more, then sex

Okay, I just scrolled down real fast and I suppose it's not bad for 10-12 hours work. Probably shouldn't sweat it 'cos ultimately all I could really do is slave away for a bit to gain a few extra points that probably don't mean anything anyway: it's a bit like...water finds it's own level - or...what falls from an apple tree is generally apples. And if you don't get that, what I mean is, whatever I spew is probably gonna be worth anywhere from 62 to 68 - and on a good day we'll be hitting 70s. Despite everything, I'll be disappointed if I get less than 61 for this one.

In other news: have a little short story about sex; you deserve it. (Yes, it's fictional)


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Sex is for women: I’ve decided. It hits me about the same time her second orgasm begins to hit her, eyes closed maybe looking into some other world. But it’s a world I’m not privy to.
     Still, I make my faces, grab her boobs, maybe slap her arse when the moment demands it. Anything to get her off.
     “Come with me babe,” she says, “I want to feel you come inside me.” She looks down at me glassy-eyed and unfocussed. Long brown hair falls over her shoulders, one sweaty strand reaching for the corner of her mouth.
     I grab her bum and thrust.
     “You’re so sexy baby,” I say, “so fucking hot.”
     She moans at that: she loves a bit of dirty talk. Then she closes her eyes, arches her back and gasps out a couple of loud ones.
     And faster, faster, she humps me now, her pelvis grating hard on mine. Really going for it this time. Really blows my mind. Who is this girl? What is she doing? I feel a smirk spread across my face, watch her curious and amused. And then I turn my head and look over at the chair in the corner of the room, imagine I’m sitting in it quietly gazing over at the bed and seeing all this happen. For some reason I’m wearing blue-checked pyjama bottoms and a long silk smoking jacket; got one of those old-style cigarette holders too – though I don’t think there’s a cigarette. I lift it to my lips and grip it delicately between my teeth. And then I take it out and it becomes a pen and I jot something down in a notepad in my lap. The me in the chair strokes his beard, nods his head, looks on coolly, unperturbed.
     “Interesting, interesting,” he says (is thinking), “it’s as though he is merely a pole and she is riding him like a merry-go-round.”
     A pole, I am: I’m just a pole. But, I try and tell him, it wasn’t always this way: growing up I thought sex was something men inflicted on women, that women were demure and pure and men were ravenous beasts. It was the glory days of the post-feminist thing, every man a potential rapist and all that. And it was Yorkshire, land of the grim-faced miner who came home to his tea on t’table, beat his wife, and maybe grunted into her for thirty seconds of a beer-soaked Friday night while she lay cold and dry and thought of England. Poor women: all that was bad. And as a true child of the era – of a single, free-thinking mother, coming of age in the caring, sharing nineties – I was determined to be good. Books and magazines told us how to do that: several hours of cunnilingus, massage oils and baths; putting the woman’s needs first; delaying our own orgasm for as long as possible; and, above all else, foreplay, foreplay, foreplay. I bought into all this for a long time. It wasn’t until recently I found the truth.
     Take this one, for example, grinding away on top of me, and all that stuff about foreplay goes right out the window. Number one, she doesn’t give a fig for my going down on her – and that’s not because I’m no good – no, I’ve had many satisfied customers, let me tell you – it’s just that it doesn’t give her what she wants: it’s not intense enough, she says. Likewise, number two: sure, she likes a kiss and a caress to get her started – but it don’t take long before I feel the old chap being pulled into her like he’s on some sci-fi tractor beam. And when he’s there, more often than not, she wants it deep and hard and fast. This is what they don’t tell you in the books and magazines: everybody’s different. It ain’t so easy as that.
     I had this one girl once who would have me lick and rub her clit for hours before she wanted me inside her. She got off on that like crazy, squirted all over the place, soaked everything in sight. Even when we finally got down to fucking she’d still have me reaching around and rubbing away. “Rub me,” she’d say, and off I’d go again. Rub, rub, rub. But it was a guaranteed winner and I felt like I’d really got my moves. Only, the next girl I was with, no matter how skilfully I rubbed it seemed I could never hit the right spot. On the other hand, she would go mad for plain old missionary – and what I did discover with her, right when she was on the verge of orgasm: slip a finger in her bum and – bam! – it was like pressing some magic button that had her instantly oh Godding and collapsing in tremors and sighs and done. Nearly everyone likes it up the arse: and when I say “likes” what I really mean is “loves”. Speaking of which...
     I’m close, but I reckon I could hold it off. Sure, it’s awesome when you come together – and sometimes a bit of a letdown when you pass it up, trying to prolong the exercise – another urban myth – but what I’m thinking now is that if I get her off and give it a minute or two she’ll probably let me stick it in her arse and come up there. That would be nice.
     Raise the hips, change the angle, hit some spot. She scrunches her already closed eyes in an expression that, freeze the camera, could be pain, could be pleasure, and brings her right hand up to grab a breast. She lets her mouth drop open and her head tilts to one side. Sweat on my chest, her stomach and back. Change the angle again and hold a buttock in each hand as she moves down to the bed, hair in my face and a tongue burrowing sloppily into my ear. All these slight adjustments in angle and depth that mean so much to them – such sophisticated machinery, so many options – but all we’ve got is a cock that’s either in or out, hot or cold, and mostly it’s a battle to keep the thing from going off before it’s due.
     The ear thing is getting me hot. Fuck the arse. Fuck everything. I want the man in the chair to come on over, join in. He can do the other hole – and another me in her mouth – fuck it! let’s have a fourth and final me in my mouth, up my bum. Dogs and horses and that Irish sweet Catholic virgin girl who did me deep throat and loved to swallow, where is she now, I must look her up. I’ve never cheated but maybe I should. We’ll have a threesome. And that Portuguese with the amazing cunt that rippled in waves and held me tight, squeezed it out of me like some milk-maiding cow. Everything must happen: orgies and black men and piss and blood.
     That’s the mad millisecond I know so well. Another millisecond and all I’m thinking is towels and breakfast and work.
She sighs and flops down on me, sweat sliding on sweat, hearts pumping strong and firm, even as my poor, exhausted cock shrivels and dies inside her. She kisses my face and purrs content, whispering happy. She wraps her arms around me and holds me tight, and I hold her too, just as I’ve been taught.