Free Sex Stories: Real-life Sex Stories

Real-life stories from my life over the last twenty years or so. Some mild artistic license has been taken.

The Hammock

The hammock itself was slightly musty, and it smelled like the old house just as I remembered it: a combination of mildew, wood smoke, and spring rain. It was old wood, apple cider on the stove top, and the honeysuckle in the backyard. In the winter it was the smell of the Christmas tree, the overflowing piles of clementines, the cinnamon and cloves boiling on the wood stove, and apple pie and cheddar cheese left next to the piano for someone else to finish. As I turned and pressed my face into the fabric, a hundred other things returned in an instant.

There was the Swedish au pair who was going to teach me Swedish, and for at least two whole days I believed her. I don’t know if she taught me a damn word, but I do remember her coming to that very spot and climbing into the hammock next to me. I kissed her and she kissed me back as I unbuttoned her tiny white shorts and untucked her shirt. She muffled some sighs as she shifted next to me, and when I slid my hand inside the denim, when I finally touched that golden delicacy, I nearly stopped in my tracks, because that girl had the softest pussy I had ever felt in my entire life. It was in fact, so shocking, that I’m not sure I managed to do anything for her at all other than marvel and gawk at her, pawing all over her in disbelief.

I don’t know how long we made out, and I don’t remember much else other than the feel of her wet, slippery cunt as I slid two fingers inside her, amazed that anything could feel the way she did. I do know it didn’t happen again, and I’m sure somewhere in there I fucked it up. Maybe it was my surprise or my lack of focus, or maybe I simply didn’t ask her out again. It could be she wanted to see if I was good for anything and it turned out I wasn’t, or possibly she left and went back home the next week and I was just a memory: the boy with the roughest hands she had ever felt between her legs.

But after her, after that blurry afternoon, there was Lisa, curled up next to me in the same spot as we kissed and groped, this time, her hand in my pants as she jerked me off. We had known each other for a few years and we teased each other to no end, but never sealed the deal so to speak. Lisa was in town for two nights, and she stayed with me there, sleeping next to me in my little twin bed with my brother and father close by. But in the middle of our kissing, in the middle of what I thought might turn into something else, she whispered in my ear.

“Would you be upset if I fucked your dad? He’s hot you know. He reminds me of you, but older.”

“What the hell, Lisa?” I said, looking at her as I sat up. My hard-on was gone, and I was unsure of everything.

“I guess that’s a yes. Come on, I wasn’t that serious about it. I mean, I would totally fuck him, but I don’t think he’d do that.”

But of course, I knew better than she did on that front, and sometimes I wonder if later that night, as I lay sleeping, she crawled into his bed and took advantage of his constant willingness.  Because the truth is I’ve never met a woman my father didn’t like, and on occasion, he liked all of them at the same time. And girls my age, girls twice my age–or even ten years younger than me–never seemed to matter. Much like myself, my dad loved women and he was generally unashamed to admit it.

But Lisa and I didn’t become something, and as far as I know, she didn’t become anything with my dad either. She moved to another city, and while a few years later we hooked up once more, this time in my tiny apartment looking out over New York City, it wasn’t the same. It had nothing to do with Dad–as much as I might have tried to think it did–and instead had more to do with everything else: my inability to ask the right questions, my failure to decide on anything, and my complete cockiness in not realizing the first two.

But we had made out in the hammock, along with how many other I can’t say, and it was beautiful and it was pretty, and maybe for those moments I loved her. Even as she teased me, hell maybe because of it, I loved her because it’s how I am. I can’t kiss a person and not feel something in my chest because I’m a broken lump of heart meat that doesn’t know any better. My brain chemicals spill out the second I get that rush of desire, and I mistake those urges, those secretions, for genuine affection.

I don’t know how anyone else learned to navigate them, but I sure as hell didn’t. Instead, I embraced them as true, I dove in head first, and I broke everything without even trying.

If there’s a difference between sex and love, I wasn’t the one to discover it.

No Words For Her Lips

Why am I thinking about fucking her now? Was it the one photo I saw with the swinging breasts, the curved hips and the smile that knew things I didn’t yet know? Maybe it’s simply that nostalgia feels safer than reality, and maybe it’s that she let in parts of myself that have only grown more vibrant since that afternoon.

But on my bed, with her head back and her breasts heaving, we fucked as we screamed and moaned. She stuck one thumb into her mouth after calling me Daddy and it felt more wrong, more horrible, and oh so much hotter than anything I had ever done before. She cried as I fucked her, one hand on her throat, and we inched closer to falling off the bed without caring at all. Clenching around me, her cunt was perfection if I had been able to stop and notice, and her cries of pleasure and want mimicked my own for the first time in my life.

I don’t remember most of the details, like what her kiss tasted like or even how smooth the skin was around her sex. I don’t remember the posters on my walls or even the sheets on my bed. And I can’t recall what we did before or after that hour of sex.

But I’ll never forget her words, and I’ll never forget her glorious neck as she let her head fall over the side of the bed while begging me to fuck her harder. Her throat glistened with sweat and saliva, and her breasts shook with each thrust.

That perfect chin begged for my mouth and I have no words at all for her lips.

Falling For Piper

If it was possible to write a story of gluttony, lust, and sloth without a moralistic ending then it would be our story, because we fell into decadence without so much as a hint of guilt or a moment of regret. There were challenges as there always were, but those were born more out of our growing affection, our newfound views on the world, relationships, and sex, and the tension that new love often necessitates.

But we ate, drank, and fucked our way through the city, and those months are a blur of sex and tears interspersed with some of the most amazing meals I have ever had in my life. It wasn’t uncommon for us to order a bottle of a wine, a dozen oysters, steak au poivre, a bucket of mussels, and possibly a scotch for my dessert and a creme brulee for hers. We ate at Minetta Tavern, at The Mermaid Inn, and at Lucky Strike. We found every decent lobster roll in the city, and we drank ice cold martinis and ate Malpeques for brunch on cold Sunday afternoons. We sat in front of the wood burning stove at McSorley’s and she danced on the bar of Doc Holidays on Halloween. And then, without exception, we were back at my place, our bodies covered in sweat as we fucked and made love on my bed.

It may be that the sex is what brought us closest, although the oysters orchestrated it. For some reason I can’t actually explain, except to say we were both tired from hiding, we were suspiciously honest with each other when it came to what we liked. It helped that we shared some context–I had seen her play at parties and she had read my books–but we opened up to each other over and over again, laying our souls bare in ways neither one of us had done before. The physical things were both the easiest and the most complicated, at least for me, but the things that went through our heads were more precious. Our deepest fantasies, from age play and incest to cuckolding and humiliation, we shared it all, and not once did one of us turn away in disgust. In fact, the simple conversation often led to another round of hot sex followed once more by the open window and the red-tipped cigarette hanging from my lip as we looked out over the city wondering how life could be so painfully and blissfully complicated at the same time.

I tend to believe that most issues surrounding sex have to do with honesty, and it always begins with ourselves. If I can’t accept the things that turn me on, there is no way I’ll be able to share them with a partner. And if my own desires make me so uncomfortable I have to erase my browser history the second I come, then how can I possibly ask for what turns me on? The challenge is, of course, the fear that they might say no. Or even worse, that that look of love and respect we have come to rely on might suddenly be replaced by disgust or revulsion. What if, instead of looking at me with want and lust in her eyes, she gets up from the bed and lights her own cigarette as she shakes her head at me? That’s fucked up, she might say on a bad day, or simply, I’m sorry I’m not into that, on a good one.

And maybe if we learned early on to deal with that type of rejection it would be a different story. Maybe if we learned from an early age that it was okay to like things that other people didn’t, it would be a different game, but as it is, my desire to be agreeable almost always outshines my desire to have my own needs met.

But whether out of exhaustion, grief, or simply no longer having the energy to deny ourselves, we poured out our wants into each other’s waiting and eager minds and it worked. Oh glorious gods and mythical angels did it fucking work…

Loving Her More

Photo by Guy New York

“Is she prettier than I am?” she asked, her lip trembling at the question.

This was a new game for us, but I knew the answer the second she asked it. I had asked her the same thing, albeit with different words, for a long time. I knew how she felt asking, and I could feel that perfect combination of fear and excitement about to explode.

“Of course she is,” I whispered, my fingers between her legs and my mouth against her cheek. “But it’s not just that. She’s pretty of course, but she’s also so much sweeter than you. She’s tender and kind, and she doesn’t fuck anyone who asks. Unlike some filthy girls I know.”

“I’m sorry,” she moaned, clenching around my fingers before letting me roll her to her stomach. “Do you like fucking her more than me?”

That last question slipped out through gritted teeth as if she could prepare for the answer. Even as I pressed against her, teasing her with the possibility that I might refrain, I knew she was bracing for my words as much as anything else.

“She’s so much tighter,” I said, pushing inside her in an instant. “She feels amazing when I fuck her, not like this filthy cunt. She cries and kisses me, but it doesn’t matter. I know that she belongs all to me, not like you. I know that she’s my good girl until the slut I’m fucking now.”

“Please,” was all she could say, her sobs real as I pushed deeper inside her until she cried out. I wrapped one arm around her throat as I fucked her harder, and for a moment there were no more words left. She clenched around me even as her tears flowed, and I didn’t stop. I squeezed tighter, I thrust harder, and then I said the words that would end it all.

“She’s prettier and she’s tighter, but there’s more,” I said, feeling her push closer to the edge with each moment.

“What else,” she begged, her fingers between her legs as well, rubbing her clit with a ferocity I hadn’t seen in days. “Please tell me. Please say it.”

“It’s not just that she’s prettier and more innocent. It’s not just that she’s all mine and I love fucking her more than any girl I’ve ever met. It’s not just that she’s sweeter than you.”

“Please,” she cried once more as I found myself also on the edge. There was no point in holding back anything at all.

“I also love her so much more,” I said, and we were done. I came quickly and fiercely as her fingers worked harder and faster, her own orgasm tearing through her body in wave after wave of relief. I pressed down against her, the weight of my body pinning her to the bed even as I released my grip around her neck. She shook and cried as we came, and I wrapped my arms around her without hardly moving at all.

And then I was kissing her hair and holding her with all the affection in the world. She turned and kissed me too, whispering words of thank you as I stopped myself from apologizing. I held her as I choked on the words that I was tempted to say, forcing myself to remember it was just a game.

“I love you more than I can ever say. You know that, right?” I kissed her nose and then held her to my chest. She was warm and still trembling, but she didn’t move for a long time.

“I know,” she said when she finally looked up. “After that, how could I not believe you?”

First Times

naked girl in socks and panties

Photo by Guy New York

I was going to college and I had only had sex with one person.

To be fair, Kelly and I had fucked, sucked, and blown each other’s minds a thousand times in the three months we were sleeping together. Okay, if I’m honest, I think she was most likely blowing my mind, and not just because we were young and I wanted her. In fact, I had spent the previous summer not fucking D because… Well, because I didn’t know how to bring up the idea of a condom.

I wasn’t a kid that was ready for sex at an early age. Sure, I was fascinated by it, interested in every dirty pictures, movie, or magazine I could get my hands on, but it wasn’t the same thing as being ready for it. I’m not really sure how I knew, but I waited and waited, never asking and turning it down when the opportunity presented itself. To be fair, D and I got naked almost every day that summer, and we got each other off in a hundred other ways but never once did I actually put my cock inside her. From my seat here in the present, it’s easy to say if you’re not ready to talk about condoms then don’t have sex, and I suppose I’m lucky I at least partially understood that then too.

But Kelly was my first, and I was hers, and most of what I remember is the sex. Which is maybe why it didn’t work out, and maybe why it lasted as long as it did. At the time I would have told you I was in love and I would have meant it. And let’s just say that I was because Kelly was the smartest, prettiest, sexiest manic pixie dream girl you could ever imagine. She makes every movie dream girl look like a parody, and yet for some reason, she wanted me. After the first time, which was more challenging and painful than anything else, we settled into a routine of sorts, if you can call constant sex a routine at all.

We fucked after school on my bed while my mother worked outside one floor below the open window, we fucked in cars–front seat and back–and we fucked on her couch, my father’s bed, and in the shower. And maybe we learned something, and maybe we didn’t, other than that we both loved sex. We both loved the excitement that came from being unable to wait, and we both thrived on the need to open our mouths against skin and part thighs and lips all the same.

But it’s a rare young love that has a joyful ending, and while ours went with more of a fizzle than an explosion, it ended all the same. It ended with a suspicious lack of phone calls and an overwhelming desire for everyone else. And maybe that’s how young love goes and maybe it was simply that I waited until it was already too late. Once I had a taste of sex and love and love and sex, I needed more of both, and I wasn’t present enough, or smart enough, to articulate it.

But those long spring afternoons of fucking and kissing Kelly, her jet black hair in my face as I braced myself on elbows, still come to mind on warm days in June. Her mischievous grin, her raised skirt, and her warm lips still bring me back in an instant to the end of whatever innocence we shared, and for that I’m grateful.

I was going to college, and I had only had sex with one person. But of course, summer was only beginning and there were so many mistakes left to make…

A Phone Call From Sarah

Sometimes I think that my memory doesn’t work the same way as other people’s.  Even though my last relationship had ended six months earlier – with weeks of tears and nervous breakdowns – I didn’t remember it that way.  To be honest I didn’t remember it much at all.  I was moving on with my life and enjoying myself.  I didn’t keep myself awake at night wondering where she was or what she was doing.  I didn’t worry when I walked into a bar we used to visit that I might run into her.  My mind seemed to have simply moved on and I was happy with where I was.

I hadn’t been dating anyone since the break-up and I was in a good place.  I didn’t feel rushed to find someone, and I didn’t feel the urge to be out playing the field.  I looked forward to slow dinners and I enjoyed spending time with my friends.

This was promising to be a lovely evening.  I had three friends over, a couple bottles of wine and absolutely nothing to do but enjoy a long relaxing dinner and good conversation.  We had moved a table out onto the back porch and were enjoying our supper in the cool night breeze of early summer; it was perfect.

As we sat and talked after the meal I heard the phone ring from inside the house and slowly moved to answer it.  I was surprised when I heard her voice on the other end of the phone, but somehow it almost seemed normal to me.

“Hi, ” she said in a soft whisper.

“Hi Sarah,” I replied.  “Um, how are you?”

“I’m ok I suppose.  I had a late night yesterday and I think I’m still recovering.”

She was good at getting me to ask the right questions.  I hadn’t spoken to her in months and here I was slipping right into it.  What did I have to loose?

“A late night?  Anything fun?”

“Yeah,” she whispered again in a tone that brought back all sorts of memories.  “I went out with Jen to this bar in the city.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It was ok.  She had some friends there who she wanted me to meet.”

“Sounds like a good time,” I said, unsure as to where she was going and why she was calling me.  

“I met a guy there,” she said.  

This wasn’t a strange thing for Sarah.  She often met guys and she was a good flirt.  She was pretty and friendly and although she would never admit it she was smart and sexy as well.  She was also sweet and cautious, though.  We dated for months before we slept together and while she wasn’t standoffish she preferred moments that were meaningful to those she called “earthy.”

“That’s great Sarah, “ I said.  And then for some reason that I can’t remember I added, “Did anything happen?”

“Yeah,” she said in a voice I almost couldn’t hear.  

It was then that I was stuck.  I had been about to get off the phone to return to my dinner, but she hooked me.  I wanted to know.  I wanted to know what possibly could have happened on one night at a bar with a complete stranger; I wanted to know how much she would tell me.  

“What did you do?”  

It was my turn to whisper.  

“It was after we left.  A group of us went to find a diner.”

“Ok,” I said, unsure what else to say.

“I didn’t have any money though and so I told them I needed to stop at an ATM.  Miguel said he’d come with me just to make sure I was ok.  He said it was late and I shouldn’t go in by myself.”

“Miguel is the guy’s name?” I asked her.

“Uh-huh.”

“What happened then?”

“Well, we found a bank on the way to the diner and he told the others we’d be right there.  I swiped my card at the door and we walked in.

As I stood there at the machine I could feel his body right behind me.”

“Was he touching you?”

“Yes. His hands were on my hips and he was slowly pulling me towards him and pushing against me at the same time.  He started to move my hair away from my ear as I pressed the buttons trying to concentrate, and he started to kiss my ear.”

“Keep going,” I whispered.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“I finally got my money and he turned my head enough to kiss me.  His hands were on my head and he turned me around, pulling me against him.  I could feel him hard against me and he lifted me up against the machine.

“His hands were pulling at my skirt; lifting me onto the small counter.  He moved his hands up under my skirt and started to pull my underwear down off of my hips as he held me there.  It all seemed so quick; he was just kissing me and then my underwear was around my ankles”

“What did you do?” I asked her – almost afraid of what she would say.

“I undid his jeans,” she whispered again.  She was silent for a moment and all we could hear was our breathing in the phone; stronger and faster.  “Then I pulled his cock out and held it in my hand.”

Pause.  

“He was so hard and so big.  He was still kissing my mouth and my neck as I pulled him towards me.  He moved forward and held me there until I could feel him touching me.”

“I can’t believe you’re telling me this.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Silence.

“No.”

“I can’t believe I did it. I just wrapped my arms around his neck and pushed my hips forward.  He was so hard and I was so wet that he slid right into me.  Oh my God.  He was inside me so quickly and he filled me up so much.  I was kissing him and he was pushing into me; fucking me so hard against the ATM.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said.  “Didn’t anyone walk by?”

“Yeah.”

“Really? People saw you? Did they do anything?”

“A couple guys stopped.  They watched us for a moment and then kept walking.  One girl stopped too and was watching us but then he moved me.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, almost irritated.

“He turned me around and I couldn’t see her anymore.  He leaned me over the machine with my face in the camera, then he lifted up my skirt.  My god, it felt like hours before he slid inside of me again.  

I couldn’t move or say anything but he started to fuck me faster and faster from behind, pushing deeper inside of me. He didn’t even touch me, and after only minutes I started to cum.  I was trying to hold myself up against the ATM and his huge cock was pushing into me from behind.  I was screaming in the tiny room and I couldn’t stand it.  I was shaking and moaning as he fucked me and I think I came harder than I ever have.”

“Ever?” I whispered.

“Yeah,” she said.

Another pause.

“Did he come too?” I asked.

“Uh-huh,” she replied.

“Inside you?”

“Yes.  He just pushed into me and kept cumming. I could feel him pulsing inside me and I squeezed him as tight as I could as he filled me. His hands were pulling on my hips and he was so deep inside of me. Then he kissed the back of my neck. Just for a moment. I felt him pull out and he kissed me again, moving my hair out of the way.  

I couldn’t move, so I stood there. My panties were on the floor and my skirt was still up over my ass so anyone could see. I looked over my shoulder and the girl was still there. Then I turned back and tried to catch my breath.”

“Wow.” I stammered. “I can’t believe you did that Sarah.”

“He left after that.” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Once I caught my breath I realized that he wasn’t behind me anymore. I turned around and saw the door closing behind him. I left my underwear there on the floor and ran out onto the sidewalk but he wasn’t there.”

“Jesus! Were you mad?”

“No. I got what I wanted.”

“Um listen, Sarah, I gotta get back to my friends, but if you want to talk more you can call me back later.”

“Yeah. No, don’t worry about it. Thanks for listening. Goodnight. Pleasant dreams.”

I could hear her smile.

And then I was back on the porch with a strange look in my eyes. I had been gone for a couple of moments but no one really seemed to have noticed. I looked for signs that things were strange or that someone might understand what I had just heard. Nothing.

I picked up my glass of wine. I took a long slow sip and finished it off.

“Hey, who was that, “ Marcus asked me.

“It was Sarah.”

“Really? What did she want?”

“She wanted to tell me that she fucked some stranger in an ATM booth in Manhattan last night.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yup.”

“Huh. That’s odd. Doesn’t sound like Sarah?”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Do you want another glass of wine?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

“So anyway,” Marcus continued. “It was a good movie, but I still didn’t like the ending.”

Grown-up Sex (Erotica from QNY)

“What the fuck is grown-up sex?”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled, trying to wrap my mind around the words I was hunting for. “I just mean we should fuck like adults. Without the… You know… Without the stuff…”

“We should fuck without the stuff?” she asked skeptically.

The night was not going as I had planned, but maybe that was part of it. Grown-up sex meant we talked even when it wasn’t easy and it meant we didn’t get exactly what we wanted. We were adults and we understood sacrifice and delayed gratification. We knew that every relationship was a complicated dance of compromise, emotional navigation, and empathy; sex was no exception. Consent meant we talked through everything no matter what that felt like. It meant we worked out the logistics and settled into the necessity of agreement. We were adults, and we could fuck like adults.

“You know what I mean,” I finally said.

“You mean grown-up sex is negotiated?” she whispered, moving until she knelt over me. She reached down between my legs and took me gently in her hand. I nodded in affirmation.

“Grown-up sex is something we talk about and don’t jump into without consent?” she asked, squeezing harder as I wiggled beneath her. Somehow the blankets were gone and her thumb was doing something to the head of my cock that made me lose focus.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “All of that.”

“It’s dignified,” she whispered, as I arched my back in frustration each time she let go. “It’s safe and it’s beautiful. Grown-up sex is neat and tidy and it doesn’t leave room for mistakes.”

“I mean, I don’t know about all that…” I said as she moved up until she was just inches away from my mouth.

“It’s clean and it’s sober and it’s all about taking care of each other,” she whispered, lowering herself down until all I could do was open my mouth. With fingers in my hair, she pulled me to her, my lips and tongue opening her as she pulled harder and didn’t let go.

“It’s kind and it’s polite, isn’t that right you filthy little slut?”

My hand was on my cock and the other on her ass as every word I had struggled to grasp left me in an instant. My body was so hard it nearly hurt, and all I could think about was how badly I wanted to fuck her where my mouth was. All I wanted was to fill her, fuck her, and finish inside her, and there wasn’t a damn thing else that mattered.

I rolled her to her back with a squeal, and she bit my lip in reply to my kiss. In less than a second I was in her and her legs were wrapped around my back as we fucked on the bed without any words at all. One hand pinned her arms above her head as the other moved to her throat, and her eyes opened wide in amazement and surprise. Her hips arched up against mine as I thrust harder and faster, and for a brief moment the only thing I wanted, the only thing that mattered at all, the only thing in the entire world that I needed, was to come until I couldn’t see, and nothing was going to hold me back.

“Fuck me!” she screamed as her nails raked my back and my fingers clenched tighter. She choked and she coughed, her face turning red in an instant, and then we were both shaking as we came, and the waves rolled through us again and again. I kissed her lips, my breath lost with every thing else, and she held me tightly, her spasms still holding me inside of her.

“Was that what you meant?” she finally asked, letting me roll to one side. All I could do was shake my head.

“Not at all,” I said, kissing her nose as I brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “It was so much better…”

Thinking of Cars

I’m thinking back to cars and making out in the dark with that hint of fear always stuck in my throat.

There was a view where we parked even though her dad was on patrol, and I went down on her even though it meant scrunching my body up like a slinky on the floor of the passenger seat. She tasted like olives, and I was so scared I stayed hard for days.

By the river, we could sit without being bothered, but the car fogged up so quickly it didn’t matter. Her hand in my pants was the furthest we ever went, but my god did we kiss and wasn’t that often enough?

Once, on a long ride north, she wore a transparent shirt with no bra and as the truckers slowed down to watch she lifted it for them again and again as I struggled to stick to the road. After an hour of teasing, she pulled me from my jeans and took me into her mouth, her ass in the air as she fingered herself on the dark highway. The cars honked, the air-horns sounded, and I came in her mouth for the first time in a year.

But of course, the one moment I can’t push away no matter hard I try came months after it ended. The cars all along the cliff’s edge were all busy doing the same thing, and the second we stopped we were on each other, tearing at clothes without taking anything off. I lay her back, her jeans around her ankles as I found my way between her thighs, my cock entering her like we were made for one another. And even later, with faces peering in the window, we never stopped.

It was over, we were done, and yet for that moment, nothing else mattered. Hell, maybe for the first time in all the time we were together, nothing mattered at all, and we screamed out into the night as tourists surrounded us, watching the young couple fuck through steamed up windows until our bodies convulsed in one final release of too many things.

And now I’m thinking of cars, and her, and of love that was too afraid not to get in its own way. I’m remembering vinyl seats, a few broken promises, and years and years of forgiveness. I’m remembering the cracked window and her voice in my ear telling me not to stop even though she doesn’t love me.

A Love Fetish

Photo by The Dirty Gentleman

Photo by The Dirty Gentleman

“I have a bit of a love fetish.”

I took a sip of scotch and slipped my hand into hers between our bar stools.  She looked up at me with a smile, and I brushed her hair behind a perfect ear and kissed her on the cheek.

“How does it work?”

“It’s simple really.  You convince me you love me and I’ll come like a librarian on Henry Miller. Come home with me, kiss me softly, and tell me you’ll be there forever. “

“That’s it?” I asked.

“It helps if I know I won’t see you again.”

An hour later we were half way through a bottle of Sin Zin, and I had been trying to tell her for at least thirty minutes.  She asked me again what I wanted to say and I leaned in closely and finally whispered it in her ear. She was kissing me before I said “you” and I kissed her back without constraint.

I actually carried her to her bedroom and undressed her slowly marveling each time something dropped to the floor.  I kissed her neck and told her she was perfect.  I circled a nipple gently with my thumb until she moaned into my ear and asked me what I wanted.  I responded by pulling her body against mine and pressing myself between her thighs.

“Tell me something,” I whispered as I rubbed myself against her.  “Do you love me?  Do you really love me, because I can’t imagine being apart from you?”

“I just met you,” she said.

“And I feel like I’ve known you forever. You’re beautiful and brilliant, and you make me feel safer than I have in years.”

She just kissed me and pulled me close to her.  She screamed when I entered her and told me to go slowly.  I whispered I love you over and over again in her ear as I slowly moved inside of her.  I told her ridiculous things as we made love on her bed, and I honestly don’t remember half of them.  I would take her away and marry her.  We would raise children together in the south of France and nothing would come between us.

As she got close she stopped me and looked up into my eyes.  I stayed perfectly still, our bodies still connected, as I looked down into her eyes.  Finally she pulled me to her once against and told me she loved me too.  As the words came out of her mouth her body began to shake and tremble and she tightened around me over and over again.  She kissed me painfully hard and wrapped her arms tightly around me and wouldn’t let me go.

Hours later I asked her if I could see her again.

“Of course not. We’re already in love,” she replied.  “What else is left to do?”

 

Lucky’s and No Condom

lucky_strike_loweyFor many years I required everything to be clean.

I’m not sure when or how it happened, but I viewed it as growing up. The holes in my jeans vanished and the distance between haircuts grew shorter. I learned to favor cocktails with just two or three ingredients, and that included the brandied cherry at the bottom of the glass. I longed for smooth pussies that had been carefully shaved until I could run my tongue along a new landscape of tender skin, and even on the loudest occasions we mostly came in the dark.

I like to think I got dragged along by the rest of the world. We cleaned up Time Square, we stripped at airports, and we emptied our parks and riverbanks all in the name of feeling safe. I moved into nicer bars, steadier relationships, and made every effort not to come in her hair. Each day I felt safer and less at risk, but my anxiety broke free every six months forcing me into a huddled ball of tears. Maybe it’s the price we pay for progress.

And then one day we left the rooftop bar with disgust on our lips. We found the street, but even that wasn’t enough. The park let us touch the earth and we broke our cold plastic nicotine devices in half and chain-smoked Lucky Strikes until our lungs hurt. We stayed in bed for a week and didn’t shave an inch of skin until our bodies looked real once more. We grunted as we fucked and forgot about the neighbors for the first time in years. Even alone, I moved the tissues from the bedside table and stared at my cock when I came on my stomach.

When I finally felt stubble between her legs I lost control, and pulled her into the closest bathroom. I dropped to my knees, pulled down her jeans, and ate her pussy like it was the first time. She pulled my hair, thrust against my mouth, and forced my tongue and lips where she needed them most. She drenched my face when she came, and we didn’t turn on the faucet before walking back into the bar, alive for the first time in ages.

When we got home later that night we fucked on the bed with the lights on and the door open. We both soaked the sheets, and for days I could smell my come on her body. We made noises, messes and mistakes, and our rebirth was imperfect.

Outside of our carefully wrought shell the world was frightening again and everything was uncertain.

 

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The Dirtiest Book in the World

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