a sleeping bag or what, it’s fucking freezing out here.”

Rosalyn laughs so loud I swear every animal in a five mile radius probably jumps out of its skin.  My question shattered the romantic tension of the moment, but that’s precisely what I wanted.  Rosalyn is an intense woman at times, and that laugh was all she needed to let herself go.  She grabs my shoulders and bodily flings me toward the open tent (damn she’s strong!), and I fall onto a very thin, simple bedroll.  She practically pounces on me, not going for my mouth, but my neck and collar, kissing and nibbling and goddamn biting me hard enough to make me yelp.  We frantically tug at each other’s pants, but our arms are tangled.  She growls and moves off of me, almost glaring at me as she tugs her pants down to her knees.  I notice that she doesn’t shave–this is somehow fitting–but I get distracted as she tries pulling the pants off over her shoes and falls over onto me.  I’ve already removed mine (shoes also–I’m a professional here), and she tumbles over onto my groin, her shoulder jamming into my crotch.

I grunt and gasp at the pain, but that is quickly replaced as she grabs my length in one hand and immediately takes so much of me into her mouth that I ram the back of her throat.  She’s not terribly skilled, and her teeth graze me more than once, but I’m so absorbed in the moment that I don’t notice she’s finally maneuvered out of her shoes and pants.  But I do notice when her mouth pivots around my cock and she lays on top of me, straddling my face.  Her hair itches my face and nose, which might otherwise bother me, but not today.  I wrap my arms around her hips to grab her ass, steadying her, and press my tongue firmly against her clit, drawing it slowly but heavily up (down?) the length of her lips.  I feel more than hear her groan around me, and I repeat the motion, steadily lapping at her, every stroke eliciting another vibration as she moans, another downward grind of her hips against my face.  When she begins to rock her hips harder, I focus my attention on her clit, teasing her lips with my fingertip, then sliding it into her to massage the rough but oh-so-sensitive spot inside her.  I thought this would take a while, but I was wrong.  She immediately bucks, chokes, shivers, then releases me from her mouth as she cries out softly, muffling the sound by fucking biting my inner thigh (GODDAMMIT OW).

We hold that position for a moment before she suddenly jerks away from me with a laugh and a cough.  I watch as she slides down my stomach as far as the tent will permit, straddling my stomach now, unable to reach my groin.  I sit up and hoist her off of me, holding her hips in the air as I rise to my knees again, sitting on my heels, knees spread far apart to keep my head low.  I drop her hips down toward me, and she has to practically lay on her stomach to get low enough to align her pelvis with mine.  But the moment she’s found the right position, I press myself against her with my left hand and pull her hips back with my right, driving as deep into her as I can.  I hear her cry out again, the sound muffled now by the bedroll instead of my (likely bleeding) leg, and we fuck, literally and figuratively, like animals.  I pull her head back by her hair, making her gasp and groan.  She slams her body back to almost painfully meet every forward thrust.  She reaches back and tries to grab my arm, scratching and clawing at me, drawing blood (OW NOT FUCKING AGAIN).

We fuck with an intensity I’ve rarely matched before or since, until my body begins to tense and my breath catches.  She must sense this, because she gasps out, “Not in me!”  I barely have time for this to process before I pull back and away from her.  I can’t believe how quickly she turns around, still on her knees and elbows, taking me back into her mouth and not sucking, just rolling her tongue around me as she digs her nails into my chest.  The combination of intense pleasure and incredible pain is too much, and I grab her ponytail, holding her face against me, trying to not choke her but making sure to keep her steady as I explode.  I hear her stop breathing, and her tongue only barely massages the underside of the head as she carries me through my orgasm.  Now I have to pull away, the sensation too much to bear.  I expect her to spit, but instead she starts laughing again, deliriously so, her mouth empty.

“You fucking swallow too,” I say, shocked.

“Of course!  What’s the point if you don’t swallow?”  Rosalyn laughs, and we fall flat onto the bedroll, her head on my chest, beside the scratch marks.  The sharp hiss of sucking air fills the tent.  ”Oh man, sorry about that.”  She leans in and begins kissing the scratch marks, surprisingly gentle given her behavior a moment before.

“It’s okay,” I lie.  In reality, I’m suddenly hoping they heal before I go back home to Ashley in a week and a half.  But I only have a moment to consider the implications of returning home with deep scratches down my chest before Rosalyn looks up at me, her eyes practically gleaming as she kisses down the scratch, down my stomach, using my own locked gaze trick against me.

Fuck.  It’s going to be a long fucking night.