This is a blog that, in part, documents specific spots around Portland OR that are either conducive to, or antethical to, getting laid. Be you man or woman, be you looking for cock or cunt. Doesn't matter. I've been all of the above (sort of), and I'm looking for all of the above. I'm all about equal opportunity.

The other part of the website is just an excuse for me to talk in graphic detail about my sex life and the sex lives of those around me. Portland is a hedonistic motherfucking town, and it likes it's booze and booty. I'll be creating search terms and tags as I go, but for now I'm just going to blog spot by spot, as I go there. You can run a search for a place you're headed to, or run a search for what you're looking for (like, you know, anal sex). Some of these posts are going to be ridiculously explicit. Not all of them, but some of them. Just as a heads up...

Saturday, April 9, 2016

The Hound

Why are so many of our hottest memories also our most sordid? I don't get off on sordid, don't revel in the discomfort of less than honorable circumstances and motives.
But, oh. Yes. There are some wonderfully sordid moments circulating in my brain, bubbling to the surface at the oddest moments.

Like this morning, after having woken from a dream about killing a large man and trying to hide his body in a wealthy friends shower. The dream was just a constant romp of ridiculous shenanigans, plus the truly disturbing graphically intense moment of having killed a man. I woke up shaking my head at myself, but also pretty turned on. Which got me thinking about the nature of sordid, about the arousals that even the most jaded of socially functioning human beings are at least slightly ashamed of. Which got me thinking about E.

E was a rock star. He wasn't an honest to god rock star, but he was close. He was the lead singer in a heavy metal band that played up and down the West Coast on a regular basis. The band was well known in California, but less so in Portland. So, when they played a show in Portland, it wasn't as packed. I don't remember my introduction to them, don't remember how I started talking to them. But after a couple of shows, I was inviting them to stay at my place. This was something I did quite often. I love music, love musicians, and always had plenty of space. I've had a number of bands crash on my couches and spare bedrooms over the years. Mostly all it took was chatting and offering free room and board if needed. There's a middle ground of musicians, those who make money on tour but not much, and who mostly do it for the love of performance. Those folks tend to greatly appreciate the offer of space and food. In return, I had some of the best impromptu backyard fire concerts EVER.

These folks, in this band, quickly became regulars at my house. When they came through Portland, if it was at all feasible, I offered them a place to crash. And more often than not, they took me up on it.

The lead singer was an incorrigible flirt. I suppose that's probably true of every lead singer ever. But this one flirted with me, and that was certainly not true of every lead singer ever. I was generally in a relationship when I saw him, but he flirted anyways, aggressively. He was actually the first guy I smacked in the face (who hadn't asked for it, explicitly) since 9th grade, for his boundary hopping ways. I was both flattered and disgusted by his flirting. He was married, to a woman I'd never met. She did not come on tour with them, a fact which did not surprise me. I wondered if they had an open relationship, but heard that they did not. Not an honestly open one, at least.

So, he disgusted me. He was dishonorable and dishonest, two qualities romance novels had taught me were not sexually appealing.

Unfortunately, said romance novels had not gone into the specifics of what to do when said dishonorable cad looked so fucking good in black leather pants and no shirt. What to do when half the time you wanted to laugh as he was hitting on you, not gasp in horror. Someone who can make you laugh is all too often someone who can make you cum, in my experience. Something to do with the nature of the physiological aspects of the emotions behind amusement and arousal. Yes. That sounds official and right. Sure.
Anyways. He made me laugh half the time, when he was hitting on me in front of my boyfriends. He was one of those rare dudes who can assuage ruffled male feathers while stroking the female feathers, so he never actually got acknowledged as competition by my lovers. Another danger. It's sad, how often I found myself taking my queues of who was dangerous from the men in my life, based on jealousy and possessiveness. I had so little understanding of own sexuality and attractiveness for a very long time, so it took a lover becoming jealous for me to realize that someone was trying to hit on me. When a lover didn't become jealous, it must mean that someone wasn't hitting on me seriously, they must not really mean it.
Which means that E flew under the radar for years. He flirted outrageously, but he must not have meant it, must not have been truly attracted to me.

The night I found out how wrong I was in that assumption was a good night.

I was single for once, while his band was in town. I had just recently broken up with a long term boyfriend, and was thoroughly enjoying my freedom. I had recently had my eyes wrenched open regarding the overwhelming power of my sexuality, and OH I was reveling in it. And, I found out, E was single too. Sort of. He and his wife had divorced. Finally. I felt a little frisson when I heard that. What I didn't hear, though, was that he'd immediately started seriously dating someone else. Someone I knew. And liked. A lot. Just in case this story starts to sound less sordid. He was still a giant, cheating, dishonorable dick. I didn't know it at the time, but I still masturbate to the memories of what we did together, so...

Anyways. The band was staying at my house. It was late fall, and beautiful in the way that only the PacNW can be beautiful in November. Looming months of rain makes every moment of sunshine intensely poignant. And it had been a sunny, warm week. The night they were leaving was warm and clear. We had a party in my backyard, with a huge fire, lots of whiskey, and lots of music. It had been a phenomenal night. They were tired but amped from a great show, so the after party was full of loopy, drunk, happy people. Including me. I was on FIRE. It was 3am on a Friday night and my backyard was full of talented, happy performers. And I'd gotten laid that morning, by a handsome stranger. And again in the afternoon, by another handsome stranger. I was drunk on sex more than whiskey, drunk on endorphins.
Whatever I was drunk on, it dulled my senses to the point where I didn't realize there was a far sharper, more intent vibe to the flirting E was doing with me that night. Looking back on it now, I see a predatory glint in his eye, see the possessive circling and touching that declares intent. But in the moment, I had no fucking idea.

So when he came back outside after everyone else had gone in, I was completely unsuspecting. I was sitting on the porch, with my legs off the edge and my head against a rail, watching the last of the fire die. It was almost dawn, and it was fucking gorgeous out. I didn't want to sleep. Everyone else was bedding down, so the house was full of the last minute noise of a large group of people scrambling for the bathroom first, brushing their teeth in the kitchen sink, and tired, drunk laughter. But the backyard was quiet. E came and stood next to me. I remember looking up, and up, past long legs in leather pants. And he was looking down at me, and his face was sharp angles, drawn with desire, a look I'd recently come to truly appreciate. I remember just kind of accepting. Looking up at his face, I felt a part of myself slip away, and another part of myself open up. He leaned down and kissed me. He hopped off the porch to stand in front of me, and kissed me again, moving in to stand between my legs, pushing them open with his hips. He tasted like whiskey and cigarettes, like hedonism. He grabbed my hand and pulled it forward to rest against his cock. I left it there while he kept kissing me, passively feeling it pulse against my palm. The acceptance I'd fallen into created a bubble of passivity. Whatever happened next, I wasn't going to be the one to initiate it. But I was going to go along with whatever was suggested. When he climbed back up next to me to stand over me, and pulled out his cock, an oh so subtle suggestion, I leaned forward and opened my mouth, looking up at him. The moment his cock touched my tongue, I lost a little bit of that passivity. He tasted good. He tasted like leather and sweat and pheromones. I'd been wanted to taste him for a long time, and hadn't known it. So I sucked him down, put my hands on his thighs, and blew him. He was an intense, interactive lover. His hands were on my head, his legs were bent, and he was gently rocking into my mouth. He whispered things, words that I didn't hear, swears and grunts and endearments. We were in full view of the back door, and I knew that someone could have come out at any moment. A last cigarette before bed was a very likely possibility. And I was slightly ashamed of giving this guy a blowjob in my backyard. This person I'd rebuffed so hard for so long, and now I was just giving in. I knew exactly what I was doing, knew he was weak and sensual and really not a very good human being. It was sordid in that moment, but it was also hot. Not because he was weak, but because I was strong. Sucking his dick down, hands clenching and unclenching against his rocking thighs... I was happy. I could have sucked him for hours. But he pulled himself out of my mouth, clenching my hair in his hand, ran his cock around my wet lips while looking down at me and smiling. He dropped from the porch and then pulled me down, and around to the side of the house. It was dark, but just under a window to a room full of people. He turned me around and pushed me up against the side of the house. He leaned in against me, with his chest heavy against my back, and lifted my skirt. His thighs made their way in between mine, pushing my legs wider apart, as his hips rocked against my ass. We stayed like that for a minute, his full body up against mine, pushing me hard enough to make me want to push back. I heard his zipper going down, then the rip of a condom wrapper (thank god. Passivity can be a very dangerous thing when it comes to ensuring your own safety and sexual autonomy). He stayed pushed hard against me, and slid his cock up into my cunt, smooth as silk. He hadn't once touched my pussy, or my breasts. Or, really, any part of my body that didn't immediately affect him. At the time, I took it for confidence, knowledge that I was already wet and ready for his big dick. Now I recognize it as a complete lack of giving a shit. Which is a little hot, in a sordid sort of way....

Once he was inside me, he stayed there for a moment. I knew he was savoring his victory over me, savoring the knowledge that he was fucking me after I'd said no so many times. But I really didn't care. I wanted movement, wanted to come, but didn't want to be responsible for it. So I made a frustrated sound instead of moving like I wanted to, and he responded with a hard thrust. I cried out, he clamped his hand over my mouth, and we were off to the races.
I don't think I'd ever fucked anyone with such a well defined V before. That lovely V, which signifies the kinds of muscles you want working in your favor as they piston a beautiful cock in and out of your body endlessly. He kept his pace slow but hard, each thrust hitting the end of my cunt, tickling my cervix. I came quickly, the feel of his fingers gouging into my cheeks as I screamed against his palm exacerbating my orgasm, dragging it out of me and extending it to a frightening degree. He grunted a loud FUCK behind me as he came shortly after. He stayed pressed to my back for a heartbeat, panting heavily and smiling so gleefully I could feel it burning against my skin.

I felt nothing but peace. No shame, no regret. I was calm and happy. When he pulled out of me with a wet pop, I giggled. But that was the only sound I made. I hadn't spoken once, the whole time, and I continued not speaking. I patted my skirt down after he pulled away from my back, turned around and walked away. We went inside separately. At the time I just assumed it was respectful to me, but in reality it was because he was dating a bandmate. Douchenozzle.

The next morning, they all trooped out of my house early, on their way to a long ride home. He and I ignored each other, except for a quick wink in acknowledgement. I kissed everyone on the cheek and sent them on their way, feeling pretty fucking amazing for having had almost no sleep. Sex will do that to you, good or not.

It's funny, thinking about how little attention he paid to my tits when he finally had a chance to play with them. It took me a while to recognize the power play dynamics involved in our interaction, to recognize my arousal at the idea of winning, in the face of his own arousal over winning. It took me even longer to see my unhealthy obsession with proving"them" wrong, proving to myself that they had no real control over my desire, no real power over me.

In spite of the complexity of our interaction, in spite of (maybe because of) all the bullshit involved in my decision to passively let him fuck me, it's still one of my favorite memories. The darkness and fun and sheer sensuality of the entire experience makes it excellent memory fueled masturbation fodder.

Sunday, June 22, 2014


I wish these stories were easier for me to write. I have the basics of many of them already recorded. Times and places where I met the people I've met, impressions of hotels and bars, the bare bone memory of each man and woman.

But each memory is suffused with sex and sensory impressions. And I have to be in a certain place in my mind in order to access those realities. It's not just a matter of writing out the As, Bs, and Cs of each encounter. It's pulling the encounter out into the forefront of my mind, and falling back into it. Remembering the smell of their sweat and the taste of their skin. The way their arm hair tickled my thigh, the annoying habit they had of biting me at juuuuuust the wrong moment.

Each story, when I write it out, gets to be lived again. I turn myself on, writing these stories, remembering these people and how much pleasure we gave each other. And that lust, those emotions, are what make my stories readable. They're not perfect, but they're very, very real. And hopefully relatable. When I try and write the stories without the full memory in my mind, they come out tawdry and barren. The sex is one dimensional, the people boring.

So, the stories are few and far between. When I'm not writing them, it's because my life isn't reflecting this reality at the moment. That will change, sooner or later, and I will go back to reveling in the sensuality of each memory. And create more and more new ones, like the beautiful boy on Amtrak.

Monday, February 24, 2014

The Coastal Starlight (aka Thanks, Amtrak!)

This post brought to you by the letter K. And a postmodern remix of Lady Gaga's Just Dance, done in the style of a 1940s Jazz standard. Srsly. It's fucking amazing. Postmodern Jukebox. Check them out.
Also. Amtrak.

Not many people take trains for extended trips anymore. It just takes too long for most folks. 30 hours to get to a destination you could get to in 2 hours on a plane? Who the fuck would do that? And WHY?

Well, I would. Because it's AWESOME, that's why. I've taken the train across country, from Portland to Boston, 6 times. And from Portland to Southern California twice. Now, a big part of the reason I think it's awesome is because I am an inherently lazy human being. I kind of adore sitting down and watching the world swirl past me. I do it all the time. People watching is pretty much TV for the smart but lazy person. I take it a little further. I'm an anything watcher. I'll sit and watch ducks on a pond, birds in a tree, cats on a porch, dogs in a yard, leaves in a stream... you get the idea. As long as there's motion for my eyes to follow, and action for my mind to analyze, I can sit for hours and watch it happen. I'm a voyeur, watching the world through shuttered eyes in the dimly lit room of my mind, breathing heavy and masturbating furiously while objects innocently wander past my peepholes. "Oh yeah. Ignore her body language while having what you think is a simple disagreement and she thinks is an argument worthy of breaking up with you. That's right. Look confused, try and touch her arm after saying something derogatory about her mother. OH YEAH. There's her look of disdain. OH YEAH. Crossed arms! UUUUUUGGGGGHHHH..."

So, the train represents however many hours of world watching I want. Comfortable (relatively) seats with a giant window to lean your head against, plenty of room in front of you to put your feet up, and the ability to bring your own food... it's like a picnic at 70 miles an hour, with a constantly shifting landscape to stare out at. The train tends to go through the backyards of America, and backyards are intimate, vulnerable places. Nobody expects the world to see their backyard. They tend to be fenced in, and accumulate the reality of whoever lives in the house. But we, the voyeurs on the train, we get to see your backyard. And if the rest of them are anything like me, we're all analyzing the shit out of it. So if you live with a train track behind you? Just remember, someone is always watching...

The train is also a truly fertile ground for people watching. You're generally stuck with the same 300 some odd people until the end of your destination. Some of them get off, some of them get on. But you're going to see the same people over and over for quite a while. In a tiny setting, too. You're in a 12ft wide tube. And you have to walk up and down it to get to the bathrooms and lounge car, observation car, and diner. Everyone watches everyone else. Walking down the aisle, I catch people's eyes all the time. Some of them look away quickly, some of them smile and nod, some of them shutter their eyes and look down at my tits. But every single moment of eye contact is an interpersonal interaction, something my brain takes in and learns a little something from. It's kind of addictive. Now, the observation car. An appropriate name, that. It's a car composed of windows and seats, some sofa-like, some tables. You can head downstairs to the cafe to grab a coffee (or a gin and tonic), and go back up to sit and watch the incredibly beautiful landscape that America holds within it go by.

It's also the social hub of the train. And that's where this story starts to get interesting (it's about goddamn time, right? Who cares about descriptions of TRAINS??? We're here for the sex!! Well, interesting people care about descriptions of everything. And don't you want to be interesting?). The ride starts off pretty boring. People are closed off and wary. Nobody wants to be stuck talking to the crazy cat lady or cantankerous old man in the seat next to them, so they pull out their kindles, books, or newspapers (depending less on age and more on social status, it seems. Wealthy old folks are just as down with technology as any young folks) and bury their faces in them. But about 5 hours in or so, people start to unwind a touch. They start to realize how bored they're about to be. They stare out the window with eyes gone a little glassy, looking down at their chosen distractions a little desperately, hoping something pops up to amuse them again.
And then, they start to look around them. It's sheer desperation that drives this moment. In this world (well, our culture anyways), people just aren't used to looking to strangers for entertainment. Not for any length of time. There's an intimacy involved in engaging the person in your immediate vicinity in conversation, an intimacy that I've watched people shy away from time and time again. But 5 hours into a 30 some odd hour trip, intimacy starts to seem like something that might be more interesting than your own thoughts. Conversations start up here there, quickly broken off if either party starts to feel threatened by weirdness (like deer at a pond, strangers are leery of any scent of oddness coming from other strangers they know they'll be stuck next to for hours). But as time progresses, wariness decreases.

And 20 hours into a 30 hour trip? Forget about it. People are drunk and loud, partying however their generation and social structure dictates. For some, this means cribbage and gin, for others this means cheap beer and college stories, and for still others, this means 3 bottles of red wine and flirting.

And this is where Jesse comes into the story. I was traveling from San Diego to Portland, a 29hr trip, starting at 6am Saturday in San Diego, and ending at 3pm Sunday in Portland. I had spent most of this trip in my seat, reading a good book and watching the world go by. My company had sent me to San Diego to take a training course in esoteric IT shit, and my boss and coworkers were there. It was a draining couple of days, with 8 hours of powerpoint presentation hell each day that I had to pay attention to and pretend interest in, culminating in a hard ass test I had to pass. I was also the only woman there, other than the instructor, and I was surrounded by competitive men who didn't like that I was a know it all who answered most of the questions (I'm no Hermione Granger, but if a question is asked, and I know the answer? I'm going to answer the fucking question, and your ego can go fuck itself if it got its feelings hurt.). So, draining.

Basically, I took the first 15 hours or so of the train ride as a chance to decompress and feed my inner introvert. I woke up at 6am Sunday morning, and got super excited. There is NOTHING like watching the sun rise over Mt Shasta and the area surrounding it. I jumped up, grabbed my phone and charger, and walked up to the observation deck. Actually, I went downstairs to go pee first, and put on some deodorant (another thing I love about trains? EVERYBODY is in their pajamas eventually, and stays in them if they know what's good for them). THEN I walked to the observation car. Getting there meant walking through 3 cars of sleeping people. One thing I will say, if you have issues being vulnerable around people, trains kind of make you work on that. Because there is nothing more vulnerable than sleeping in front of strangers. I feel more than a little predatory walking through cars where everybody is sprawled out as much as they can be, mouths open and eyes closed, throats exposed. Not because I want to do anything to them. But because I could. It's weird. And I love it.

When I got to the observation car, I sat myself down in a chair next to a rounded blob that was a sleeping man wrapped in a blanket. I sat there for a bit, feeling the sun stretch over the mountain like taffy being pulled upwards. Then I ran downstairs to get some coffee before I had to wait in line and miss the best parts of it. When I came back up to my seat, the blob had resolved itself into a young man, stretching and yawning. We nodded at each other, and I proceeded to prepare my coffee, put my legs up on the shelf in front of me, hold my coffee in front of me for the smell, and watch the panoply of beauty unfold.

After a bit, maybe half an hour, I noticed the young man sitting next to me looking over. I looked at him, we met eyes, and started making light conversation. He was a dark skinned Mexican man, with a strong nose, deep set eyes, and a fuzzy shaved head. The first thing that struck me about him was his absolute confidence. He started the conversation, and kept it going. I pegged him at at least 30, though he looked younger, because of this confidence. And what started off as light conversation quickly turned to something truly interesting. We talked about EVERYTHING, and it just kept getting better. He spent a stint of two years in a bad section of LA, and had some fascinating stories to tell about that. We talked about religion and family, movies and video games, music and sex. All these different facets of life that could be incredibly boring, but are made fascinating with a lethal combination of intelligence, empathy, and chemistry.
It's kind of hard for me to describe our conversation. It went all over the place, and short of giving transcripts of parts, I can't really say why it was so good. Suffice it to say, our brains were sparking off each other like flint and magnesium. And after 4 hours of sparking, it started to create a fire.

It started with me leaving and getting changed for the day. I threw on my jeans, and then dug through my backpack o' clothes for a certain red velvet tank top that I love. It's got a low, square neck, and is a bright, cherry red. A silky black cardigan over that, and I was feeling pretty damn feisty. My hair was still gross, I wasn't wearing any makeup, I hadn't taken a full shower since the morning before... but I felt warm and sexual, like honey and cinnamon.
Anyways. Red, low cut shirt. Which, apparently, was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Because as soon as I sat back down, suddenly his knee was touching my leg a lot. And staying there. Then the rest of the casual touching started. His hand on my arm, his leg "accidentally" rubbing my thigh... and longer, sustained eye contact. He had lovely eyes. Dark brown, with thick lashes rimming them. And beautiful lips. And a thick, long nose... mmm. After an hour of increased flirtation, I was feeling a little flustered. Blushing more often, looking away and licking my lips because they were dry, touching my neck constantly... it's amazing how much of a connection there is between the signals of discomfort and sexual availability in women.

Eventually, he sat back with his arms spread confidently across the back of the chair he was in, and looked at me with unmistakable intent. And asked me "So, I'm curious. How adventurous are you?".

How adventurous are you. It's a simple question. In the context of the meat of our conversation, not even necessarily a loaded one. We had flirted a bit, but we hadn't gotten overtly sexual, there was no obvious lead up. Except touch. And looks.
But I knew what he meant right away. And I flushed, my face turning as red as my shirt. And my heart sped up. I stuttered a bit. But I smiled too. I laughed a little bit. "How adventurous am I? On a scale of 1-10? It depends on the context. When I'm comfortable, I'm a ten. When I'm not? Maybe a 4."
And he smiled, and laughed, and settled down into the negotiations we had just opened.

That moment between men and women (or women and women, or men and men, or...), the moment when you realize SOMETHING is happening. You're not sure what, exactly, that something is. But you know that a path has opened up, and you've got a choice to make. I love that moment. I'm a little addicted to that moment, if I'm being honest with myself. Because in the moment, there are infinite possibilities. It's not just a single path that has opened up in front of you. It's an entire universe, full of choices to be made, and repercussions to be had. You can choose to play it safe, and maybe you'll regret that choice or maybe you won't. You can chose to jump off the cliff, and maybe you'll scream the whole way down and splat at the bottom. Or maybe you'll discover gravity can be bribed, and just keep falling forever.
Without those choices, life would be so boring.

The choice that this man was opening up for us was an interesting one. A little scary. There's something classically taboo about meeting a stranger on a train, falling into chemistry, and letting lust take your mind and body over.
It didn't help that he was 12 years younger than me. When I found out he was 23, late into our conversation, I about had a heart attack. I assumed he was at least 30, if not older. He didn't LOOK older, but damn, did he act it. Confident, experienced, and wise far beyond his years. We both got a bit of a shock out of that discussion. He assumed I was in my mid-twenties, max (or so he said. Dude could have been a masterful liar, and an amazing pickup artist). I should have known where our conversation was leading, though, when he got a gleam in his eye and started calling me ma'am.

I couldn't make up my mind about what decision I wanted to make right away. I wasn't thinking of him that way, not after he told me how old he was. He'd become safe in my mind, and I assumed we were just talking. So, I excused myself to go pee. And looked in the mirror, trying to figure out what I wanted to do. Where was my fear coming from? I WAS afraid, genuinely nervous. Why? I thought long and hard about it. I was horny, I was primed for adventure and sex, and I was ridiculously attracted to this guy. Why not have sex with him? I looked down at my thighs, and realized I was nervous about getting naked with a hot young dude. FUCK THAT SHIT. My brain immediately rebelled. The moment I allow my physical appearance to dictate my sexuality is the moment I give up control of my sexuality. Because physical appearance is externally judged. It is. People can, and sometimes do, make me feel like shit about myself. But people have nothing to do with the decisions I make when it comes to sex. Those come only from me.

So, I did some reconnaissance, and went back upstairs with my mind mostly made up. As soon as I sat back down, he started a conversation about hypothetical scenarios, and what I might hypothetically be interested in. "Lets say, hypothetically, you're attracted to me. And, hypothetically, you'd like to explore that attraction in the most physical manner possible. Would you, hypothetically be interested in maybe finding a place to do that with me?". It was confident, but also kind of endearingly unsure. He knew what he wanted, but he had no idea how to go about making it happen. And I was kind of drawn to that. Raw potential, with an unformed, limitless possibility matrix. He was showing signs of an aggressiveness that I was incredibly attracted to, and I wanted to foster that. So, I left the ball in his court. I stuck with the "hypothetical" conversation, and asked him to create a scenario for us. And I would decide if I was interested in that scenario. He was nervous with that idea, but also completely turned on by the option of telling instead of asking. He immediately suggested a bathroom, saw the look of disgust on my face, and backpedaled desperately. I took pity, and casually mentioned that I had noticed a lounge room downstairs (thank you, reconnaissance) that was meant for changing. It had a rather convenient seating arrangement in it...
He jumped at that option, and proceeded to describe in vivid detail how we might take advantage of those materials. Hypothetically, of course.

It was a perfect combination of coy and direct, of assumptive and questioning. And I made up my mind. It was 11 in the morning, and I was getting into Portland at 3. Why waste time? We looked at each other, smiled, and jumped up. He had all his stuff at the seats with us, so he leaned over and asked the people next to us to watch it for him. They smiled (actually, they leered. They'd been listening to our negotiations, I'm sure. We were quiet, but it was a quiet car), and said yes. So, we took off through the cars, heading to the lounge area in mine. It was downstairs, 3 cars away. And I felt like a hussy the whole way, in the best sense of the word. My face was flushed, my chest was flushed, pretty much everything about me was flushed. And he had a shit eating grin on his face. We might as well have been wearing placards proclaiming "We're about to be extremely naughty downstairs".

When we got downstairs, though, I discovered that the lounge room doesn't actually lock. That's a problem. It was a crowded train, and people are coming and going from that area all the time. I wasn't very comfortable with the idea of risking having someone walk in on us. But, it was that or a bathroom. So I took off the scarf I'd been wearing, a long plaid affair, wrapped it around the doorknob, and attached it to the stool right near it. Not overly secure, but enough. Or so I thought.

He was running his hands up and down my body as I was trying to knot the scarf, and we started kissing as soon as I turned around. He was about an inch shorter than me, but very muscular. He grabbed me under my arms and pushed me up against the wall, kissing my neck and upper chest. Then he grabbed me again and maneuvered me over to the counter, lifting me up onto it so I was sitting with him between my legs. He'd gotten more than a little enthusiastic, and I was beyond aroused. I was wet enough to be worried about soaking through my jeans. And then the doorknob rattled. And started to turn. My eyes got huge, and he quickly reached behind him and grabbed the knob, shouting "Occupied!". I slipped off the cabinet and down to my knees in front of him, unzipping his pants and pulling them and his boxers down while he was busy with the doorknob. He hissed out a heartfelt "SHIT" as I slipped him into my mouth. His dick wasn't huge, but it was beautiful. He smelled clean, and tasted wonderful. He had soaked the front of his boxers with pre-cum before we even really got started, and I kind of figured this would be a quick sort of fuck. But he lasted a surprisingly long time in my mouth. He knew what he liked, and had a hold of the back of my head, guiding my mouth up and down. When I tried to hold the base of his cock in my hands to keep it from reaching the back of my throat, he grabbed my hands and held them tight to his thighs, muttering "No you don't. Use your mouth, take all of me". I kind of almost came at that. And proceeded to give the best head of my life, sucking him down, coming back up with my tongue pressed to the bottom of his dick, swirling up and around the head as I reached the tip, pausing for a moment to appreciate the pre-cum, then back down, all in the rocking rhythm of the train. With him above me, trying to listen for people at the door, trying to stay quiet but keeping up a steady stream of whispered obscenities and endearments, alternately holding my head and pulling my hair.

It was incredibly hot. Until a particularly incessant grandmother almost got the door open. I'd moved him to the bench at this point, with him sitting and me kneeling right by the door. When she pulled hard enough at the door, the scarf started to unravel. I had my pants around my ankles, was playing with myself while sucking his dick. She was about to walk in on either an incredibly traumatic or awesome experience for her, but an infinitely embarrassing one for me. I scrambled to grab the knob, and got to it just in time. The door was a quarter of the way open, but she couldn't see inside based on the angle she was opening it from. I yelled OCCUPIED, and she apologized and muttered. And stood outside the door, not going away. Jesse and I looked at each other, both trying desperately not to laugh. And trying to figure out what to do. She was not going to go away. And then I heard something that made me swear. She had a little girl with her. GOD DAMN IT. This is exactly what I was hoping wouldn't happen. Jesse had already gotten himself together, and I made him go into the bathroom that was attached to the dressing room. I got myself together, tried to look less like I'd just been engaging in extremely carnal behavior, and opened the door. I smiled, apologized, said I'd been getting dressed, and that my friend was still going to the bathroom. I walked out, pushing them in front of me, and went over to where my bag was. I grabbed something from it, told them he'd be out in just a minute, and walked back into the lounge. I scratched on the door, and we giggled nervously before walking out together. I acted like it was the most normal thing in the world, and the sweet little old lady didn't blink an eye. We even made some polite small talk, about the train and the experience the kid was having. Then they went into the lounge, and we went back upstairs.

Completely frustrated, we spent some time trying to think of what to do. I was tempted to stop. I really, really hate not being comfortable having sex. I'm not an exhibitionist, and I told him that. He was understanding, but also pretty determined to figure something out. We went downstairs to another car, trying to find one that wasn't heavily occupied. And struck gold. One of the restrooms had a smaller changing area separate from the stall, complete with a bench. We looked around to make sure nobody was looking, and snuck in.

He was running at high speed, super frustrated and turned on. He pushed me up against the wall again, hard enough to make me gasp. His tongue was down my throat and his hands down my pants in two seconds flat. He pulled my jeans and panties down, and shoved his fingers inside my wet cunt. He thrust in me a couple of times, then pulled out and pushed me down to my knees in front of him with a hand on my shoulder, unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down at the same time. I gave him head again for a minute, but he wanted inside me, and kept whispering how much he wanted to bend me over the sink and fuck me. I moaned, looking up at him through my bangs with a challenge in my eyes, let his dick pop out of my mouth, and said "fuck me". He grabbed me under my arms, dragged me up, shoved me over the sink, panting and swearing. I held a condom out back behind me to him, and he put it on, grabbed my hips, and was inside me.

I want to say he fucked like a 23 year old. But I've only had sex with one other 23 year old. And it was just as awesome. It's a combination of enthusiasm and physical stamina that works for me. Oh, how it works for me. His dick curved up against my g-spot perfectly, and he rocked his hips perfectly. He grabbed my shoulders, leaning forward into it, pushed my lower back down so my ass was up, and just went to fucking town. Thrusting as hard as he could, as fast as he could. And I had to just bite the back of my hand to keep myself from making any noise, wanting to scream. He didn't last long, and I came just before he did. It was a little embarrassing, how hard I came. He grunted as I did, grabbing my hair and pulling me back into him hard while he came.

After, there was a moment where we just started at each other, pulling our clothes back on and trying to determine if anybody was outside the door. And then we both started giggling. We cleaned up, and opened the door slowly, hoping nobody was out there waiting to pee. The coast was clear, so we sauntered back upstairs. We ended up sitting back at my seat, since the one next to me was empty, and we chatted for a while. But after less than 15 minutes he was hinting about round 2. And that's where the stereotype of cougar and cub kicked in. Because I was fucking THRILLED. I can go again and again if my partner is willing and able. But a 15 min refractory period, combined with an endearing eagerness and aggression? Yeah. I kind of wanted to take him home with me.

We snuck back downstairs ten minutes later, and again, he was all over me the second the door was closed. This time, though, I was more aggressive too. I knew what I'd be getting, and I wanted it. He was hard as a rock when I pushed him down onto the bench and took him into my mouth. Bigger this time, it felt like, since I had a harder time not letting him hit the back of my throat and trigger my gag reflex. He thrust up into my mouth harder and faster, holding my head with both hands. Not inconsiderately, though. He payed close attention to my signals, and pulled away when I needed him to. Again, though, he pulled out before coming, wanting to fuck me from behind. This time we were both a little more frantic. I moved more, bouncing up and down on his cock while he stood there and whispered dirty, dirty things. At one point my head and hands had fallen forward, so my forehead was banging against the edge of the sink, and my hands were turning the faucet off and on involuntarily. I still have a bruise on my forehead from him shoving me into the sink. He kept having to shush me, since I'd lost all sense of being in a public place and was making much more noise than I should have been. When I was about to come, I told him. And he leaned forward, grabbed a breast with one hand and my hair with another, and pulled my upper body up while pounding my lower body hard. I stared at him in the mirror in front of the sink, and as I was coming, squirting all over his cock and balls, I saw the look of absolute joy on his face. He pulled out of me before coming, whipping me around, pulling the condom off, and telling me to take his cum in my mouth. I dropped like my knees had been kicked out, eager to finally really taste him. He was already coming as I put my mouth over the head, and the feeling of his cum spurting against my tongue over and over again... It was indescribably hot. What had already spurted out covered my tits, which he'd pulled out of my bra to maul earlier.

I fell back on my bent legs, and he collapsed back against the bench. We spent a breathless couple minutes recovering, then cleaning up. He laughed, and asked me what I would do if we walked out and there was a crowd there, applauding me. I told him I'd take a bow, but give him most of the credit.

When we went back upstairs again, we got quite a few odd looks, but I'm pretty sure that was because of how long we'd been down there, not because anybody heard. I hope. God, I hope.
There was still an hour to kill before Portland, and we sat cuddled up at my seat, talking about nothing much. I was content, and immeasurably comfortable. It had become an unusual feeling for me, this comfort after a sexual encounter with someone I wasn't dating. I'd gotten too used to men who felt guilty after sex, who wanted me to feel guilty. It was refreshing to remember that the beauty I find in sex isn't just internal. It's shared with my partner, and they can be grateful too. That's what I got from him. Comfort and happiness and gratitude. It's what I felt, as well.

We exchanged numbers before I left, and I told him if he came down through Portland, I'd show him the town the way it was meant to be seen. And we exchanged a few texts. But I think that's all it's going to be. I think he's going to brag to his buddies about the cougar he tagged while on the train up to Washington. And he'll accept their high fives as his due, and have some wonderful memories for his spank bank. For my part, I went home and had some absolutely amazing sex with my FWB. I felt replete after, cuddled up and sleepy. But I still woke up the next morning and masturbated to the memory of Jesses face as he felt me come, to the sense memory of my back pushed up hard against a wall and his hands on my hips.

I think the best part of these experiences is the memories they create. He told me, before we did anything, but after he asked me if I was adventurous, that it was ok if I wasn't. But that he'd regret it for the rest of his life if he didn't at least ask. A lesson I still need to learn, with my 12 years more of life on this earth.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

The Eastside Lodge; 9th and E Burnside

I'm having a hard time titling this one. I actually met these guys at Baileys. And then again at Silver Dollar Pizza 2. But we didn't do anything fun until we got back to their hotel (motel, really). And that was where the magic happened, so I guess that's what I'll call it.

Besides, most of my experiences lately have been starting at Baileys Taproom, and ending elsewhere. Can't give Baileys all the credit. Though you will start to notice a trend here. All of my stories involving hot, hot nerdy lovin? Involve Baileys in one form or another. It's just such a perfect spot for nerds.

In this case, there was a science convention in town. Not just any science convention. A theoretical math convention. mmmm. There is something about the brain that loves math which is so incredibly hot. Male or female, it does not matter. If you can grasp the pure beauty of the abstract concepts involved in higher math and physics, you can grasp anything about me. Or on me.
Now, any time there is an even remotely geeky convention in town, many of the folks attending end up at Baileys at one point or another. Unless they hate beer. Then they end up in a hotel bar, alone and sad. But the beer lovers all congregate together at Baileys, packing the place full of sweaty erudite conversation.

This particular evening, I was out with friends, a couple of guys. They were up to no good. Started makin' trouble in my neighborhood...
Sorry. Anyways. I was out with a couple of guy friends. We stopped at Baileys after an afternoon of debauchery and rabblerousing (see?? THEY WERE MAKING TROUBLE IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD). We sat outside, since it was a warm summer evening, shared a lovely cigar, and settled in to do some serious people watching. When a big group of guys walked past us, heading into the bar, wearing cargo shorts, short sleeve button up plaid shirts tucked in, and a laptop or messenger bag slung over every shoulder, we looked at each other and giggled. A gaggle of them came back outside and sat down next to us. We listened in to their conversation shamelessly, and eventually joined in. It was a group of 5, but two of them had caught my eye immediately. One of them was tall and slender, blonde hair perfectly styled, clothes pressed and neat, tanned skin... he looked like a nerdy escapee from prep land. In his early 30s, and very confident. He took a shine to me right off the bat, and tried his damndest to flirt.
The other one was quiet, shorter and stocky. His was the only untucked shirt in the crew, and wrinkled. He had a gorgeous, trimmed beard, and thick, unruly brown hair that kept falling in his eyes. He was wearing hiking sandals with his cargo shorts, and his calves had perfectly defined muscle. He was a big, outdoorsy looking nerd, and he made me wet. He also mostly ignored me, and my friends, in favor of an intense conversation with another guy in his group. An AWESOME conversation that I so wanted to be a part of . But, his blonde friend dominated the conversation at our end of the table, and he kept it light.

My partners in crime and I had other plans that night, and we all got up to leave. But as we were saying our goodbyes, nerdy Grizzly Adams looked up at me, caught my eye, and gave me an up and down perusal that sizzled. Then he winked. That wink was like a gunshot to my kneecaps, because I swear to god they almost gave out on me. And then Prep School reject was grabbing my hand, asking me to stay. I laughed, said no, and walked away between two pretty men, a swing in my hips (but only because my legs were still wobbly from that wink).
But I couldn't stop thinking about them, and after we'd gotten to where we were going, I bid adieu to my buddies, turned right back around, and walked back to Baileys alone. Only to find they'd moved on by then. Sad, and not feeling like going back to my friends, or being around a big group of nerds, I went to the bar down the street for a shot of scotch before going home. And who should I see upon walking in the door but the group I'd been looking for, sitting up at the bar and being rowdy. They saw me and cheered. They cleared a space in the middle, (right between Preppy and Grizzly) and I sat and drank good scotch with them for another hour. An hour that was spent becoming more and more attracted to Grizzly while Preppy tried his best to seduce me. I was wearing my knee high Doc Martens, and he kept remarking on them, talking about how sexy tall boots are (hello, fetishist, I see you), and stroking the skin right above where they ended. And I let him. But in the mean time, I was talking theoretical physics with Grizzly, and OH GOD, was I having fun. Turns out he was the keynote speaker at the convention, and he was an amazing teacher. Not remotely condescending, incredibly enthusiastic, and an excellent listener. That's a wonderful combination in any human being, right? But in a guy who I couldn't stop thinking about fucking, while talking about his life passion, it was lethal. Just lethal.

Eventually, all the other guys left, except Preppy and Grizzly. It was well after midnight at this point, but we were all still wired. Grizzly asked me if I wanted to come back to their hotel room and continue the conversation, I said fuck yeah, we hailed a cab outside, and headed off to the Eastside Lodge.
It's a hotel/motel right across the river from Downtown, in the club district of Burnside. It kind of looks like a trashy place, a squat little grey building in the midst of a bunch of swanky bars and restaurants. It's been there forever, and it's MUCH cheaper than any other options in the area, including the much vaunted Jupiter Hotel. And it's actually remarkably clean and nice in the rooms, which fact I commented on when we walked into what I assumed was Grizzlys room. Said assumption was incorrect. Turns out they were sharing a room. Amongst other things, apparently.

Anyways, they got themselves a couple shots of vodka, me some water, and we all sat on the bed and talked for another hour or so. Now, before I go on, I'm going to say something about going to a hotel with 2 strange men. It's not actually something I normally do. I KNOW it sounds like I do pretty much anything from these stories. But there is a big difference between going home with one guy and going home with two. There really is. One guy feels manageable. You've met him, you've devoted quite a bit of time and attention to figuring him out, you've gotten a safe vibe from him, and you make the decision together. Personally, I don't go home with someone when I'm drunk. Just don't. Even that night, I'd only had 1 beer and 2 scotches, not nearly enough to be anything other than pleasantly buzzed.

With two guys, the variables are exponentially expanded. You CAN'T know two of them as well as you know one. You're going to be more attracted to one of them, you're going to pay more attention to one of them, and the other one is going to be more of an unknown variable. Unknown variables are dangerous when you're putting your life on the line by getting vulnerable with strangers. Guys, if you ever feel like a woman is being paranoid about the guys she meets at a bar, including you? Just remember that this is what it feels like. EVERY SINGLE TIME. Even to me, somebody who is deliberately experienced, every single time I go home with someone it feels like I am taking my life in my hands. I AM taking my life in my hands. No matter how prepared I am, no matter how confident I am in my ability to handle any situation. The chances of me being hurt are MUCH higher than anything you will ever experience. So show some fucking patience for those paranoid ladies, and do your fucking best to reassure them that you are not the statistically likely creepy asshole that she worries you could be.

All right. So, I'm in a hotel room with two strange men. And we are discussing theoretical physics (still. Testament to how entertaining this guy was.). I'm lying on my belly at the end of the bed, Grizzly is sitting at the head of the bed in front of me, and Preppy is sitting at the end of the bed, next to me. While Grizzly and I are talking, Preppy leans forward and puts his hands on my legs. He starts rubbing my thighs lightly, and I stay passive, almost ignoring him. He's inching my skirt up, going higher, and it's starting to feel really good. So I roll over onto my back, and he continues massaging my legs. I put my arms over my head, touching Grizzlys legs. And he leans down and kisses me. And just like that, we are in the midst of a threesome. Grizzly is kissing me and rubbing my breasts, and Preppy is rubbing my legs and belly, kissing the skin above my boots and biting gently at my knees. This. Is awesome.

I'm feeling a little bad, because all of the attention is one me, and stays on me. My body is their playground, and my hands aren't doing much more than rubbing at whatever skin I can reach. They stay clothed, for the most part, but are taking my clothes off as they can. Preppy leaves my boots on, not surprisingly. When I'm naked except for my boots, Grizzly starts to take his clothes off. He gets as far as unzipping his shorts before I'm up on my knees, pulling his cock out of his boxers, leaning down, and licking the tip. The second I lean down, Preppy is behind me, fingering my cunt. I spread my legs, get down on my forearms, and give Grizzly the blowjob of his life. There is something INCREDIBLY HOT about a woman sucking your dick while she's moaning in pleasure from somebody fingering her cunt and rubbing her clit. Maybe it's just the vibrations from the moaning. Whatever it was, he went a little crazy. He's sitting back on his calves, with both hands in my hair, and he's thrusting up into my mouth. And then Preppys fingers are gone, I hear a condom wrapping being ripped, and then he's behind me with his hands on my hips and his dick inside me. And you know what? That catechism, that tall skinny nerds have giant dicks (wait, you DON'T know that one??)? It's true. That man split me in two. He pounded me hard, Grizzly held my head while I leaned on my forearms, and a life long dream was fulfilled. I came hard, screaming around his dick. Neither of them had come yet, though. Grizzly pulled out of my mouth, they flipped me over, and switched. Preppy got up on his knees over me while Grizzly put a condom on, pulled my legs up around his waist, sat up on his knees, and slipped inside me. Preppy, in the meantime, swung his leg over my chest so that his dick was perfectly positioned between my breasts, squeezed them up and tight, and proceeded to fuck my tits as hard as he'd fucked my pussy. They got a rhythm going eventually, though at first it felt like they were trying to split me in two. And again. IT WAS AWESOME. Who'd have fucking thunk it with these two?? They came right around the same time, Preppys cum shooting up into my chin and all over my chest, Grizzly grabbing my hips and holding them down as pounded hard, twice, and came with a yell.
I came again at that, my body convulsing so hard that I lifted both of them half off me.

They both slipped off, Grizzly went and grabbed a couple of towels, and we all cleaned up. Then lay on the bed for a bit, not really talking, just kind of sighing every now and then. Grizzly had to leave at 5:30am to catch a flight, and since it was already 4:30am by the time we were done, he eventually jumped into the shower, got dressed and packed in a remarkably short time, and ran out the door to his cab. But not before kissing me and exchanging numbers. I had called a cab too, but Preppy ended up distracting me as I got up to get dressed, and I didn't leave that room till well after dawn.

The cab ride home was hilarious. I got into the car with my hair a mess, my clothes from last night all kinds of wrinkled, and obviously having no sleep. My cab driver didn't speak much English, just enough to make a suggestive joke right off the bat. I said "hey now, none of that", he grinned sheepishly and apologized, and we talked about goat herding the whole ride home. Srsly. Goat herding. I remember more of that conversation than I do of any of the theoretical math I'd talked about for hours.

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Rough sex

Rough sex. What does that even mean? For women who've read a lot of romance novels, it generally means a man who grabs them by the back of the neck, kisses them senseless, rips their clothes off in a fit of passion, throws them on the ground, and proceeds to fuck them senseless for an hour.
In reality, that's just passionate sex. No bruises, it's not rough.

For men, it tends to mean getting to do whatever the fuck they want, whatever their "animal nature" tells them to do. It means grabbing a girls head and pushing her mouth down onto your cock. Grabbing her hair while she sucks and directing her mouth. Getting to not worry about her pleasure, just your own. Holding her down and fucking her till you come.

Kinda rough, but more just selfish. Fun, but selfish.

For me, rough sex means rough. Wrestling like you mean it, and doing your best to win. Laughing breathlessly, but growling in sheer rage. Feral panting as you claw your way across the bed, kicking your way free of strong arms. Biting just this side of pain, and then over the edge, till your partner yells and cuffs at your head. Fingers gripping thighs so hard that fingerprints could be taken from the bruises left behind. Breasts with circular, mouth shaped bruises along the sides and bottoms, and hand prints that don't fade for days.
Wrestling your way out of a particularly clever hold, only to have your ankles grabbed, you get dragged back, and 4 fingers shoved inside you with no warning. 4 fingers attached to an arm that jackhammers your pussy, a thumb that smashes your clit, thanking god that you're already soaking wet. God, that jackhammer. Long fingers that curl up inside you, searching for that pebbled spot. And when they find it, relentlessly rubbing it, pushing up so hard it feels like they want inside you. Every thrust drawing a scream from your throat, and your cunt clamps down, not wanting to let go.
And when you come, from that relentless pressure, from that perfect, heavy rhythm, it pushes out of you in a gush of silky liquid that you can't control. You're clawing at the wall and the mattress, screaming and writhing, trying to get away because it's too goddamn much. And you can't get away. Those fingers are still inside you, covered in your cum, still slamming at your entrance. And it just keeps going. Because you've let go of any control of your body. It's just the pleasure now, just the release just this side of pain. Till you're sobbing and twitching, gasping for air because you forgot to breath in between the screams.

And then you're rolled over, your wet thighs roughly parted dragged up and over shoulders, your partner inside you before you draw enough breath for the scream of joy you give. Being held down by your wrists, with your thighs slapping your face as your partner squats over you with your ankles hooked over his neck and pounds into your cunt. He lets go of your wrists, letting you grab his thighs as he grabs your tits, using them as leverage to pound harder, sink deeper. And when he comes, his fingers sinking into your flesh, his mouth a snarl, you can feel every fucking pulse of his dick as it shoots its load inside you. You can feel it, and your cunt milks every last drop, pulsing in time as you come again, because this is what you wanted. It's not just his cum you're soaking in, it's his loss, his pain, his control.

It's violent. It's not pretty. It's not even animalistic. Animals don't hurt each other to bring each other pleasure. Animals don't watch as their partner loses everything that makes them who they are except their pleasure. Only humans revel in that conflagration created by the confluence of pain and joy.
Animals don't stroke each other when the fires have burnt out, reconnecting with the gentle joy of flesh, re-learning how to breath. Because without that gentle comedown, rough sex is nothing. Without the contrast of peace and soft sensuality, rough sex is just violence. With that contrast, it's sublime.

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

The Red Lion Inn, PDX Airport

I met a man from LA the other day, in town for an International Puzzle Convention.

Yes, you read that right. I had no idea such things existed, though I don't know why it blew my mind so deeply. I mean, lots of people love puzzles... but an international, GIANT convention worth of people? Apparently, yes.

So, this guy loved puzzles. I thought that said good things about him. Puzzles tend to appeal to imaginative, problem solving types, people who enjoy getting caught up in flogging their grey matter. They're persistent, they're smart, and they're able to focus deeply. ALL of those things translate well to the sexin'.
Plus, his account on OkCupid had pictures of him looking like a really nerdy Jesus. Long, flowing black hair, well trimmed beard, nice smile, and nerdy t-shirts.

So, I said sure, and we made plans to meet up the morning after he came to town.
I took him out to breakfast at my favorite breakfast spot in Portland, called Gravy. It's in NoPo, on trendy Mississippi Ave. And by golly, their food is amazing. Giant portions (like, 3 meals worth of breakfast), and good quality.
I picked him up at the hotel the convention was at, and drove us up there.

Conversation at the restaurant was desultory at best, sadly. He had brought all of his puzzle gear from the convention, and enjoyed spending most of the time explaining it to me. Which I was hard pressed to not yawn through (have I mentioned that I kind of hate puzzles? I have the attention span of a wombat, and if I can't figure it out in the first minute, it can't be done. Video games are an exception to this rule, sometimes...). When I tried to introduce topics of conversation I was interested in, he had a hard time contributing. Which is a bad sign.

However, he was awful cute. Did I mention I kind of love the Jesus/Grizzly Adams look? Because I do. Well trimmed beards, long hair, tall and not too skinny... it's a good look. Add blue eyes to the mix, and this guy was making me forget that I'm not the sort of shallow sort who bases sexual attraction on nothing but looks.
After breakfast, though, he redeemed himself.
We went to a comic book store right up the street, and he didn't insist on following me around. We went our separate ways as soon as we went in, and only occasionally met up to show each other something interesting. This is, bar none, the best way to explore a book store with someone, in my opinion. After the comic book store, we went to a little finishing salts store, and drooled over the amazing selection of bitters they had covering one entire wall. By the time we left the store, I was kind of turned on. The combination of his enthusiasm and the verbose way he described his love of each flavor was really pretty fucking hot.

So, I suggested we go to get a beer at Baileys. And after one beer, dude suddenly turned into Casanova. He leaned in towards me across the table and smoothly said "You know I'm going to fuck you, right?". I laughed a little nervously and said "Maybe". And he just smiled confidently, as if he could tell my nipples had just swelled, my skin had flushed, and my pussy had hit me with a pulse of heat. He spent the rest of the next half hour being perfectly gentlemanly while still managing to make me think about him bending me over a table and fucking me hard enough to bruise my hips. I don't know how he did it, but GOD DAMN. (Also? Very few guys can get away with saying something like that on a first date without sounding like a total fucking asshole. For him, it worked, mostly because of the combination of the extremely respectful and intellectual way he'd been treating me up until this point. Sweet and genuinely respectful, when combined with declarative statements about fucking, is apparently incredibly hot. WHO KNEW??)

He had to get back to his puzzle convention shortly after that, since they were going on a scavenger hunt downtown for the evening. But we made plans to meet up that night. He ditched his friends, who were expecting an all night puzzle and liquor fest, and we met at his hotel. He was staying out by the airport, which is a ways away from downtown, so we ended up going to get dinner at a German restaurant up the street. We gorged ourselves on sausage, fondue, and really, really good beer. It didn't occur to me till after the meal, when I was groaning in replete contentment, that maybe a giant meal of meat and cheese wasn't the smartest thing to do if I was actually planning on a night of fucking... Too late. We paid the bill and headed back to his hotel. When we got out of my car in the parking lot, he walked over to my side, pushed me back against the car, and kissed me into weak kneed goo. And then politely asked me if I'd liked to come upstairs and hang out for a bit. I nodded yes while surreptitiously adjusting my panties, which had started to fall off. That's not a metaphor. I'd worn underwear that was a bit too large for me, and had been trying to adjust them all night. Normally I'd have just taken them off, but I was wearing a very short skirt, fishnet thigh-highs, and a garter belt. I didn't want to be flashing people all night.

So, we get to his hotel room, and I go straight to the bathroom. I pee (I know you needed to know that, right? All I'm saying is that it's a very good idea to empty oneself BEFORE the festivities start. I hate having to stop in the middle of anything), and off come the panties. I'm looking at myself in the mirror, and thinking about this guy. He's an odd mix of highly intellectual and hyper sexual. He acts like a top sometimes, but it's only glimpses here and there. And I realize that I very much so want him to be a top. I pull my breasts out of my shirt, unzip my skirt, mess up my hair, and walk out of the bathroom like that, as disheveled as if we'd already been fucking for hours. It's remarkably slutty, in the best sense of that word, and it works like a charm. He grabs me by the hair, shoves me down on the bed, straddles me, and starts biting my nipples. I start laughing, I can't help it, and he looks up at me and grins. He slides off me, and we have a conversation about limits, and what each of us is into. We're totally compatible for the most part. He's apparently used to women who are total bottoms, and I'm not that. I appreciate being dominated in bed, but I get a say in what happens. He's also a lot less experienced than I am. This makes sense, since he's actually about 5 years younger than me and has only been into BDSM a couple of years, with limited partners. So he's a baby dom, and it shows. This makes his need to dominate me a little tricky, because if I know how to make the situation work better for both of us, I'm not going to hold back. And so begins my first experience in topping from the bottom.

That's something I normally avoid doing. If I'm in that situation, if I'm giving up enough control to let someone top me, I want it to be real. I don't want to actually be the one in charge, pretending that the other person is calling the shots.
But with this guy, it worked. For both of us.

At one point, he had my on my knees in between the two beds, sucking his dick and looking up at him. He'd grabbed the back of my head and was thrusting his dick down my throat, face fucking me. I'd never actually let anyone do that before. I love having my mouth fucked, but I need it more gentle, because my gag reflex is fucking obnoxious. And this guy did NOT have a small enough dick to make face fucking easy. But because we had this dynamic where he was in charge but I was LETTING him be in charge, it was fine. I don't know why it was fine, but I could suddenly do things I wouldn't normally be comfortable with. Besides, looking up at him, with his thick black hair falling down around his sweaty shoulders, an intense look on his face as his hips thrust his pretty cock into my mouth... yeah. It was fine.
He didn't want to come too soon, so he pulled me up onto the bed, positioned me on my hands and knees at the edge, and fucked me from behind while standing up. This position didn't do much for me, just because he couldn't really get a good enough angle to go deep while standing. But he grabbed my hips and used them as a fulcrum for his thrusting, and proceeded to fuck me like that for a good ten minutes. I fell into this quiet place, and zoned out, lulled by my own whimpering and his steady in and out. I came back to myself quickly, though, when I felt and heard a sharp, heavy thud on my ass. I'd fallen down onto my chest, so I looked back at him up over the line of my body. And saw him lifting a large book for another crack at my ass. Not just any book. The Gideon Bible, which he'd pulled from the nightstand next to us. He proceeded to beat my ass with that bible, and upped the speed of his strokes in time with the smack of the fake leather against my skin. I was open mouthed in shock, and couldn't help thinking about all the hands that had touched that book. But I was also incredibly sensitized, and came screaming from one moment to the next, soaking his balls and thighs with my cum. He grunted loudly, smacked me hard, dropped the bible, grabbed my hips, and fell on top of me as he came.

When I could breathe again, after he'd rolled off me and we lay there panting for a bit, I started laughing. I turned to face him on my side, and said "The Bible? Really? You just beat me with the fucking Bible??". He got a sheepish grin, and said "I couldn't reach my belt, and I wanted to smack you with something leather-ish. It was right there... And hey! It worked, didn't it?!"
Oh yes indeed, it had worked.

We lay there talking for a bit, discussing what we'd done, what he'd like to do next, how we could do it... it was a strangely non-intense discussion, for what we were talking about. Very matter of fact and mellow. We talked about things other than sex, to, but I didn't really want to discuss puzzles. We talked about his girlfriends back home in LA (he's poly), and how different they were from me. Which was odd, but ok. Honestly, as he was talking about the women he fucked and comparing them to me, he started to get hard again. I was ok with that. I pushed him onto his back and told him to keep talking. I put another condom on him, and climbed on top, sliding him into me as he described in detail the things he enjoyed doing to the women he fucked. I rode him hard and fast, letting him talk but not hearing a word he was saying. He was gasping out words 5 minutes later, and I was sweating and almost ready to come. He grabbed my hips just as I was getting to the pinnacle, rolled me under him, pulled my legs up so my knees were touching my shoulders, and proceeded to hammer into me. My head was slamming back against the headboard, and I so didn't care. I came sobbing into my tits (ah, the joys of having giant breasts. I've become an expert at breathing even with my breasts shoved hard into my chin), and still he didn't stop. I came again so hard that my legs shoved his shoulders back, and he came holding onto my thighs, kneeling upright.
He looked down at himself, at his stomach glistening with my cum, at the giant wet spot we'd just created, and started laughing. I'd told him we should use the bed he wasn't planning on sleeping in, and he was grateful for the precaution.

We rested again after that, lying next to each other but not touching. It was perfectly comfortable, which was nice. This guy had no hangups about who he was, what he liked, and he had ZERO complaints about who I was and what I liked. It was lovely.

I left shortly thereafter, heading down to my car through a hotel lobby full of people. I got a few stares, mostly from guys checking out my still disheveled hair and ripped fishnets. And their disapproving wives. It's always a little strange, leaving a hotel after having sex with someone who's staying there. The comparison to a sex worker is just so immediate and in your face. I don't get off on being thought of as a whore, but it also doesn't really bother me. I respect sex workers, respect how hard their jobs can be. As a good friend once said after hearing someone called a whore as an insult "Whore is worker. Bitch is bitch, but whore is worker."

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Ron Jeremys Club Sesso

This was a funny one. I've been to this place multiple times, mostly with a gaggle of female friends who I have to ride herd on because they can't really have fun and let loose unless they're drunk and stick a red V on their foreheads for "Victim".
So, I've never actually done anything remotely naughty here.

But, I met this guy on the Internet, and he really wanted to go and do naughty, naughty things at this place. I was feeling my oats (and by feeling my oats, I mean full of repressed, kinky angst), so I told him I'd meet him for a scotch at an awesome little Irish pub up the street, and if we felt the vibe, I'd go.

I met him at Paddys, which has a wall o' scotch that is FREAKING FANTASTIC. I got there early and had a glass of something wonderful and smokey, and I could feel my muscles melting right along with my inhibitions. Of course, I then spent the next ten minutes thinking too much about the fact that I didn't used to need a good glass of scotch to be free, which made the muscles get unmelty quickly. But then he showed up, and all was well. He looked almost exactly like Hugh Laurie. A younger Hugh Laurie, with more hair and more testosterone. I have to say, I'm not normally drawn to the Hugh Laurie type, as ridiculously fuckable as I find Dr. House. They're skinny. He was skinny. No other word for it. Not scrawny, by any definition. But skinny. Light boned, light skinned... breakable. And I haven't done breakable in a long time. You see, I'm not breakable, by any stretch of imagination. I'm not small, I'm not dainty. I'd have made an excellent Viking Maiden. Tall, giant breasts, rounded hips, rounded belly... I carry my weight well, but there are few things that make a (this) woman feel chubby as quickly as a man who is half her size. I'm not in the least bit turned on by Namio Harukawa style fantasies, even if I could be model for him.

But, this guy was cute. More than cute, he had an devilish gleam in his eye that made him kind of hot. He looked at me and thought dirty, dirty things. And because of that, I started thinking dirty things, and I knew everything would be fine. We had another drink, had some awesome, very honest conversation about everything, including but not limited to sex, and then went over to Sesso. It was crowded, since it was Thursday night and they have an event called Twisted designed for the kink crowd. It tends to be well attended, by the kind of people I like. Less the Bridge and Tunnel crowd, more the local freaks and geeks. It's a fun night.
We walked around for a bit, enjoying the wildlife. There were a couple of suspension artists set up downstairs, with pretty girls in elaborate knots hanging from the ceiling. Upstairs, there was a threesome on the giant bed in the middle of the room, and a gaggle of men lining the bar around it, watching them, drinking, and trying to chat up every available person near them. There were couples, and more, in all of the private rooms, which was a pain. We were both pretty turned on, but the more I stayed around desperate people scenting the air around me with their mouths open, the less turned on I was going to be. Then the guy asked if I'd come with him to the couples rooms.
The couples room is just what it sounds like. It's lined with futons that are separated by sheer curtains, and no single folks allowed, men or women. I'd been in there once, and promptly run back out.
But, tonight was going to be a night of new things, and I said yes. We made our way downstairs, and through the bright red curtain into the couples room. It wasn't super crowded, only 3 of the 6 available futons were taken. There's a bench at the end of the room, and I made a beeline for it. I wanted to sit and watch, get a feel for the vibe of the room, and figure out if I was comfortable with this.
Hugh, however, was very sure. And very turned on. He immediately started touching me, and we made out for a bit. Every time his hands got too frisky, though, I'd stop him and look up and around. Eventually I realized that we were absolutely the last thing any of these people were thinking about. They were all having loud, raunchy, really fun looking sex. And the less self conscious I got, the more turned on I was by the energy in the room. We made our way to a futon, started taking off clothes (though I kept my skirt and half a tank top on. I couldn't bring myself to get completely naked in public), and quickly got down to business. He wanted to go down on me in the worst way, but I wasn't feeling it. That's a vulnerable position for me at the best of times, and I rarely let someone I don't know and trust put their head between my legs. Instead, I pushed him down onto the bed, got up on my knees over him, and started sucking his cock. This was, by far, the hottest part of the evening for me. I have this fantasy, see, of giving one guy head while another fucks me hard from behind. And with my ass waving in the air, barely covered by my short little lacy skirt, while I did my damndest to enjoy this guys lovely cock, that fantasy suddenly felt very, very doable. He was a very vocal sort, which was a little disconcerting at first, but it certainly drew a lot of attention our way. And, to my surprise, that was hot. I'm not an exhibitionist, but in that room, with that fantasy running through my head... it was hot to look up every now and then and see men and women staring at us. It was hot to think about the possibilities, about what could happen next...

Sadly, what happened next is that this guy had to make a phone call. I couldn't stay in there alone, and wasn't feeling quite brave enough to invite anyone else to join me. So we put all our clothes back on and left the room. He went outside to make his phone call, and I stayed in and enjoyed looking around me speculatively, wondering who else I would like to fuck. And there were quite a few of them. Fortunately, the guy came back relatively quickly. Unfortunately, he'd taken the opportunity to smoke some pot. And had gotten really high. He'd done it to help him loosen up, but it had worked a little too well. I could immediately tell he was high, and it was kind of annoying. It's like a date who gets drunk. It's selfish, and it's a bad sign.

We went back to the couples room, and he seemed fine at first. I pushed him down again, took his pants off, got on my knees in front of the futon, and bent my head. Before I even touched him, literally, he started moaning fit to wake the dead. He was hollering and hooting, and it really sounded like we had suddenly been dropped into the cheesiest kind of gay porn. I looked down at his half masted cock, which my hand had just barely made my way around, I looked up at him, with his head thrown back in obviously simulated ecstasy, and I looked around at suddenly extremely envious guys who were unabashedly staring at us while still fucking the women they were with. And I couldn't help but giggle. So THIS is what it felt like for guys who can tell when a woman is faking it. I've done that a time or two in my life, when I was more turned on by the idea of the guy being turned on, and I wanted him to enjoy himself. At that moment, I swore I'd never do it again. Because GOD DAMN, was it bad. Hysterical, yes. Completely undignified, yes. Totally not a turn on, absofrickinlutely.
I squeezed his dick hard, and his moans turned into a little yelp. I waited till he raised his head and looked at me, and then I slowly fed his entire cock into my mouth, keeping eye contact the entire time. I sucked hard, once, and brought my mouth back up. By the time I'd reached the tip, his eyes had glazed, his head was back, and he'd gone quiet. Much better. I proceeded to give the best head of my life. I was inspired. At one point, after I'd crawled back up onto the futon and was curled around him, fucking his dick with my breasts while sucking on the head, I looked up and there was a group of six people standing at the end of our futon. They were critiquing us. One of the women actually applauded at one point, and they were all masturbating. It was hot. I wanted them to join us, quite desperately. I wanted to be pleased, and this guy wasn't going to do it for me. But I didn't motion them over, and I focused back on the person I was with. He wanted to come inside me, so he put a condom on, pulled me up onto my knees and started fucking me doggy style.

And this is where the annoyingness of pot comes in. Because he couldn't keep a hard on with the condom on. He might have been able to normally, but definitely not while high. He lost it pretty quickly, but kept on trying. And men, there are few things more frustrating than being fucked with a limp dick. Srsly. It's not fun. Unless you've already come, and are still pumping anyway because you want her to come just one more time. Then it's kind of hot, though you should add fingers to the mix.
But when you've lost your hard on, just admit it, pull out, and start over.

I could tell he'd lost it and didn't want to admit it, so I pulled away, turned over, and asked him to fuck my tits and come all over them. He took the condom off, straddled me, and started fucking the channel I'd made of my breasts, gently at first. But I'd grabbed some lube, applied it like ketchup, was pulling at my nipples in time to his thrusts, and started squeezing my tits together hard around the tip, and he went a little wild.
This part of the evening was also pretty fucking hot. I love watching a guys face, I love having my breasts played with, and this combines the best of both worlds without the distraction of me wanting to get off. The only thing better would have been to have somebody else come up behind him, lift my legs up around his hips, and start fucking my cunt in the same rhythm as the the guy fucking my breasts. Oh dear...
Sadly, that did not happen. But he did come like a rocket, and it was hot. I love that sensation, feeling a cock pulsing between my tits, shooting warm cum up under my chin, all while getting to watch the slack faced, weak kneed, wonderful ecstasy of it on my lovers face. Yum.

Now, there are certain very specific reactions after sex. For me, I get happy. I'm hyper, I'm buzzed, I'm bouncing all over the place, and I kind of want to do it again.

But this guy, he was a guilty cummer. As soon as the euphoria wore off, he got the most uncomfortable, awkward vibe. He furtively put his clothes back on, looking around everywhere for a sock he'd lost, almost desperate to be clothed again. I just sat on the futon with my legs curled under me, breasts bared and cunt open to the world, watching him with a touch of pity and a lot of impatience. WHY engage in dirty, raunchy, wonderful sex if you're going to hate yourself afterwards? Is that a part of the fun for some people?? If so, it's not hot. It's insulting, honestly. I'm not a dirty secret for someone to furtively masturbate to later. I want my partners to revel in the enjoyment of what we just did.

By this time, it was midnight, and I had to go home. Which made me sad, because all I really wanted to do was stay after this guy had left and get well and truly fucked by as many people as I could handle. And I knew this sensation would wear off quickly, making it harder to engage in that fantasy later. There is nothing that lowers my inhibitions quite like sex, and unfulfilling sex turns me into a fiend.
Ah well. Maybe next time...