Saturday, August 22, 2009

Before I run out the door...

Invites to dinner had me on my way out, earlier than I wanted, but I had not seen this group of people in nearly half year.

As I walk, I hear my name shouted, look over. It's a friend, who is also a one-nighter that didn't go anywhere because our chemistry was no good and he was too submissive.

Sitting by him was a man, decently well dressed.

I was curious.

He was polite, charming, a little self-depreciating, but not overmuch. Slightly high energy, a soft waft of alcohol around him.

The three of us talk. I flirt and neg.

And I want to know more. Looking at his behaviors, looking at the expression on his face, the creases at the corners of his eyes that indicate when his mood does not mirror his words, which is much too often.

But to know, to know what it is that is causing this fracture, I have to get him away from everyone else.

So I do.

And in the quarter-mile we walk to get to the parking lot, I've burrowed under his social mask and as I lean against my car the sadness in his eyes is overwhelming, the creases dark with shadow, angling down.

He's too interesting. He's so wrecked and beautiful and I can't say no to poking around in the ruins of his head.

I decide against dinner with my friends. It's almost 10PM and they've been at the restaurant/bar since 830PM, if not earlier.

He asks me if I'm going to leave, I tell him no.

He asks what I wish to do, and I tell him I wish to eat.

We walk to Disneyland.

Downtown Disney, to be precise. Disneyland is closing as we arrive, families flooding outward, boarding trams that will take them back to the cars and they will tuck their exhausted children into carseats and backseats and those children will sleep deeply on the ride back, as I once did.

He's never been in Downtown Disney. It sounds like he was in the army when it was being built, and then he never bothered to come once he left. He did not even know it existed.

So I walk him on a quick tour. World of Disney Store, the horrific Anne Geddes store, through The Vault, into Build-A-Bear, pointing out the jazz band at Brennan's, into the LEGO store with its plastic scupltures, through the Rainforest Cafe, down to Disneyland Hotel with the Peter Pan themed pool, the secluded waterfall caverns that I've known for years how to get into once they're closed.

We talk damage. We talk philosophy and values. We talk about beasts, and wildness, about how wrecked he is, how much distaste he has for his body, how much loathing he has for himself. The ideas of goodness, ultimate goodness, or the greater good. Descartes, Aristotle, Plato, he loves philosophers, studies them, intersperses their quotes and ideas into our conversation.

Dinner is settled on at Rainforest Cafe. He seemed to be the happiest there, and he needs a little happiness. He needs a break from his brain and a person to talk to, to chisel away at him, lift up the rocks and see what lies beneath.

We eat, the food is always poor, but I told him of this in advance. Rainforest Cafe's draw is not in the food, but in the atmosphere. Looks over substance. It does well.

I take him into the lobby of the Grand Californian and we sit in the large fireplace, warming ourselves.

We walk back to the hotel where he's staying and he's eyeing me. "I can't determine whether you're interesting or dangerous."

"Oh, I'm not dangerous. I'm perfectly polite, concerned with respect and boundaries, good presentation. Never rude."

All accurate, all having nothing to do about whether a person is dangerous or not. He calls me on it and I smile.

He tells me he can't imagine anyone ever wrecking me. That I'm too strong, too self-contained. If I was going to be wrecked, I'd do it to myself. He envies it. Wishes he could be like that.

I don't explain it to him.

He tells me he shows how wrecked he is because it makes others happy. A sentence that would make no sense to a regular person, a person who would declare that no one would be happy at one of their friends or family broken, but they would be wrong and naive. People like others exhibiting their wreckage for various reasons, but we do not go into it.

I tell him that the only reason he allows himself to stay wrecked to keep those around him happy is because he hates himself and determines that there's no reason to heal, no reason to grow and examine, because he's not worth it to himself. Might as well make others happy, he does not deserve to be.

He stares at me, then looks forward, tells me I'm right.

"I have my moments," I say.

"Probably not a rare occurance."

"I know."

His eyes are so sad.

We walk back to his hotel, take the elevator up, me already telling him I'm not going to sleep with him this evening.

Ninth floor, I look around and know that I haven't been in this hotel in years.

We sit on the balconey of his hotel and talk. He has his feet propped up on the railing, long legs extending out and up as he leans back into his chair.

Ten minutes later, he's in front of me, his legs on either side of mine as he rolls his fingers up my sides, and I writhe. His lips are soft, not firm, but he can kiss. He kisses like I do: tongue darting out, swiping across a lip microseconds before lip contact. His fingers go around my throat, my breath catches and I near purr for him. I stand up and he turns me around, my back against the railing as he leans into me and we continue to kiss.

But I don't like heights.

I wiggle out from between his arms and walk into his hotel room, bra already unclapsed, I swing it and my shirt over my head, toss it onto a chair in a quick, easy movement.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed and I go to him, fingers running through his hair, nails up his back, gripping his thighs and he asks for my tongue, sucking it and sliding back on the bed.

Little movements indiciate wildness, indicate rough. He switches back and forth until I lean back and tell him that I can't tell what he wants, but I prefer it rough.

He tells me some things are better to keep chained down.

Too many men are afraid of this. I want him to let go.

I crawl on top of him, trailing my tongue up his neck, nibbling on his ears, hands roaming his chest and nipples, his hands are in my hair as I slide my tongue over the bare bit of flesh at the top of his jeans, feeling his muscles twitch as my hands run over the insides of his thighs and he's unzipping but I'm not going to touch him until he breaks.

His penis is out and my breasts brush against it and he gasps. He's responsive, his whole body alive and I'm confident I'll get through as I lick his stomach and his penis angles towards my face, brushing against my cheek.

I stop.

I look.

He's a good 10, maybe 11 inches.

...that was unexpected.

His hand goes for my neck again, "Such a tiny throat," he whispers against my lips. I hope this is a good sign, but he controls himself again.

"Just give in," I tell him, licking his neck, "I'm either going to leave or take pity on you, and I hate it when I have to take pity. I'm not going to lose control, I have perfect control. This is my world. Give in."

He says to me, "You're right. We should be what we are."

But he does not give.

Another twenty, thirty minutes pass, his jeans are around his thighs, he's moaning, twitching, reaching for me with the occasional, "Oh please..." half-beg, trying to steer his penis towards my mouth or hands, and when he does this, I stop. I bite his side, the bottom of his ribs, and move my mouth down, tongue darting out, barest of touches on the head of his penis, and I breathe. I breathe and blow lightly, he's whimpering and I let my lips bump his length as I come so close to him.

I find it... sad, when a man begs. When a man tries to convince or cajole, penis straining ever upward.

So I swing my body off of his. He's not going to break, I want to go to bed, and for once I will not let pity dictate me. He can take care of himself.

"I've gotta get going soon," I tell him between kisses.

"Let me go down on you first. I love a good meal."


Pants are unbelted and his fingers seek me out, him moaning, "So wet..." as I grind against his hand, trying to take off my shoes at this odd angle.

Shoes drop to the floor, pants slide off me and his fingers are working.

He's good.

He's actually good.

He's redeemed himself. I run my fingers along his scalp, my right leg thrown over his body and I roll my hips against him, pressing my chest into him, moaning between kisses, between tongue.

But he's shown he knows what he's doing. He's shown he has experience.

Finally something that allows me to view him as not just another desperate, though attractive, male.

I stop him, slide between his legs, and run my tongue up that so-long shaft. A long journey, a hissed "Christ" escapes from his lips and I go to work. He spasms, twitches, curses, my mouth roaming over him. GV8 has me trained so well.

"Bring yourself over here so I can at least finger you," he says between gasps.

"No. Too distracting."

"Let me go down on you."

"No. The angle is wrong if we do that. I won't be able to get my tongue here," and a quick run up the underside of his shaft and a babbled "Ohokayokay," from him.

He swings me around anyhow. Lying on our sides, me on top, him on top, his huge shaft dangling at me from above.

I finally manuever back around to him being unable to please me.

Thumbs stroking the base of his shaft, fingers running over his balls, tongue running wild over the sheer amount of surface area he's been blessed with.

A whispered "faster" sets me in motion, and he's trying so hard not to buck against my face. "Ohgodohjesusjesusjesusfuckinggodohcrapjesus," pours from his lips and he shoots. Mouthfuls and mouthfuls and I'm trying to get it all and not make a mess as he continues to shoot load after load, profanity on the heels of each one.

His twitch alerts me that he's a hyper-sensitive guy. I lie absolutely still, knowing that pulling off of him will be painful. It takes about two minutes for the painful overload of sensation to leave him, and I gently drop him from my mouth.

"Oh god," he tells me as I crawl up beside him. "Jesus, that was crazy. Damn."

"I didn't mean to give you tourettes. Sorry."

We laugh and talk. I clean up, hit the restroom, get dressed.

He walks me to my car, we exchange numbers, and I drive home.

If I see him again this weekend, I see him again. If I do not, I do not.

It's not about the justification or validation that is brought. It's what you learn from the person, what you learn about yourself and what you learn about the world around you and how people view it.

We have moments.

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