I'm a Toys 'R' Us Kid, Continuation

The fun in her laugh as she jumps like a youth infect me, my grin turn to laughs of my own.  I can't jump on the bed without breaking it or the ceiling, but I can wrestle her to the ground.  Pillows are sacrificed, the pawns in our epic conflict for bedroom supremacy.  My size and strength are useless, she is making me laugh so hard, my muscles turn to useless weight.  We tumble and turn and roll and squeeze and bite and tickle and laugh.  The laughter is honest, guttural, mirthful.  

Eventually I win out. My abilities overcoming hers as we wind up in a breathless heap.  I pin her and announce my victory in her trademark fashion.  The Winner immediately starts touching herself, rubbing her moisture on my body, making me taste what she had been vicariously teasing me with all day.  It's so unfair of her to do.  She is fully aware that tasting that will garner the response she is looking for.  

I make my way down to her knees, out of reach of her devilish hands, and I rest my face upon her thighs.  As I catch my breath, she continues to rub herself, and I continue to take in the view.  Eventually, my self-control and feigned disinterest fail.  I place my strong, able hands between her knees and make room for myself.  

The scent is the first thing to assault my senses.  Full, round, individual, and incredibly arousing.  My eyes find hers while I collect the wetness making its way down her thighs.  My tongue glides across her skin like raindrops down a window.  Silent and effortlessly I make sure to enjoy every possible moment of teasing her.  Coming closer and closer with every pass, I pull with lips and teeth as my warm breath rolls over her waiting lips.  I take my time, slowly migrating towards the center of all things.  

I push her legs in opposite directions until they will go no further, and I look at what I will soon be enjoying.  A woman, in all her complexity and intricacy, shows her vulnerability before me. The pads of my fingers begin rubbing on the outside of her lips, keeping their grip despite an abundance of lubrication.  I open her to the waiting lips and tongue.  A full and deliberate breath rains upon her, followed by a pulsating flat tongue.  

Using concise and firm pressure, I begin manipulating my mouth around her clit.  While my tongue makes its presence known, my hands remember the skin I enjoyed earlier on her breasts.  The taste is intoxicating, each moment of enjoyment causing its own pulse within me. After making sure to suck, flick, lick, and all other verbs known to a pussy-enjoying man like myself, her clitoris, I shift my oral attention further down.

As much as she enjoys what I had been doing up to that point, she prefers to feel my tongue as far inside as possible.  I am for that as well, since it gives me the chance to taste her at her warmest place.  I start slow, tracing the diameter of her as I make my way in.  She draws breath more quickly as my pattern of attention follows a progression inward.  Eventually I enter her fully with a pointed tongue that presses upwards.  As my nose and lip exchange places rubbing her clit, I look to her with my eyes and see the pleasure spreading in her countenance.  

I want her to cum. Not for me, but for her.  To feel her pussy be rewarded with release while I taste and engage with the most tender part of her.  I close my eyes and keep my face in place as her thighs press my head.  The vice holds me, her back and hips pushing into me, I push back with the effort I can give, and her moans grow more audible.  Fingers grasp my hair, nails digging into my scalp, and I am now at her mercy as she is at mine.  Tightening around me, underneath me, I can feel the orgasm travel through her.  

I make my way into a more intimate position as she enjoys the warmth of my body holding hers.  She kisses me deeply, and giggles. It's not a laugh, it's a giggle.  I ask her what's so funny, and she cannot seem to help herself by responding with more giggling.  Eventually she manages to tell me that she had won again, and that she had done a good job of getting what she wanted that morning.  Just like a little girl tricks a little boy into doing what she wants, I had fallen victim to her games.

I don't wanna grow up, though. 

I'm a Toys 'R' Us Kid

When I was a young fellow, being a toys r us kid meant you didn't wanna grow up.  As Peter Pan as that sounds, it makes sense.  I still haven't grown up, and I am not in a hurry.  There are grown-up aspects I possess, but I don't ever want to really grow up.

Talking with the Winner the other night, I realized how cool it will be to be and adult male who can come home to a woman at their residence.  It sounds silly, I know. Think about it, I implore you.  As a child (or someone living under someone else's roof), you never know that feeling of someone being in your house waiting for you to come home and have fun with.  I'm not talking about playing with your dog, either (although that will be cool too).  

As a professional business person, I would enter the house in my full suit.  Losing the jacket at the door, I would take a breath and absorb the comfort of being home.  All day I would have maintained my sanity and control while remembering just how soft her skin felt that morning.  How her cherubic hair fell like a river delta, flowing and nurturing, across my chest as I woke up.  The way she grabbed my hand on my way out the door, trying to tempt me to remain in bed with her for the remainder of the day.  Now I would be home, in the place I had made for myself, and for her.  In that thought, a man can take pride.  

My shoes would not allow me to sneak up on her, but I would try nonetheless.  As I track her singing down to the kitchen sink, I devise my strategy.  She greets me without turning, without looking to see that I was up to mischief.  She should know better, I haven't grown up that much.  My steps get closer and closer, and upon her finally looking to see what I was doing, my hands would be on the bottom of her shirt, pulling it up without hesitation.  

She doesn't wear a bra around the house, especially when she just got out of the shower and is waiting for me to come home.  The temptation is her fault, those supple, bountiful pieces of her have been in my vision every time I closed my eyes today.  The shirt off, my mouth on her breasts, teeth drawing closer to each other upon her exquisite nipples, hands tactilely consuming the skin about her sides and back.   She really enjoys having her breasts cared for, and I really enjoy our mutual pleasures.  Skin is skin, but the soft, virgin skin of a woman's breasts stands distinct from its integumentary companions.  

She begins unbuttoning my shirt while I rise to kiss those lips that had called me at 3 to remind me of how unfortunate my departure was earlier, how the articulate hands unfastening my collar had been forced to give pleasure intended for me to the only person still in bed.  The tie is pulled off in a hurry, and I stop her wandering palms to pick it up off the floor.   Now she can finally remove my shirt, which is thrown onto the counter, and begin the effort to return my torso to its natural state.  Once we both find ourselves in a state of northern exposure, she starts removing my pants.  Belt, clasp, zipper, in order, before my very aroused reminder of a long, throbbing day makes its appearance.  

The tie in my hands is placed around her neck, with either end covering up her nipples.  A woman in a tie is so sexy, and there is something I find irresistible about the idea.  Taking the initiative to give her a nice windsor knot to wear around her neck, I make sure the length of the tie is just right.  Now when I unbutton her jeans, the chevron inverts itself in the most directive of places.   We spend a fair amount of time pressed against the sink, the feel of her skin and the silk of my tie pressed against my body.  My height overwhelms her at times, and I make an effort to ease the bend in her neck by changing my body's position.  

Eventually the tie is taken hold of, and the woman is led to her bed.  As I remind her of the turmoil she caused me throughout the day with her explicit communication, that little girl appears in her smile, in her eyes, in her body language.  The woman then removes her jeans and gets on the bed.  Her form in the bed, a woman on the pedestal, is worthy of note.  

"Model that tie, sell it for me."

She shows me the sultry, Calvin Klein advertisement.  Curved back, fierce stare, carnal communication.  I ask her for fun, cute, All-American girl.  Her blonde hair, blue eyes and picturesque smile respond.  She jumps to her feet, and jumps on the bed, letting her hair dance around her in the most honest way.  I think I am sold on the tie, I'll buy three.

To be continued...

In response...

I wrote that post quickly, I wrote it in the moment.  In stream-0f-consciousness style.   There were places that were reality, were true, but the majority of it was my effort to submit to the idea.  The I want's were my roleplaying, my pretending, my empathizing with people who do sexually assault others.  

There are some women who enjoy the idea of all of this, who want to experience a situation like rape.  Protected, controlled, safer, with a partner they trust, but experience it nonetheless.  

Everyone contains human emotion, or the capability for it, on a wide spectrum.  Everyone holds the power to be dark, poisonous, hateful, an abuser.  Everyone. Denying that part of yourself is unhealthy, is repressive, is dishonest.  I am exploring my feelings, all of them.  I want to know myself, know my heart, know who I am.  People unwilling to understand themselves live in fear.

Since Richard brought up Freudian psychology, an outdated and empirically lacking approach, I'll phrase it in said terms:  Everyone contains a Thanatos, our lives are full of repressive powers minimizing our most basic drives.  The ego regulates this issue of mediating between the darkness and the social expectations on us.  Freudian therapy requires one to come to terms with these repressed desires, the catharsis easing the conflicted feelings inside.  

I take exception to the notion that I flirt with psychopathic tendencies.  F. Scott Fitzgerald said, "The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function."  Without my ability to see something as someone else sees it, I am nothing.  

There was fantasy in my post yes.  However, the true intent remains the same.  To everyone who has been a victim of such a terrible thing, I feel for you.  And that's what I want, to empathize with the assaulted and the rapist.

I have been assaulted, sexually.  Multiple abusers, multiple times.  I can't even have relationship-free sex with a consenting partner without feeling terrible.  Fact is, I'm not psychopathic, I'm not a wicked person.  Instead, I am willing to search for the parts of myself that scare me.  Sorry for the apologetic post, but damage control seemed necessary.

Rape me

Nirvana doesn't qualify as one of my favorite bands.  They had good tunes, and changed a lot of stuff in music.  I don't swing from Kurt Cobain's nuts like Rolling Stone magazine does.  But I do like this verse of this song: 

Hate me

Do it and do it again

Waste me

Rape me, my friend

My father, truly the smartest man in the world, tells me that denying the ability to see or understand something is lying.  The lie protects me from facing the dangers I perceive in that thing.  The buddhist thing to do is to present myself at the feet of this thing and submit to what it has to teach me.  

Sexual assault is something that disgusts me.  Real sexual assault, real rape, real harm.  But in the spirit of the buddha, I decided to approach it with willingness to understand. 

I want to rape a woman.  Not really.  Maybe really, I'm not sure. No, I'm sure, I don't want to hurt anyone in such a way.  I do want to hurt a woman.  I want to slap her, I want to grab her by the hair, throw her on the ground, and completely overpower her attempts to resist.  I want to pull down her pants, and fuck her without concern for her feelings, for her pleasure, for my performance.  I want to make her suffer, to let my full weight squeeze the breath out of her.

I want to choke her to keep her from screaming.  Regardless of her protests, I want to fuck her in whatever usable hole I find desirable at that moment.  If I have to clutch the back of her neck to get her to bend over so I can rape her unwilling ass, I will.  My hands will squeeze, pluck, pull, twist, bind, and otherwise curl her breasts and nipples into any uncomfortable position I can think of.  

My fucking will not be anything beyond that of an angry, feral, hateful organism.  She will serve a purpose, and once I cum, I will grab her by the hair and throw her out.  

It's very late, and I wanted to share that exploration.  I agree with it. I would not do any of this against her will, truly.  We would have our safe word in place (I'm thinking Nevada).  Or maybe we wouldn't.  

Am I a bad person?  I do not care too much, since I believe some women need to be treated like warm holes, good for nothing more than abuse.  

Whoever this happened with would most likely never see the most extreme, terrible person I choose to contain.  And I would surely precede and follow this act with the tender, warm person I usually am.  

But for those moments I was free to be that man..... I am afraid of what I could be.  

Morning lights shine brighter

I woke up this morning feeling better, feeling ok.  I read last night's entry, and it is pretty melodramatic.  I'm not really too happy with it, and I am thinking about taking it down.  Might be a violation of the "spirit" of this blog experiment I'm trying, but I refuse to be a bitch.  Especially for any amount of time past the original emotion.  In today's clarifying perspective, I see I wasn't really attracted to her enough.  I was just being impetuous and foolish.  Not my style, not my form, not me.  That, plus my mental turmoil made it difficult to get it up, and once it was at 75 % or so, made it difficult to maintain.  Still a bad decision.  I just need to get a girl that I like being around, that I can screw around with, and not make it a big deal.  Kind of a sentimental friends with benefits arrangement?

Who knows

A good reminder

4 or 5 years ago, I experienced my one and only NSA encounter.  I felt terrible afterwards, I pledged I would never, ever do that again.  Well, I did.  Tonight, an hour ago, I had sex with a woman I had just met.  I couldn't feel any worse.

I thought time had passed, I was older, wiser, more mature. I could compartmentalize, set feeling aside from pleasure.  I was wrong.   

From the moment I walked in the room, everything about my heart said "Run, get away, leave."  It had nothing to do with her, she was fine.  My mental discord just split me in two.  It wasn't fear, or maybe it was. I believed that if I just pushed through it, I would be fine on the other side.  I thought I just needed to conquer it and go on.  I was wrong

In the spirit of honesty, I will admit: I was so uneasy, I couldn't even find the spirit to stand up and do my job.  I am such a fucking moron, talking about how I want something, how I need it.  No better than a 5 year old wanting a BB gun or a 15 year old wanting a dirtbike.  When it comes down to it, it wasn't right.  My morality killed me.  I thought that I had divorced my shame, my embarrassment.  I was wrong

With some oral persuasion, I got the motivation to get my erection.  Then I did what I was asked to do.  On my pride I rested as I drilled her face into that pillow.  It was the only thing I could find footing in.  I stayed to prove to her and myself that I can come in, and please a woman and leave.  I came in to prove to myself that it was ok to do that. I did not run so I could prove how strong I was.  I was proven wrong.

And now I am disgusted with myself.  Feeling the antithesis of what I expected to feel, what I wanted to feel.  I could not be any more shamed.  I am a fool.  Tonight was the worst decision I have made in the past 12 months.  My pride put one foot in front of the other into that room.  My shame lit my tail as I streaked away.  Guilt and shame and resentment and self-loathing are back.  And the only solace I have is in myself, the only face I can look to for comfort is the one in the mirror.  Never again, ever.  I am a terrible person for becoming the man I swore to be better than.  I lied to myself, and I have to live with that distrust.  Disgusting.

I love you man

This weekend I saw the new movie with Paul Rudd.  Funny, real funny, and refreshing to not have a villainous woman to have to push against.  In the light of the bromoerotic title, I had to share this magical occurrence:

I felt like spring air might infectiously lift some other people's spirits over this week, so I posted on CL last night, with the hopes of striking while the iron is hot.  Of the 17 or so responses I got, at least 12 were guys.  Some of the 17 were guys wanting me to get with their wives or girlfriends or whatever, but the 12 others were gay.  I have gay friends, bisexual friends, and have been around a lot of LGBT people.  I don't have issue with it.  Disclaimers given, I don't like dudes in that way.  Nothing about a dude is erotic to me.  When some guy says something along the lines of:

"hey bro, I know you're straight, but I was wondering if you wanted me to suck you off.  won't be gay, just give you head and you leave.  How about it?"

There is so much wrong with that.  So much.  

I am so sorry, women.  For all of the idiots that try to talk to you about this kind of stuff.  If those 12 gay dudes hit me up like that, I can't imagine the pain you must suffer.  

Please accept my gender's apologies.

America, it's worth fighting for

I have a few cousins and relatives who are members of the military.  My older relatives fought in the wars in Vietnam, South Pacific, and Europe.  Every day like today, I mentally thank them for their efforts in securing my life as an American boy.  When I was in high school, I had a football coach unafraid to say what we were all thinking.  One April afternoon a 17 year old girl walked into the weight room (do Penthouse letters start like this?) and delivered some sort of message for the teacher she was aiding for.  Her shorts were testing the dress code, and she had enjoyed plenty of UV baths.  My coach looked at us after we all slackjawed stared, and said, 

"Boys, it's shit like that that makes this country worth dying for."

As I walked around campus today, the weather was warm, and legs were starting to come out.  Tan legs, little flip-flops, pedicured toes, and shorts.  Boobs or ass man, that's a little bit too simple, a little too outdated.  I like a lot of lady parts, but the waist down can earn my respect without fail.  Petite feet (I suppose all feet are small comparing to the skis at the ends of my legs) strapped into the foam sandal, flexing the taught tendon connecting to that shimery skin on the calf.  Connective areas in the body are so great.  When the hamstring runs into the back of the knee, it just calls your attention to the rest of the muscle.  Following that up, one is next forced to look at the shelf. 

 Most "ass men" know what the shelf is.  Where a butt hangs over a thigh, the place that requires you to curl your hand in the same shape and say "Boop!", that's a shelf. 

Every pair of sexy legs and ass I see makes me suddenly start clenching my jaw.  To have a girl lying on her face, legs straight, and to put my teeth right on the seam and bite. I have to find something better to do than stare, because I will start proposing marriage if I don't turn my attention.  MMMM MM MM MMM MMMM Tasty.

Let me have a taste of that, and I'll go fight Kim Jong Il. Right now. *America, the Beautiful begins playing, a fanfare*.  And I'll look that commie bastard right in the face and say,

"Listen you jowled grease ball.  The U S of A doesn't take shit from any punks with a few long range missiles and a chip on their little shoulder.  Everyone knows you guys got the 38th Parallel thanks to the Red neighbors to the west.   But my United States is here to protect the world from trash like you.  So go ahead, enrich your uranium.  The second it goes weapons grade, we'll be crawling up your ass like Sadaam down a spider hole." 

God bless America, and those lovely girls' asses.

SALUTE!

Why I rule

SG worked in a business that I frequented in the past year.  She and I would exchange pleasantries, talk about school, and the crap that seems to be the topic of all meaningless conversation.  She is very much my type, if I were forced to list one: Short, natural blonde, blue eyes, petite. One day I came in to the business, where her coworkers, who also all knew me, told me she was hiding in back and wanted me to ask her out.  I had not really thought too much about it before then, I was not too confident, and not too interested in putting up with the dating thing.  One may have fueled the other, but I digress. 

Once she presented herself, we exchanged numbers and made plans for the middle of the week.  She had something come up, but she did call me that Friday to ask if I wanted to take the rain check Saturday night.  I agreed, we set up the details, and agreed to see each other in 24.  The next morning, while I was working, she texted me to let me know someone she had been seeing had asked her to be exclusive, and she was sorry.  That was the text verbatim. 

I'm not one to get upset about rejection, but I was pretty bewildered as to what had just transpired.  The thing that cooked my McNuggets was that it was a text, not even the courtesy to call.  I deleted her number, since we apparently didn't have any more business, and moved on.  I saw her at the frat party, after I discovered that the inside of my pants contained enough friction to start a fire for Tom Hanks on Castaway, and she decided to play it cute with me.

Since I had seen her last, I have changed. A lot.  I am mostly an ass to women, since they respond positively to it.  I don't Chris Brown them, nor do I maliciously insult them, but I do relentlessly jab, bust, poke, expose, and in all other ways make fun of them.  It's immature, it's predictable, and it's thoughtless. In communication class, one is taught to shape the discourse to build rapport with the recipient. So I don't feel bad, considering my audience.  

I was trying to watch Sports Center when she approached. She started talking to me, pulling her sorority sisters over to say "This is the guy I was always talking to you about", and otherwise interrupting my attempt to catch basketball highlights.  I humored her, disregarded her, and let her talk to herself before I realized something: I am still mad at this girl.  So in the spirt of revenge, of my recent emergence as asshole, and of getting some vindictive action from her, I turned it on.  

I busted on her about being fat (she weighs maybe 100 lbs.), about being a nag, about being maternal, about it all. Girls that get this stuff, and see that I am having fun, respond well and see that it's cool to bust back.  She didn't get it, which made it all the more fun.  Eventually she started talking about a friend of mine, how she dated him, how they had made out, and then she comes out with this gem: "He even wanted to cheat on his girlfriend with me." 

With a straight face, and no hint of sarcasm, I responded back in a monotone, "Does that impress most guys?" 

 

"Does what impress most guys?"

"What you just told me"

"It was just a statement, you don't have to be an asshole about it."

"It was just a question, you don't have to be a bitch."

She texted me Saturday morning to apologize for being a cunt (her words, not mine). She also asked if I wanted to go hang out sometime this week.

I haven't said anything back. 

Dancing with no underpants.... ing

I don't wear underwear.  Excuse me, I rarely wear underwear.  The only pants requiring underwear on my part are those slacks that are so sheer, a lack of bloomers would amount to indecent exposure.  Plenty of people choose to abstain from the shackles of underwear, but I am always asked why.  Here's the best explanation I can muster:

External organs do not agree with underwear.  I have tried them all.  Boxers have a seam that tries to separate my fellas, briefs feel as though my testicles are in a vacuum-sealed bag for dry winter storage, boxer briefs  do a little of both.  

When I do wear it, it's boxer briefs.  Compression shorts work well, but they can get a little aggressive, so I tend to use them sparingly.  

Men in countries around the world, and throughout history, wear skirts. Rugby dudes in the UK wear kilts, Japanese samurai wore sarongs, the Polynesian linebackers wear lava-lavas.  Why can't guys here be manly and wear something as incredibly comfortable as a skirt? I'm not going into the socio-cultural discussion on here. But I would enjoy to let the boys have a break every now and then.

This prefaces the story. I went to a house party the other night.  It was fun, better than a frat party (which I went to later), and a little more my style than a club.  I talked to a girl, we danced.  Talked to another girl, we danced. Lather, rinse, repeat.  Finally, a girl and I danced in a more meaningful way.  Of course I mean the thing we do that looks like standing sex with clothes on.  I got really hard dancing with her, and she obviously knew it.  Her hands found their way to the goods more than a few times.  Every time she had the chance, she would pull away slightly to spiritedly return to my crotch with her hips. 

This all sounds great. It was.  But here's where the underwear discussion comes into play.  Jeans are reasonably forgiving without underwear.  No zipper debacles or anything of the sort.  But when skin is pressed by means of hemodraulic force against them, they can become quite uncomfortable.  When ass presses said jeans against skin, which is pressing against jeans: 

Newton's laws plus biology=  Ouchie weiner.  

Blue balls, raw skin, and muscular atrophy.  When I get an erection lasting for a considerable time, and if any guys read this please agree or tell me what happens to them, the flesh of my penis and the connective supportive tissue holding it to my body gets SORE.  Like get some ice for my unit because I did one too many cock pushups sore.  It was a bittersweet experience.  Or maybe a sexy ouchie experience.  

Crushes

Britni Shameless posted a link on Paul Rudd, who she digs, (and who I man crush something Fierce).   This is the perfect opportunity to post some of my crushes.

 

Eva Mendes.  Even though she has been in so many movies that feature her beyond hawt, I think what I dig about her is how versatile her looks are: sexy, dirty, sweaty, cutey, booty, pretty.  Great actress, strong.

Twofer. Elizabeth Banks: She's so cute, and real, and down to earth.  Any woman that can play Laura Bush, and Beth the crazy girl from 40 year-old virgin is pretty sweet.  

Kristen Bell: Forgetting Sarah Marshall, mmmmmm.

Brianna Evigan.: Have you seen Step-Up 2? Holy crap!

That's all

Lame car/sex reference story time: Can you handle a stick

Everybody that has had a good time with someone in a Biblical sense has probably had to navigate steering wheel and center console.  Broad, sweeping generalizations in mind, Ms. Inconspicuous  inspired me to recall my most indulgent car ride.  I was a junior in high school, involved in a few extracurricular activities that I shared with Priscilla.  She was dating another member of these activities, a young closet case gay guy.  Everyone knew he was gay, he just hadn't revealed his fondness for playing catch yet.  Priscilla was in need of some sticky loving, and I suggested in semi-jest that she buy a dildo.  Her response was warm, and I thought it would be fun to push her to see how far it would go.  Eventually I figured out she wasn't joking, and she wanted to go get one.  Not wanting her to embark on such an adult journey alone, and seeing as how I was so experienced myself,  I promised to accompany her to the nearest retailer. 

The day came, we went to the store, and I was amazed at what I saw when I went in.  Sex shops are wild, especially for a Midwestern kid who had spent the first 14 years of his life baptized in the beautiful sexual honesty of a Protestant church.  A whole wall of cocks and knobbers, hehe sounds like cops and robbers, along with the shelves of clothing and videos assailed my eyes as I took all of the debauchery in!  I think the best part were the condoms and penis-shaped gag gifts.  Something penis shaped used as a gag gift?  I love that shit. 

It took Priscilla about 30 minutes to pick out the one she wanted, while I spent the rest of the time giggling like a high school boy at the hilarity of a penis pump demonstration video being played.  She called me over to ask my input on which one I thought was best.  If anyone else realizes the issue with this, I'm glad I'm not alone.  She made her purchase, and took her military-grade-plastic encased phallus, along with a 76 inch toy, back to her car. 

The sexual flirting that had taken place up to the point of getting back in the car was playful, cute, silly even.  Door shut, music down, it's biznass time.  Palpable tension in the air, and that awkward we-just-came-out-of-a-sex-shop silence enveloped us.  We've all been there-- two high school kids in the car trying to decide who the hell is going to put the included Double A duracells in the toy.  It's a pretty common thing. What isn't common is, after removing the Joe Cocker from his wrapping and providing it with current, my sudden notice of how savvy she had been.  "She's wearing a skirt," my mind recognized.  As she started to drive, her hands found their way to my trousers.  "Her nails have been Frenched up", my mind recognized.  At the nearest stoplight, her mouth met mine.  "She's wearing a fair amount of lip gloss and smells damn good," my mind recognized.  I have since figured out that these things are buying yes's.  I was naive, that's my only excuse.  

"Priscilla, why don't you take your panties off?"

"Okay," her sheepish voice responded.  For a girl who had gone a long way to make sure things were conducive to the act about to take place, she sure sounded tentative.  

As she and I made the trip back to our meeting place, I was impressed at her ability to focus on driving.  Despite the stop-and-go traffic, despite the men in utility trucks looking into the window at the girl with one foot in the seat and one hand on my hair, and despite the humming sound hokey-pokeying its way in and out, she was able to safely navigate the roads back to my car.  I remember the visual of her hand on mine between her legs as she grasped my hair with extra zest.  Thankfully, she waited until we came to a full and complete stop before she washed my hand with her orgasm.

After exchanging pleasantries, drying off some skin, and making jokes I got out of the car and went home.  I couldn't believe I had done that, and I still have problems understanding how everything had escalated so quickly. 

The extracurricular activities we shared at school? We were both in a musical.  

I played her father. 

  

Polar Decision Making

I find that decisions in my life can become black and white for me.  A friend of mine said boiling things down to dichotomy makes a choice simpler, cleaner.  That sounds correct, since I am a master of mental gymnastics, I have been prone to rearranging my mental world in order to relieve anxiety.  The difficulty lies in the outcome, the effects.  If I choose A, then A's consequences will be D.  If I choose B, then the consequences will be C.  There is no middle ground, no DC hybrid.  Not everything receives this this treatment, but many of the bigger decisions I make are part of this thought process.  My latest choice comes out of sexuality.  In the past I have been sexual with people, some of whom I was in a relationship with, some of whom I was not.  The just-for-funs (friends in fornication, to borrow from a blogger I love) have been wild, off-the-wall, crazy stuff.  Every time I see them now, I feel pretty ugly. After I did what I did with them, I felt pretty ugly.  Although I leaped ahead sexually with these people, I feel like I suffered psychologically.  Maybe that's what some sexual interactions do. I know that many women, most female friends I know, have suffered sexual trauma of some sort.  But these sexual acts I took part in were consensual, and I was old enough (according to the state) to make the choice.  The overwhelming noise in my head, trumpeting over my sexual desires for just-for-fun encounters, tells me to avoid the pain; avoid the ugly, terrible, dark feelings.  As for my relationships, the encounters do not merit discussion.  I know that when I see those people, my guilt and shame does not find its way into my head.  

So here's the dichotomy: 

If I have sex with people for fun, without the commitment and stuff, then I am going to feel the cesspool of disgusting feelings.  

If I have sex with people I am committed to, then I will be at peace with my choices. 

Obviously the answer is, "Just have sex with people you're involved with and shut up!" 

Here's the wrench in the whole thing: I want to just-for-fun fuck.  I don't want a relationship.  I want to experience my youth and virility.  

Thus the polar discourse within me begins.  My biggest question has to do with psychosexual health:

Do all people experience the shame and ugliness, or do some people escape that?  

Obviously anything I do at this point will affect me less than things I did earlier in my life, but is that because I have been desensitized to it?  Or is it that I now have the emotional maturity to deal with it? Again, the thought comes out as black and white.  It's most likely both.   

Perhaps there are things in me that enjoy the shame and guilt.  Those emotions might be comfortable for me at some level.  Sex is something to be ashamed of, in my mind.  Having sex in a committed relationship gives a get-out-jail card, in my mind.  Maybe that's where the polar express starts.  Within my most sacred emotions, I subscribe to the idea of right and wrong.  I went to a Christian school and attended church, boo-hoo, woe is my psychological well-being, you've heard it before.  Maybe I have to stop being the judge of my own behaviors, and just live in the way I want to live.  Maybe I need to just do something and see how I feel. Maybe I should stop being an introspective vagina and start being extroverted penis I was born to be!  

Inert

Without all the musings into soul and mind, I don't know if my desire to blog would be as keen.  Knowing that it can't be all heavy-worded explorations, today's entry is going to try to spare that. Some goings on for me: 

I am wearing what could be the most awesome shirt in the world.  This is the kind of shirt that doesn't belong in normal settings but is best left for the June days spent at the lake (for you coastal residents, the beach).  Today has been warm, almost hot, and I just can't help but think of my fondest memories of summer.

 

The rain will start falling soon, an event a man of my interests looks forward to.  The rains come down, and the floods go up.  While that spells soggy basements for others, to me it means I get to paddle.  Hopefully this season I can earn some legitimate injuries and war stories, since that's an automatic membership into the panty-dropping extreme sports club. Haha

I have been in school for the past 15 years of my life.  That's a long time, and I can't believe some people actually punish themselves by remaining part of the educational system well into their late 20's.  Everything I learn is just retained long enough to regurgitate onto a test, then quickly disposed of.  I'm sure college meant something to someone once upon a time, but I have lost interest.  If I wasn't being paid to go, I wouldn't.  Ok, maybe I would.  But honestly, why did I spend the first two years learning things from high school all over again? Jesus/ God/ Muhammed/ Abba, or as most of you know him, President Obama should focus on why that is.  

Politically, I am unaffiliated and uninterested.  It's mental masturbation, like religion.  Why don't people just grow up and get the job done instead of talking about who did what, and whose earmarks add up to more pork.  The founding fathers counted on our politicians to perform on behalf of their honor and integrity, read the Federalist papers if you think such things are wishful thinking.  Washington was a unanimous selection for President, turned down the offer to be king, and bowed out after he did what he came to do.  Nut tuggers like Harry Reid and Roy Blunt should remember what their role is, and not what they want it to be.  

Tomorrow I have a question to discuss, but on a scrumtrelescent Friday such as this I had to be more light.  

Like a Twitter cluster fuck

I don't use twitter, and I love the term cluster fuck.  It's beautiful outside, and when I say beautiful I mean sun out and painting the southern sky.  I mean the breeze of an equinox blowing over remnants of snow from a week ago.  I mean nature's exotic dancers at work: the plants begin to shed dead, brown, dry, crusty reminders of fall and reveal incredibly matched sets of underroos.  Green grass is like, what I presume to be, an Irishman looking at his favorite bonnie lass in only the least clothing possible, on St. Patty's day. And he's drunk.  And somehow potatoes and the Catholic church are involved.  I went for the racist motherload there, and I am excused since my ethnic heritage is like a pound puppy's.  I am not a pagan/wiccan/whatever the accepted vernacular is for it these days, but I see very easily the comparisons drawn between earth and woman.  The fertility in my nostrils is driving my hypothalamus insane.  I swore around mid-January that I was suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder.  While I am a psychology student, well aware of the truth in such disorders, I had always thought myself above such easily cognitively conquerable afflictions.  Turns out I was wrong, and it's not just easy to step out of.  I lost all kinds of pleasurable drives: food, sex, laughs.  But right now, I am about to go gorge myself on clamburgers (that's my new favorite vaginal euphemism) and fried food.  Gawd almighty the spring serves an incredible purpose.  Maybe I should sacrifice a goat and dance around naked in the back yard like our Druid friends. On the twitter cluster side of things, some thoughts: When there are double doors, and you walk squarely out of the locked one, do you also feel like a horse's ass? Sometimes when I am extremely riled up, mad or horny or excited, it helps me to put the biggest knuckle of my index finger in between my teeth and bend it as I bite down.  Maybe it's like a pussy version of cutting, the pain a way to control and express inner conflict, or maybe I'm a freak.  Lastly, when you meet someone for the first time, do you feel like you're in a job interview? I always get the following questions, usually in this order: Where are you from, What's your major, What do you plan to do with that degree, Are you in a frat (sorority girls love that one).  I don't get why those questions are accepted as the most pressing issues worthy of being noted by a stranger.  If I were a girl, meeting potential mates, I would think better questions would be things like Ever been arrested for a sexually violent crime? Do you drink to the point of belligerence? Is your car reliable? Do you want to just have sex and skip the bull shit and hurt feelings?

Is that just too simple, or am I missing something

A lot

I never realized how much I had to say to people who won't judge me until I started talking.  I know people aren't reading this blog as much as Ms. I or others, but the thought that someone might is enough to keep me interested.  So much I want to say consists of things that happened in the past, things that never passed my lips to anyone I know.  I am trying to stay current, trying to talk about my life as it happens, so I will save those stories for a day of bore.  My online perusing of ways to take part in intimate encounters seems to take me to a new place every day.  Craigslist is supposed to work for people, but I don't think my city is large enough for there to be any quality/real ads on there.  I have tried long and hard to find one, and last night, for the first time I found a real person.  Unfortunately, she does not look to be up to my standards.  Beggars can't be choosers, I know, but I am not necessarily a beggar.  Moreover, I am always going to be a chooser.  The fact that a real person responded to me was astounding-- I never post my own, and have mailed my fair share over the past months.  Ashley Madison also earned my interest (and my credit card number), but I think my location has hindered me.  Not only do I live in the Bible belt, where dreams are made of fairy tale shame spirals and guilt showers, but the city just doesn't have a population necessary to support a wide selection of people.  I am in my early 20's and single, so I understand that many women on AM would be hesitant to consider me an option.   If I could put aside the heuristic most women hold of a male my age regarding our emotional, intellectual, and sexual maturity (which is pretty accurate, but not for me); I would still have to battle the stigma of being single and young.  Both of these factors appear to increase the risk in women's minds: I have less to lose by not staying discreet, I may become attached, I may do something stupid and expose them, etc.  I do not know whether these fears are founded, since I have never been a boytoy for some married woman.  I do know that I am exceptional.  The belief that men, especially young ones, are concerned solely with their own pleasure does not hold true for me.  It has been my experience that I enjoy going downtown Georgia brown on a girl more than I enjoy having sex with her.  This may speak to the quality of my sex (that's a different story), or it may be a reflection of my deep-seeded need to earn a woman's affection.  Does the motivation matter to the female with her hands in my hair and legs warming my ears?   I would say no.  The belief that men, especially young ones, can not hold an intelligent conversation does not hold true for me.  I am a smart, charming, witty fellow.  Chalk it up to a career in bs-ing, a pretty high IQ, an overwhelming need to please women, or just that I am literate.  The belief that men, especially young ones, are sexually retarded (in the clinical sense, not the "that's so retarded" way) does not..... well maybe it does.  I am not experienced, am not sure of my ability, and would rather not be shown to be inadequate.  I have the book knowledge, I have the smarts, but does that translate to practice?  That was an incredibly lengthy (that's what she said, Michael Scott says hi) tangent.  Fact is that I want to find the correct venue to express myself sexually. 

Poll

If you are a woman older than me, looking for a man to make you feel great (in whatever way that means) where do you spend time?   This is my poll question. Answer if you would, please

Tick Tock Tick Tock

Seconds dripping. Minutes crawling. The wait has been long. I have tried different things, taken steps, whatever means I could find.  I just recently became old enough to give my patronage to bars and clubs (thanks to my Puritan city's decision to outlaw all of those under 21 from entering such an establishment.  Quick two questions: House Parties aren't dangerous? and I can go to Iraq and be shot at, but I am not old enough to decide whether I can handle some liquid?), so that is now an option I can explore.  What am I looking for? Any woman capable of challenging me mentally, emotionally, and physically.  Keep in mind that I, despite my shortcomings in the area of confidence with women, am still an incredibly strong young man.  Females often lose my interest merely on the basis of being boring to me.  My self-inflicted celibacy is the result of this.  My brother's on and off girlfriend threw herself at me a few times over the past year, and I let it go a little while before I quashed the notion.  Other girls who are just far too predictable fell short of holding my interest.  Would I go home and make good on all my poetic musings with a girl who is incredibly hot? Hell yes, I would.  That's a challenge, physically, and who said we were getting married.  Would I spend some time getting to know a female able to bust my balls, rival my wit, and keep me on my toes? Most likely.  The combination of the two might just dirty up my knee with a marriage proposal.  Not really, since that woman only exists in the space between my temples.  I'm rambling now.  Here is a list of things that enter my mind when I am desiring amorous companionship:

1. An older (late 20's all the way to 40's) woman with an above average body.  Someone looking for a young, good-looking guy like myself to make her feel great again.  This woman would expect nothing of me beyond the things she wanted most.  Perhaps she is with a partner, perhaps I can fulfill a need others can not, perhaps she just wants to escape and feel free of temporal reminders.  I am not to decide, but this is my number 1 fantasy. 

2. A female (I use this term in regards to those members of the fairer sex not yet women who have matured past being a girl) worth my time.  Someone I can invest more than intimacy in.  Emotion, feeling, love, lust, all of it.  Not a girlfriend, since I don't really believe in those. (Sarah, you understand).  

3.  A girl (in mind, not age) that is physically incredible.  For one reason or another, this trades positions with number 1 depending on my mindset at the time.  This has been a girl I have feared most of my sexually-mature-enough-to-care-about-females-in-that-way life.  My self image has always been that of an ugly exterior with a sparkling personality, and I always feel inadequate to hook this type of person.  Lately, I have been wanting to find this girl and to crush her.  To snare her with emotion, to have her thirst for my every drop of attention, to deceive her enough to find vulnerability, and then to tell her how shallow and weak and meaningless it all was.  Vengeance for all the girls that did similar things to me in reverse fashion, perhaps.  Perhaps it's just my way to feel powerful over them.  I doubt I could ever have the psychopathic ability to do such  thing, but the thought has not been anomalous.  

And thus, I feel my young life ticking away. My desire, ability, and want to find these different types of partners dwindling.  I know I am still very young, but for a person who has waited quite a long time, relatively, this seems inconsequential.  

On a side note, if you know of someone that fits this bill, and is looking for a person like me, my email can be accessed by speaking to my secretary.