…a slim, delicate brunette with tiny, freckled breasts, bent me over and fucked me with her purple strap-on. It was a delightful, swimming feeling of giving up control and giving myself over to pleasure - until she reached around to stroke my cock. “You’re not into this, are you?” Nothing I said after that could convince her of the authenticity of my arousal. Disappointed, she didn’t invite me back to her roomful of books and sex toys - I hadn’t responded properly. But it wasn’t up to me - sometimes sensation and pleasure is too dispersed around the body to remain focused in one central physical sign of arousal.
The smell of doughnuts is proven to increase blood flow to the penis.
Oral

"What would happen if I bit you on the nipples?" I asked, encircling them with my fingertips. They were a normal size, but in my mind they are bright red.

He winced a little. “I wouldn’t like that very much.”

It’s true! I thought, exultantly, but I decided to leave them alone for now. “Have you had sex yet?”

"Tonight?" he asked.

No, I thought, I mean in your whole fucking life. I caressed his thighs and the bulge between them. “Do you want to fuck me first?”

"All right," he said. Was there a little bit of hesitation there? He made the houseboy get him another bourbon and took me by the wrist. "Sometimes you have to ask for a drink even when you really don’t want one," he confided to me as he led the way to Tilda's bedroom. I have no idea what this meant.

There were people sitting on the mattress on the floor, talking. “We’re going to fuck now!” I told them happily. They laughed, but I couldn’t understand why: weren’t they just as happy to fuck? I got on the bed first, just lying there since I was already naked. I could hear someone in the other room calling, “Jefferson, Jefferson!”

"They’re calling my name when I have a naked girl in front of me," Jefferson said to me, the nerve, and then he pulled down his pants. And because I was on the bed, exactly level with his crotch, for what felt like a minute I had a very good view of Jefferson’s Cock.

I think for split second upon seeing it, realizing it WAS his cock, I was terrified. Because Jefferson’s Cock had to be the size of a baseball bat. And then I realized it was a perfectly lovely, normal, average sized cock. And then I realized a second thing: he wasn’t hard yet.

That surprises me most of all, that he was entirely eager and willing and he wasn’t hard yet. And then he was in bed with me and spreading my legs and I realized he was going to give me oral.

"Don’t you need…stuff?" I couldn’t remember the word: dental dam.

"I need my mouth on your pussy," Jefferson said, and went down on me.

Ah well, I thought, it’s not like I’ve done any different with the last three people I’ve slept with.

It was an odd technique. The B.H.M. had flicked his tongue in and out of my vagina (and sometimes my anus) while I sucked his dick in the 69 position. It had been wet and warm and very often pleasurable when he’d hit a particularly sensitive spot. Instead, Jefferson seemed to seal his mouth to my vaginal opening. There was nothing wet to it, only a kind of…pulling. Occasionally there’d be a tiny movement, a pinhead of sensation that seemed too delicate to be made by the tongue. I lay on the bed, shifted my hips, trying to accommodate this new technique, and looked at Jefferson’s skull between my thighs. Looked at the ceiling, tried not to think. Breathe.

Normal Sex: The Last Part


Image via Delta Sigma Phi.

1. Desire
2. Fetish


He took me to his house, saying something about all his housemates, how they were in a rock band. He wasn’t, tho. The rock band may have also been daylight house painters, but I’m no longer too sure about the facts.

"You’re nice," I had told him on the subway. There was something about him that let me know he wasn’t going to use me or play with me, that all he wanted was the human warmth.

He said it was because he was from Littletown, the same small town I had gone to college in. “Nothing bad ever came from there.”

I found myself peacefully remembering a question I’d read once: Why don’t all women who play around get in trouble? The answer was that they’re lucky. That night, I thought, I was lucky. His house was still decorated with month-late Halloween decorations—which struck me as appropriate, because I think all rock bands are Goth. There were prayer flags and christmas lights tacked around his window. It was like any room in college, with a copy of the Brother’s K. on the dresser. He could have been any of the few boys I had fumbled with on cramped mattresses in messy dorm rooms. I was in a strange house, with a boy I only knew by his first name, but he was already known, familiar.

I asked to use the bathroom, then he took a turn. While he was gone I took off my shoes, lay on the bed. It was all so normal it pleased me.

The only thing that almost ruined it was the quotation. Someone had scrawled a philosophic quote on the wooden frame of his bed. I can’t remember exactly what it was now, but it was something about you should make sure you were doing what you really wanted before you died. It bothered me particularly, but then he came in again and I was able to forget about it.

"Take off your shirt and shoes," I told him, "and get into bed."

I had never told a man to do something like that, and it gave me a little thrill. He lay down beside me, just in his blue jeans and leather belt, and we began to explore one another.

I’ve found that you can never tell much about someone’s body until they have their clothes off. With his t-shirt and scruffy beard, he looked like any lit grad, but once he had his shirt off I discovered the kind of body I had never been with. If every one of the men in that club had lined up with their shirts off, I would have chosen him for myself. “Large nipples,” I said with pleasure, working my way down his body, “tattooed biceps, prominent hip bones…” He was lean, flat-bellied, and I ran my eyes with pleasure over the subtle curves of his muscles underneath the skin.

"I like your body," I told him when he was on top of me.

"It’s not a great body," he said.

"It’s a good start," I said, or something like that. I think it was the potential that caught me, the idea that with a few months of work he could look like this. As if I were seeing an X-ray vision of his future life.

I took off my clothes piece by piece, until I was in my corset teddy. He fumbled at the bra-like hooks that held it closed. I laughed at him as I began rubbing myself between my legs: “I have all my clothing off except this one piece, and you still can’t get to my pussy!”

I took pity on him and undid the hooks. He fingered me for a while. That was nice. I slid my hand in his jeans

We had a brief discussion of why condoms are uncomfortable, but I can leave that out. He wasn’t unwlling to wear one, it going with “the whole thing about having sex with strangers and all.”

He started thrusting—not in my pussy yet, just in the groove where my thigh joined my body. With each thrust the head of his dick smacked into my palm, hard and hot through the slick wrapping of the condom. I breathed in as I felt the power in his thrusts.

It hurt when he first put it in, the ache sharp but not unexpected. I knew I wasn’t aroused enough. But after the first few thrusts let my pussy know he wasn’t there to hurt me it began to get wet like it was supposed to. I loosened up, wrapped my legs around him. I realized it had been a while since I’d done that, it had been impossible with the BHM. I remembered that with the BHM there had always been the strange thrill of his size, his excess of flesh pressing up against my mound and sometimes, a little, on my clit. This boy, though, still made my thighs ache because I was holding him so hard.

I realized, as I lay there under him, focused on his movements as I tried to figure out when he was going to orgasm, that this was normal sex. It didn’t hurt, but I didn’t feel pleasure. I just rested underneath him, as he did the main work, and it was my job to make it easier by tilting my pelvis up, kissing him, playing with his nipples. There were no strap ons. No leather chaps or handcuffs. He didn’t even want anal sex. Just a boy and a girl, doing the thing that a year ago I never thought I’d be comfortable enough with to simply take in. His thrust were going faster and faster.

Suddenly he stopped. He must have cum, I thought, but instead he started whistling.

"What the hell!" I laughed.

"Tantric," he told me.

He did this a couple more times, stopping at the peak of his thrusts to hold himself for me, moving his hips in a figure eight to touch different places inside me. It wasn’t his fault I couldn’t cum. I only came when I shut my eyes, sucked my stomach muscles in and out, and thought of stuffer boys. I had gone home with him knowing this.

He allowed himself to cum at last. I admired the sperm in the transparent condom, he told me it would be hot if I swallowed it, then added, “No, not really.” He was teasing.

It was so late I was a little afraid to go back home. It would take me an hour, and I was deep in the darkened wilds of Brooklyn. He let me stay the night, tho, wanted me to so we could curl up together naked on the bed, snuggle together. That was nice too.

He might not like what I have written. The next morning I wrote my blogger name and email down on an envelope, in case he wanted to see me again. I don’t want him to think it was awful, he was funny and smart and I liked his body a lot, I really did. But being with him only made me realize, once more, that my body and my mind don’t work like other people’s do.