Thursday, October 1, 2009

And tricky got me in...

I managed to melt part of my purse last night.

But let's back-track a bit, shall we?

It has come to light that being part of my schedule is nigh impossible. I am, as has been commented, a moving target.

So one of my male friends decided that the only way we would ever see each other was to have breakfast during the week. Accurate.

Breakfast at 7AM, work at 830AM, traveling the highways of Southern California during rush hour: Priceless.

Evening class ran late, surprisingly so. But I suppose that's what happens when you cover MacBeth in a Shakespearean lit class.

I called my evening date at 957PM to tell him my menu choice before the kitchen closed at 10PM.

Reached him at 1001PM.

These are the moments when a smile edges up the corner of your mouth. You look at them and know that there's going to be something, something good, something fun, and you're going to take the time to enjoy it.

Cal Tech graduate, so he's smart. Ex-football, ex-rugby, so he's built. Shoulders, back, and waist like heaven. Mechanical engineer, so he's well off, but that's merely a footnote. Eyes like Rollins, piercing, driving, intense. He looks up at me through their amber liquid and I pause, tell him how damned beautiful he is.

Wide palms, smooth skin, I admire the hair traveling up his forearms. Not thick, not wiry, but masculine, naturally groomed. The top button is undone on his shirt, and I know I'm going to be running my tongue from the edge of his collar, up his throat, that pulsing beat soon to be dancing under my mouth, jawline, earlobe.

We talk.

He's surprised at how smart I am. I laugh.

He's trapped in a world of careers and goals, of deadlines and setting up "for later". He's lost so much of his social life, so much of what makes him happy. He feels awkward and inexperienced, he wants to learn. He saw me, saw what I had to say, and decided that I would be the one to help.

I would be the one to teach him, to open him up.

I should get paid for this.

But it's not exactly charity work when the man in question is so well put together.

Food arrives.

We talk between bites.

He's nervous, excited. Quick bullets of words and semi-constant qualifying, even though I am not challenging him in such a manner.

We talk about values, about experiences, about morals and the dillution of damage over time, over generations, through nature and nuture, relationships, sexuality, his college years and how he feels that he came to a sudden halt in his progression of socialization.

And he did.

It shows.

But I've had worse cases.

I've done this many times before.

When the restaurant starts to close its doors, we are the only remaining patrons.

We move outside to a long wooden bench. I watch him try to escalate, watch him mirror my movements, my hands especially. He doesn't know what he's doing, but he's honest about it and that redeems him. I have a beast to play with when I return to my lover, so this is something else entirely.

A puppy. A beautiful puppy.

I'll take two.

I don't make it easy for him, though. There's no pity in this game. He wants help, he wants to know what to do, how to do it, and he knows that it's likely that I'm the only girl he'll find that is able to show him, to teach him, to watch him, and to speak to him in a language he'll understand without judging him.

But he has to move. I have to see what he does naturally.

He looks at me sideways and grins, "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

Soft laughter, "I'm not. I'm just not making it easier for you."

"Why? Am I your big experiment?"

"No, just an experiment."

It is rare to find men so good looking, but so lacking in this regard.

We kiss. He's poor. Mouth too open, lips too uncontrolled and soft, tongue completely withdrawn.

I teach him without words.

Minutes later, he's fine. Not fantastic, but certainly passable. He adapts, he learns quickly. He knows to mirror his partner. We move, not together, but enough to make a go of it.

"You're so easy to please," he murmurs at me.

More laughter, "Everyone says that."

"You don't fidget, you don't fuss, you make sure you're comfortable. You're not constantly adjusting. You just enjoy."

I look up at him, the near-patented Princess Di tilting of the chin, eyes raised to his face: protect-me-love-me-worship-me. "We're responsible for our own comfort, our own pleasure. Communication is everything. Responsibility for yourself, for your actions."

"Men must love you."

"Some do. I'm not exactly standard."

"The ones that do, they must truly love you."

"And I them."

"You give so much."

"I've been given much. Men have helped me, saved me, when I needed it."

And our mouths meet again. My legs are cast across his lap, his hands running up my calves to the tops of my boots, over my thighs, cupping my ass. I'm beyond wet.

I want him.

But I'm not taking him tonight.

1230AM rolls around and we're still on the bench.

"I need to go soon," I tell him.

"Yeah. There's no good way to end this."

"My plan is that we stand up, I lean against that railing, and I get to feel your body fully against mine. Make-out for awhile longer, let me grind against you, and then go our separate ways."

I'm such a planner.

We stand. He's warm, his body is so hard, so muscled, and I'm happily exploring it with my hands, the solidness of his ribs, the curve of his collar bone, where his shoulders meet his neck, his biceps and forearms, rounded ass, carved thighs. Perfect and full of heat.

He buries his face in my breasts and I run my fingers through his hair.

When I turn, he lets out a sharp inhale, near groan.

I glance back at him, see the location of his eyes. I know I've found another ass-man.


"I've been waiting all night to see that. Fuck. There must be accolades to your ass."

"There are."

More hands, more heat, lips, tongues, his thigh slides between mine and we part at 130.

I drive to another friend's place. Another couch to surf, carpet-space to crash on, his cat following me around as I go through my nightly routine. I check my phone before bed to find texts from my date and from GV8 wishing me good night.

When I wake in the morning I grab coffee and munch left-over fillet mignon like an apple as I travel up the 405 to the office.

Good life, good love.

Travel and grow.


  1. You never see a story where a woman describes running her hands over a man's flabby, mashed potatoey beer belly...hahahaha

  2. sliding through, from scene to scene, location and event to the some it's empty. to some it is the only thing/course that feels natural.

  3. Meatbag,

    Actually, if you read back a little, I totally did... just didn't describe it that way because it didn't occur to me. Next time I will totally indulge in the rippling waves of mashed potatoey beer belly and the sweat coating it like sweet, sweet gravy.


    And which are you, if I have to ask?