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.”

More Words from the Soapbox: On Public Responses to Private Questions

It’s been a long time since I publically responded to the e-mails and unapproved comments I receive about this blog.  I think it’s high time I did so again.  Here are a few of the questions and comments I’ve received over the past few weeks, in no particular order.  Names and potentially identifying information have been removed.

Question:  Why do you refuse to approve the comments I post on your blog?

The thing is, I don’t like bigots and judgmental assholes.  As far as I’m concerned, I’m the only person on this blog who gets to be a bigoted, self-righteous, judgemental prick, and I do that job well enough for ten people.  Why would I want your comments on here mucking up my dick-fu?

Question:  Are all of your stories true?

Yes, but only to an extent.  The nice thing about memory is, it tends to paint you in a better light the further from the event you go.  I can’t say with 100% certainty that everything I write is absolutely, perfectly accurate.  What I try to get across are the main points, the things that stick out.  The smell of a woman’s hair (Shelley’s shampoo).  The sounds of the surrounding area (the coffee shop in Asia).  The specific phrases that stand out to me (“You’re probably the most incredible guy I’ve ever met, but I’m no one’s plaything”).  The parts in between those elements have to be recreated to the best of my recollection, but I never purposely alter a story to make it more interesting, or to make myself out as a hero, or a victim.  Each story is a memory, and is told as honestly as I can.

Comment:  No one is that good at that many things.  You must be a liar.

I happen to be an excellent liar.  But not here.  (Who the hell would I want to impress on an anonymous blog?)  And frankly, I’m only quite good at a couple of things, but my career and education choices have forced me to develop at least a working proficiency in a number of fields.  Fortunately, I’m a very fast learner.

Oh, and fuck you.

Question:  Some of your stories sound awfully familiar.  Did you fuck my wife?

Seriously, why the hell do you want to even speculate on this?  I may have fucked a lot of women, but that number is a drop in a drop in a drop in the bucket of the total number of women in the places I’ve lived.  As much as I admire women and want to pursue intimacy with every one of them, the likelihood that I fucked your wife or girlfriend or sister or whatever is astronomically small.

Question:  Do you want to?

That, on the other hand, is entirely plausible.  [Author’s Note:  Yes, I actually had a man ask if I would consider sleeping with his rather lovely wife.  What an interesting and magical place the Internet has become.]

Question:  Why do you not post more frequently?  (Or, why do you not respond to my e-mails faster?)

Because I am remarkably busy.  I’m amazed I find the time to write the two weekly entries to which I’ve committed myself.  Please don’t interpret my silence as disinterest.  There just aren’t enough hours in the day to do everything I’d like.

Comment:  If you really loved Ashley, you wouldn’t cheat on her and then write about it here.

You have no idea how much I struggle with this.  I write about it because it makes me feel less horrid.  I imagine it’s the same sensation Catholics feel after confession.  Not that I think anything I write here qualifies as a confession, at least in the religious sense, but it evokes a similarly cathartic response for me.

I believe I love Ashley.  My heart tells me I do.  My mind tells me I shouldn’t.  And that’s all I want to say about it right now.

Comment:  Only cowards hide behind pseudonyms.

You may be right.  I’ve never claimed to be brave, and I certainly don’t consider myself to be so.

Question:  Why did you misspell the word “tendencies” in your username?  Was it on purpose, or are you stupid?

Fuck you.  That’s why.

Question:  Are you using this blog as a means of meeting women online to fuck?

I don’t use this blog to further my sexual agenda.  Frankly, I don’t need it for that purpose–I am more than capable of picking up women on my own, thank you very much.  (However, I confess that there are certain amongst my regular readers whom I find more than slightly beguiling.)

Question:  Are you currently seeing anyone behind Ashley’s back?

Yes, I am: a woman who works at my university, and a younger woman from the yoga class I help out with.  I’m sleeping with neither at the moment, but the temptation to do so is fairly overwhelming.

———————————————

Think that’s enough for now, especially given that this is an extra third post for my week!  If you have any other questions or comments, feel free to leave ’em below.

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.

———————————————————————–

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 2

I slide a bit to the left and pat the space beside me.  ”By all means.  History teaches us that it’s the victor’s responsibility to help the defeated recover.”

“Funny,” Jenny assures me.  She adjusts the long folds of her skirt before sitting beside me.  We immediately begin rocking the swing gently.  ”You’re the first person to beat me at Risk in a long time.”

“Ehh, just got lucky,” I respond.  “Game could have gone either way if the dice hadn’t rolled for me.”

“No, seriously, how’d you get so good?”

Ice rings against glass as I sip my scotch somberly.

“Pfft.  Fine, don’t tell me, then.”  She plucks the cigarette out of my hand and takes a long drag, exhaling as she puts her head on my shoulder.  We’d cuddled on numerous occasions, but always in a strictly friendly manner, so I don’t read too much into it.  We sit in silence, the only sounds those of the creak of the swing, ice against glass, and the occasional drone of a june bug kamikaze-ing past our heads.  It’s a comfortable thing, really.

“You’re an interesting guy,” Jenny remarks from my shoulder.

I quirk an eyebrow and glance down at her.  ”Beg pardon?”

I feel more than see her shrug.  ”You’re not the type to play games, that’s all.”

I pause.  ”Meaning…?”

“Meaning, smart guys who play games aren’t supposed to look like you and Hank.”  Normally I would laugh and point out the ridiculousness of her assertion that I am anything but average compared to Hank, but I detect a hint of a slur toward the end of the s-heavy sentence.  I immediately wonder how many of those cola concoctions she’s consumed in the couple of hours since our game ended.  Presumably, the answer is “many”.

“Hank’s really not that smart,” I say wryly.  She punches my thigh, and I grab her hand, not forcefully, but with enough persistence to communicate my intentions.  She wrestles against my grip briefly, then catches on, and slowly laces her fingers with mine.  She turns her head and kisses my shoulder, awkwardly so, enough that I can tell she’s nervous, and likely somewhat inexperienced at flirtation.  I put my arm around her shoulders encouragingly.

Jenny nestles into my side and sighs comfortably.  She rests her cheek in the hollow just beneath my collar.  ”This is nice,” she murmurs.

“It is.”  I run my hand along the bare flesh of her upper arm shoulder, tracing the thin outline of the tank top, and tilt my cheek into her hair.  She smells of tea tree oil and rum.  Not a bad combination.

“Why don’t we do this more often?”

“Because then it wouldn’t be special,” I answer immediately, as I lean my head back against the top of the bench swing.  “As things stand, these moments wherein it’s just you and me, sitting together, with nothing else to worry about, are wonderfully enjoyable.  Do it too often, and your fondness for these moments will fade.”

I feel her head lift a little, as though considering this.  “You think so?”

“Yep.  You have to do these things sparingly to maintain their significance.  Otherwise it becomes rote.  Or you have to up the ante.”

She moves a bit more, sitting up straighter, but still pressed against my torso.  “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, we will always remember these moments fondly, so long as they don’t happen all the time, or if something else happens to make one night particularly stand out in memory.”

Jenny is silent for a few moments, then she whispers, “Like what?”  Her voice is hesitant, but I can hear tension mixed with excitement.

The devil on my shoulder smiles approvingly.

———————————————————————————-

And that, unfortunately, is where I must leave this story for now.  I’ve written more, but this is such a natural stopping point that I just can’t bring myself to post more of this story here.  Never fear, there will be a concluding third part.

For those interested parties, the reason I have to leave this memory unfinished for the time being is because… and I am loath to say this… I must attend my 30th birthday party.

That’s right, folks.  Bimodal is turning 30 tomorrow, and is none too happy about it.  Don’t be surprised if you see a post about me vs. aging in the near future.

In the meantime, I am going to go defile my body.  I’m talkin’ things that would make Hieronymus Bosch shit his britches.

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.

The Longest Con: On the Process of Defrauding Your Loved One

You know, I swore when I started this blog that I wouldn’t write a post on how to cheat.  I don’t want people to think I condone extramarital affairs in any way, shape, or form, nor do I want to come across as a misogynistic braggart, boasting about my proficiencies in subterfuge and how many women I’ve bedded.  And it is certainly not my intention to give anyone advice on how to get away with things.

However, today as I was cruising the internet superhighway, I stumbled across an article about male cheaters.  Surprisingly, it wasn’t judgemental, or at least it didn’t come across as such.  Rather, the author discussed the act itself, not its greater meaning or purpose, and how men fail at the procedure.  She suggested that men will always get caught because of women’s intuition, or because men are simply incapable of covering their tracks well enough to overcome the scrutiny of a jealous woman.  Men change after cheating, she wrote, and women will always pick up on it, so don’t ever expect to get away with it.

This was an interesting article, but I detected a hint of hubris in the writing.  Thus I felt compelled to offer my two cents.  Please do not misinterpret the following as bragging.  It’s merely observation.

Cheating is easy.  I’m not talking about finding a willing partner.  That can actually be pretty tricky.  No, I’m referring to the process.  Cheating without being caught is incredibly easy.  So easy that I am amazed so many people get caught.

Well, no, I take that back.  I’m not at all surprised that people get caught, because they don’t approach it correctly.

Ever see that show Cheaters?  That show is basically the Dummy’s Guide to Getting Caught.  You want to maintain a clandestine relationship, or just fool around a bit on the side?  Watch that show, and don’t do what they do.  Simple enough.

But let’s break things down a bit more.  Like all clandestine activities, successfully maintaining an affair requires careful planning and forethought.  And I’m not talking about anything so simple as, “I’m going to the gym tonight honey,” and hoping he/she doesn’t have reason to check in on you.  That’s the sort of thing that gets you caught.  If you intend to cheat and you want to get away with it, then you’ve got to be a con artist.  You have to have your partner’s complete trust, and you have to know them better than they know themselves.

For example, one of the most common things I hear from people is, “You know he/she is cheating when he/she suddenly changes his/her pattern.”  The first place a cheater messes up is by giving their partner any reason at all to suspect them of any wrongdoing.  You can’t suddenly start working late, or going to a gender-specific gym, or whatever else you plan to say to buy yourself a little time away from home.  It has to be believable.  Yeah, people work late sometimes, but that’s so cliché that it automatically sets off warning bells in anyone’s head.  No, you have to make your partner truly believe that there is no emotional reason for you to cheat, nor any physical means for you to do so, because they are such an intrinsic part of your life that it’s simply impossible for you to cheat.  It’s truly the long con.

Me?  I’m busy.  And I mean crazy-ass busy.  From the moment Ashley and I got married, I have worked 10 hours every day of the week, including weekends, because that’s just what academia and original scientific research demand.  I keep odd hours because of video conferences with international collaborators halfway across the world.  I spend entire nights in my office or lab working on manuscripts or observing an experiment.  I meet with students at 6:00 a.m. because that’s the only time they’re available.  Thus, it is entirely plausible that I will be doing these things, giving Ashley no reason to worry or suspect.

Now I can already hear some of you saying triumphantly, “But Bimodal, what if she decides to surprise you at your office when you’re actually someplace else?  Suspicious lovers are known to do that, after all!”

Yeah, I know.  It’s on Cheaters all the time.  But that’s what I mean when I say you have to plan ahead.  I prevent this with arguably the most important piece of the con.

I invite her along.

I know someone’s mind is blown.

The proposal usually goes like this, (face to face, never in a phone call, so I can gauge her physical reaction and respond accordingly):  “Ashley, I’m sorry, but I have to work very late tonight.  I have a manuscript/grant/experimental output/whatever coming up and have to stay until I get at least most of it done.”  (The best cons always have the element of truth.  There is ALWAYS a deadline hanging over my head Damocles-style.)  “I know you’d rather I stay home, but I really need to be up at the office.  Why don’t you come with me?  I’ll set you up on my office sofa with some hot tea and a book, we can take coffee breaks together, and I’ll drive you home whenever you’re ready to go.  And we can still spend the evening together.”

9 times out of 10, she declines, giving me the freedom to do pretty much whatever I want that night.

Note that this works because, most of the time, I really do go to my office, and I really do spend the entire night working.  Such is the nature of my work.  But sometimes, more often than I’m proud of, I get the urge to leave, to go out and mingle.  And then, well… yeah, things happen.  But Ashley never doubts it because I make her a part of it.  It was her decision to not be involved–I didn’t make myself unavailable to her in any way.  That’s why it works.

There is, however, one final thing I want to say in parting.  I call cheating The Long Con because I truly see it as defrauding your partner, a conscious act of deception conducted for the sole purpose of personal gain.  Getting what you want by wholly betraying the trust of someone who has fallen completely head over heels in love with you.  My method works because Ashley trusts me and loves me unconditionally.  She has the utmost faith in me and our relationship.

And that is what makes my behavior so abhorrent.  It’s why shows like Cheaters thrive–because everyone wants to see the bad guy get what’s coming.  And I don’t think there is any way that what I and other habitual cheaters do can be described as anything but loathsome.

EDIT:  One more thing.  You know that 1 time out of 10 Ashley actually agrees and comes to my office with me?  Some of the best times and memories I’ve ever had.  (In case I hadn’t already painted myself as a total asshole and villain, I figured that would do it.)

Run Along Little Doggy: A True Story of Giving Obedience to a Truly Harsh Mistress

If you’ve ever read my pages “Players on my Stage” or “What the Categories Mean”, you’ll have noticed that I talk a lot about Kelly as being a major contributor to who and what I am today.  The following memory is an example of why I think so.

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My cell phone vibrates beside me, the sound of plastic rattling against my wood desk drawing my attention from my writing.  I pick it up and look at the screen.  My heart skips a beat.  Slowly, almost cautiously, I flip the screen up and hold the thing to my ear.  I try to sound natural.  “Hello?”

“Hey!”  Kelly sounds happy, an uncommon occurrence since our break-up months ago.  “What are you doing?”

“Oh, writing a paper on insulin-like proteins as growth factors in fruit flies,” I respond.  It’s hard to sound nonchalant when you talk about neurobiology, but I think I pull it off nicely.  “What are you up to tonight?”

“Cleaning my house,” she answers.  “I’m trying to move my furniture around too, but my piano is too heavy.  Can you maybe come over and help me out a bit?”

She needs my help.  Figures.  “Oh, well… I’m kind of busy right now.  I have to get this paper finished before Friday so I can work on my capstone reading over the weekend, so I don’t think–”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”  Kelly’s voice takes on that tone.  Husky, almost raspy, but full of promise.  It sets my stomach turning in eager anticipation, and my breath catches.  She knows that got my attention, and I detect a hint of victorious smugness when she says, “The sooner you get here, the better.”

I swallow and find my voice again.  “I’ll be there in twenty.”

Kelly still lives in our old apartment.  I moved out when she broke up with me, but she decided to stay and “make new memories”.  I pause at the door and consider the nature of those memories.  After we parted ways, Kelly gave herself over completely to her baser instincts, not because she wanted to explore them, but, I suspected, because she wanted to hurt me.  And she did.  Often.  Calling me while she was being fucked by a stranger, just so I could hear her moaning.  Sending me pictures of her sucking another guy’s dick.  Bragging about her raunchy encounters with multiple partners when I show up at the bar, then laughing when she sees the pain on my face.  Even her best friends apologize to me for her behavior, assuring me she’s only doing it to make me suffer, and she doesn’t talk about it when I’m not around.  I know Kelly is only concerned about making me as miserable as she’s become over the past year, and I know that doing what I know will inevitably happen tonight will only drive me deeper into the ground.  Yet there I stand at the door, knocking lightly, waiting for her to appear at the door.

And when it finally opens… holy shit.

Kelly swings the door wide.  Her dark hair is pulled back into a working bun, and she has her librarian-styled reading glasses on.  And that’s it.  From head to toe, she is completely nude, and she leans against the door in such a way that every muscle in her dancer’s figure flexes tantalizingly.  She must have just shaved every inch of her body in preparation for my arrival, because her skin looks even more smooth than usual.  I can plainly see how moist and swollen she is, even from here.

“Hey there handsome,” she greets me cheerfully.  “Come on in.”

I just stand there and gawk.

Kelly quirks an eyebrow and smirks at me.  She steps out of the apartment and stands no more than an inch away from me, in clear view of anyone that might happen to walk by.  “You gonna make me stand out here naked?  Because you know I’ll do it.”

Wordlessly, I let her lead me inside.  She walks away from me, swaying her hips more than her stride would dictate.  Her ass is truly heart-shaped, toned from years of dance training, and she continues to smirk as she watches me stare at it.  “When you’re done ogling my ass, I’d appreciate it if you would move the piano so I can vacuum under it.”

I move the piano as instructed.  And the dining room table.  And the entertainment center.  And the couch.  It’s hard work by yourself, but every time I move another piece of furniture, Kelly rewards me by cleaning in the most erotic manner possible.  She pushes the vacuum farther than necessary, stretching her legs and torso, bending at the waist to give me a clear view of her pussy.  She stands almost on point to remove the cobwebs at the corners of the ceiling, her calves flexing, ass tightening, chest jutting forward.  She purposely spills water on her breasts and stomach as she washes the windows, again exposing herself to the outside world.  All the while, I watch, and work.  I feel almost drunk, my mind is so foggy, not thinking, just absorbing her every movement, her every command.

Several hours pass, and the apartment is spotless.  Kelly sighs and stretches languidly as she admires the room.  “Much better.”  Then she looks catlike toward me.  “I guess you want your reward.”

I’m so lightheaded I can’t find any words.  Kelly walks to the piano, pulls the small bench out, and straddles it.  As she spreads her legs open, her lips part, and she’s so aroused that, when she sits on the bench, she leaves behind a faint line of moisture.  She notices the line and smiles wickedly, then leans back against the piano and says, simply, “Clean that up.”

I move toward her and obediently fall to my knees before the bench.  I reach toward the moisture with my hand, but she grabs it and pushes it away.  “I didn’t say you could use your hands.”

I consider this as deeply as my befuddled brain will permit, which is to say, I don’t.  Instead, I lean my face toward the bench, no more than a breath away from her center.  I can smell her wetness, and feel the heat radiating off her.  I run my tongue across the bench, tasting first the sharp, acrid tang of polished wood, then the salty sweetness of her, the residue she left behind when she sat.  I do so slowly, not because I want to be sexy, but because my body will simply not work any faster.

I hear her say, breathlessly, “Very good.  Now clean me up.”

My face lifts, and I run my tongue across her.  I keep my hands on my knees as instructed, using only my mouth to pleasure her.  I trace the shape of her with the tip of my tongue, then lick heavily from anus to clit.  I lap up every drop of moisture she has.  And I keep going.  Heavy strokes of my tongue from bottom to top, slowly, methodically.  No variety, no deviations, I just do precisely as I’m told.  She makes no sound, no movement, nothing to suggest that she enjoys any of it.  So I am caught off guard when I feel her spasm beneath my tongue.  I look up toward her and see her eyes half-lidded, her mouth open in a wordless moan, as she cums harder than I’ve ever seen her before.  So hard she bends at the waist, curling in on herself.  So hard she even squirts a little, filling my mouth and covering my chin and shirt.  And I keep going, swallowing what she gives me as she cums again, licking her deliberately, until she finally gives in and pushes my head away from her.

Kelly breathes heavily, still leaning against the piano.  “Fuck you’re so good at that.”  I smile a little and start to remove my shirt, but she grabs my hand.

“Sorry honey, but no sex for you.  I’ve got Tony coming over in a while.  But thanks for getting me ready.”

Wait… what?

“I’ve got to take a shower.  Run along now, little doggy.”  Kelly climbs off of the bench and walks to the bathroom, leaving me sitting on the floor, covered in her juices.  I hear the shower activate and realize she’s serious.

I was right.  She just wanted to hurt me.  And she knew exactly how to do it.

I should be angry.  Fuck, I am angry.  But instead of confronting her, I simply stand up, put on my jacket, and leave the apartment.  It’s an all too familiar sensation, walking out of that place, knowing what she will be doing in a few hours, and being completely powerless to prevent myself from feeling betrayed, and used, and hurt.

“Serves you right,” I say to myself.  There is no bitterness in the words.  Only objectivity, as if I truly deserve to feel this way.  And on some level, I think I do.

The Deceptive Visage of Youth: A True Story of Perceiving Innocence Where None Exists

Because so many of the stories I’ve posted recently have been slightly romanticized, I decided to share a memory of which I am particularly ashamed.

Also, before anyone accuses me of horrible things, this is a story from several years ago, when I was still a young’un myself, before I had come to terms with my relationship and sexual issues.  Abigail and I were only a few years apart in age.  (Remember, I’m still in my 20s.)

——————————————————————————————————-

It’s just past 2:00 a.m. when I put my car into neutral and kill the engine.  I’m parked across the street from a small house in the suburbs.  I’ve never seen it before, but the address matches the number scrawled across my left palm.  The lights are off and no activity is obvious from my vantage point, suggesting the occupants have gone to bed.  Satisfied, I climb out of my car and gently close the door.  I shove my hands into my jacket and walk hastily toward the short gated fence surrounding the property.  Sure enough, the lock is open.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” I mutter as I let myself in.

I walk around to the back of the house, keeping close to the wall and ducking beneath each window, just in case someone has decided to get up for any reason.  I narrowly avoid knocking over a child’s sit-in toy truck as I make my way toward the air conditioning unit positioned a few yards from the patio.  A dim light shines through the window beside it.

“You really shouldn’t be doing this,” I repeat to myself.  I tap the window pane lightly with my knuckles and wait.  A few seconds pass, and I consider knocking again before a face appears at the window.  It slides open quietly.

“Thought you got lost,” Abigail whispers wryly.

“Almost did.”  I grip the sill and hoist myself up, through the open window and into the darkened room.  It takes my eyes a brief moment to adjust, and I find myself in what I can best describe as a kid’s bedroom.  The walls are painted light blue and decorated with various posters and art boards.  The floor is cluttered with clothes and other sundries, and the chest of drawers displays several photographs of happy young people, laughing and gallivanting as only young people can.  The only clear space is the twin bed pressed against the far corner of the room.  The decor has a very innocent feel to it, which only reinforces the wrongness of the situation to me.

“Not quite what I had expected,” I say as I take in my surroundings.

“Yeah, my parents never changed my room after I moved out,” Abigail responds.  I feel her hand on my bicep, and I turn to face her.

I’ve never seen Abigail outside of the uniform we both wear for our part-time job.  It’s an unflattering uniform that masks your body shape in loose folds and dark colors.  Now, standing in front of me in a light pink baby tee and white pajama pants, I can see she still has the unusual slenderness of youth, her frame lacking any curvature apart from the small mounds of her breasts.  Seeing her like this now, I can’t believe she’s 19.  She looks younger.  Much younger.  Closer to 16.  Her youthful appearance is reinforced by naturally blonde curls framing a face best described as cherubic–slightly chubby cheeks; light, flawless skin painted with freckles; and wide, doe-like brown eyes.

You shouldn’t be doing this, I think to myself.  You still have time to back out.  But my body doesn’t listen, and I place my hands lightly on her non-existent hips.

Abigail kisses me abruptly.  It’s a sloppy thing, not overly wet, but poorly executed, with too much pressure and none of the jaw movement one associates with a good kiss.  It’s amateurish, and I can’t get into it, but I try, for both our sakes.  Fortunately, I only have to pretend for twenty seconds or so, when she suddenly breaks the kiss and steps away from me.  She unceremoniously removes her pajamas, making no show of it whatsoever.

“You like?”  She puts her hands on her hips and stands proudly before me, totally nude and completely hairless.  Christ she looks young.  So young it makes my stomach turn into an uncomfortable knot.  I want to tell her to put her clothes back on, to just sit and talk with me for a while, or to go on a walk, or something, anything innocent.

Instead, I close the space between us, grab her about the waist, and toss her onto the bed.  She bounces and gasps, and her angelic features suddenly take on a more primal visage as she bites her lip, lying back and waiting for me.  I strip off my shirt as I approach the bed, and she wrestles with my belt unsuccessfully.  I help her along, and with my assistance she finally slips my jeans down.  I move toward the foot of the bed, prepared to go down on her first, but Abigail grabs my shoulders and pulls me on top of her.

“No, just do me,” she says.

I press myself against her and find her surprisingly wet.  Abigail is incredibly tight–definitely not virginal, but close, and despite her physical preparedness, several long moments pass before I am finally able to slip inside of her.  She gasps again, and her face tightens into a brief grimace.  We take our time, working her into it gently, and soon she is rocking her body smoothly and steadily in time with my own.  Because of her tightness, rather than pound into her, I keep my length as fully inside her as I can, a difficult proposition given that I can’t enter her completely without impacting her cervix, and even then I’m still an inch or more longer than she is deep.  But we make the most of it, rotating our hips in opposite circular motions as best we can.

I want it to feel good.  And physically speaking, it does.  Abigail’s body is supple and whip-like, with the resilience and flexibility of a sapling pine, and whatever lack of skill she displayed in the kiss is more than made up for in her sexual technique.  She touches my back lightly, tracing my spine and sending shivers throughout my body.  She kisses and licks my chest, massages the side of my neck, rubs her foot along the side of my ass and thigh.  She engages her whole body in fucking me, and I am enveloped in a complete sensory experience–the sound of her breath and whispers, the salty taste of her flesh, the smell of sweat and body, the feel of our skin and her tightness, and the sight of her beneath me, her back arched, chest out, eyes closed tightly in pleasure.

But as good as it feels, I know what I’m doing is wrong.  She is a nice girl, but she doesn’t mean anything more than that to me.  She knew that coming into this, but I can’t help feeling that I am using her, and her younger-than-she-looks appearance makes me feel even more depraved.  My stomach continues twisting into knots, but that doesn’t stop us from fucking each other for hours.

Abigail is exhausted and sprawls in her bed, physically spent, and I dress in silence while she sleeps.  I let myself out through the window, return to my car, and drive home.  It’s just after 6:00 a.m. when I arrive.  Ashley is sleeping soundly, and rather than wake her, I crack open a beer and sit on the porch.  The first hint of light has begun to creep over the horizon, and I stare at it, considering the evening’s events with equal amounts of distaste, guilt, and excitement.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” I mutter into my beer as I watch the sun rise.

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…

The Warmest of Homecomings

If you haven’t picked up on it by now, let me clue you in on a little secret: I’m pretty fucking insatiable in the sack.  Once in an evening is disappointing.  Twice is kids play.  Thrice is a good time.  Four times and I’ll be a bit tender and perhaps dehydrated, but otherwise completely functional.  Five is rare, but doable.  Six is my previous record for a single evening.

Until today.  I’m fairly certain that one more orgasm will pull my testicles clean out of my body.

I guess my conversation with Ashley must have set something off in her, because my return home has been pretty damn close to the 26-hour marathon I mentioned previously.  Oh sure, there have been breaks for a nice dinner, grocery and clothes shopping, and other mundane married activities.  But our time alone has been like fucking a totally different person.  Like the girl Ashley used to be has resurfaced, garbed in exotic lingerie and equipped with an assortment of sexual acoutrements that would make the most avid of sexual adventurers stand up and salute.

I have little more to say than that for the time being.  Ashley is on her way home from a meeting, and she says she has a surprise for me.  I don’t know what that means, but the tone of her voice has my previously exhausted boys raring for round eight.  It can’t be healthy, but fuck if I’m going to argue with it.

Additionally, following my retelling of the failed encounter with Molly, I have had a number of requests for another story of failure.  My next post will thus be a recounting of one of my more grandiose sexual faceplants.

Until then, dear readers, I’m going to go bathe in KY and wait for Ashley to come home.