[dropcap]I’ve[/dropcap] been known to overload my readers with details. Sometimes the details seem important. Especially on days when I’m asking advice (which is actually fairly rare but does happen) and I need you to see the full picture. Other times I overload because of
an obsessive need a desire to be understood. Sometimes I just do it because this blog is a chronology of my life, a history in dating, a journal on display. This is my real life. These things are really happening to me. And 30 years from now when you’ve all forgotten about me, I’ll come back to these pages and remininsce about the life I lead. About the time I moved to Montreal for Grad School.
That being said. Not in this post. This post is all about the passion.
You see it doesn’t really matter how we got to the second date. We got there how most people get there. Talking, asking, time didn’t stop for us and then it happened. He showed up at 8pm. We only had a little over 2.5 hours because he had to go to work at 1045pm. Tonight he was a bartender.
Tonight he was my breath. My tongue. He was my every sigh and pant. Tonight, he held me in the palm of his hand and owned me.
He was standing at the front door, holding some sort of aloe beverage, asked if I wanted anything from the little store in the lobby. He smiled. I smiled. We hugged. We double kissed. We came upstairs. For the first time in my life, if the elevator had gotten stuck I would not have minded one single bit. I could’ve spent all night in there with him. And then we were in my apartment.
My apartment…that’s still in progress. You see, I don’t have a TV (why would I, I download everything, who has time for commercials?!?) (see also: I’m a poor grad student). In a bizarre twist of events, I only have about 15 movies on my computer. The explanation isn’t worth explaining. So needless to say I felt a bit like the world’s worst host. Like sure, come on over to my place where all the furniture is doll sized, we have to watch the movie on my laptop and you can only choose from a few movies. Even worse, the one movie he chose was the only one in mp4 which tends to make my computer overheat and thus we had to pick something else.
Friday Night Lights. Because dammit, I like a theme and if I’m going to have a football player sitting on my couch we’re damn sure going to watch a football movie or a football game. Nuff said. Jokes aside, he picked the movie. And let’s be honest. Were either of us really planning on watching the movie? Does anyone ever really watch the movie?
The movie is simply a distraction. It’s background music. It’s the score…to our scoring (Wordplay. You’re welcome). The movie is just something for us to focus on while we slowly move closer and closer to each other on the couch and get more and more comfortable. It’s the soundtrack to our sexual tension. First it’s my arm resting against his and then it’s his hand on my knee, my thigh. Our hands, holding. My breath, holding.
He said cute things. I said cute things. We misunderstood each other’s cute things. No one gave a shit about the misunderstanding over cute things. And then we were kissing. His soft lips. My soft lips. Tongues and heat and breathing and pressing and sucking and pushing and teasing.
Now, I know I’ve mentioned it before, but I still feel I’m not adequately expressing how hot France is. And I know you’re probably thinking I’m exaggerating. All like, wtf ever he can’t be that hot or it’s just cause you like him or it’s all relative or whatever. But seriously, every time I tell a friend about France, they react the same way, like okay sure but no big deal. And then I send them his picture. And the responses show up:
“Sweet Fucking Jesus”
“UUUUMMMMMMMMM…. Hot! Hot! Hot!!! I’m am speechless…”
“Sweet Baby Jesus”
“Holy mother fucking shit that is one AMAZING body!!!!!! Thanks for those *save image*”
And so you can imagine that as we’re kissing and our lips are totally in sync and his body is pressing down on mine, that it is one of the hottest moments of my entire life. He’s wearing this blue and white gingham short sleeve button down and it looks amazing.
Only here’s the thing. It’s not a button down. Because there are no buttons. It’s all snaps. Which I only notice because he snaps a couple open. Maybe he needed more room to breathe (I am a sexy babe after all) or maybe he just wanted to show me the mechanics of getting him naked but whatever it was that caused him to rip open a snap or two was nothing in comparison to what motivated me to tear the entire shirt open. Picture it like in the movies. Because that’s exactly how it happened. Two arms reach up…and rip his shirt open. Le Gasp.
Abs that you could grate cheese on. Literally. Abs that make you want to do a load of laundry. I want to wash my delicates all over him. I want to soap him down in ways that would make us forever unclean.
And then…and here’s where it gets really really good. Then we found our rhythm. Or more, we fell into the place where he knew what I liked and gave it to me. Now in general I try to make it obvious what I like. Rough. There I said it. I like it rough. Sure, I like other things too. And I can have the sweet sex, when in love, with the best of them. But with new boys. With boys built like tanks, tanks made of solid muscle, muscle made of testosterone and sweat and my sighs, I want it rough. Anything else seems a waste. Like being an ass man and dating a chick with DDDs. I mean don’t be so greedy son.
And I know that this can be an uncomfortable territory because what if I wasn’t into rough sex and all of sudden he’s pulling my hair, laying his heavy hands across my chest and around my throat. I mean Jesus. That could get really awkward? scary? ugly? hairy? and fast!!! And to be honest, in the heat of the moment, I don’t know if he went slow and steady and listened for my moans and smiles or if he just knew. If he just knew that going for it would pay off. Big time. But whatever it was, it worked for us. [and just for a quick lesson into my psyche…I’m not damaged…this is not broken home shit…this is a fantasy…if he was actually acting violently towards me…well shit would get heavy real quick son, but this is sex and it’s what I like and I’m not ashamed of that. I’m fairly certain it stems from a feeling of him wanting me so badly that he cannot contain himself…but like I said…it’s all in good fun, all in good fantasy].
And Jesus was it hot. Especially if you think about the PG…er…maybe NC17 nature of the action. I imagine he went in hoping (like all men) for sex but expecting that it wouldn’t happen and I know I definitely had no intention of it getting that far. And to be honest, it actually got further than I had been anticipating. But can you really blame me?
Shortly after I had torn his shirt off of him, he tore my shirt off of me. Or ya know, casually removed it. And then we were dry humping like grizzly bears. Okay so technically I don’t know how grizzly bears hump but if you know me at all you know I’ll slip in a bear/man reference wherever I can.
So yeah, the humping. Slow and smooth. Heavy. Laden with lust. Hard. And I have to tell you, I’m not sure I’ve ever enjoyed dry humping so much. Maybe it was because he was so strong. Or maybe it was because he was so fucking hot. But it was amazing. If our dry humping was a person, I’d call it baller and expect it to be getting comped bottle service
and blow in Vegas. And wearing million dollar shoes made of gold.
After that it’s all a bit of a blur. Buttons were undone, zippers slid open, his hands my pants, my hands his pants. The dry humping may have become a bit wetter. And I would make a joke about it being a bit of a pants-off dance off except that I did everything in my power to keep those bad boys on
even if just in a technical sense. I know how quickly things can progress, when you’re so into each other and full of the kind of desire that breaks beds and apparently couches, and while in an overall sense that’s definitely where I wanted to go with him, I didn’t want to go there tonight.
I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again. I’ll say it till I’m blue in the face and he’s blue in the balls. I like my stages. And gentlemen, I know it’s hard
because I can feel it pressed against my thigh but I assure you that what little you suffer in being put off, you will reap a hundred times more when we do finally do it. I need time. I need the build up. I need the backstory and the fantasy and no good can cum come of rushing me (I’m the no good in this story…and I’m telling you I won’t cum come). Seriously. If you rush me, if you’re skipping things and going too fast, eventually when we bang…at first I’ll be all excited…loving it…but there will come a moment…when I’ll know that it’s not going to happen, and then I’ll fake it…and then we won’t ever have sex again. All because you couldn’t handle one night of blue balls (which is really bullshit anyway because if you’re not going home to beat off to me and all the sexy things I just did with my mouth on your mouth and my body pressed against yours…and imagining all the nasty things you expect I’ll want to do with you in the near future…well then…we really shouldn’t be having sex anyway. Step your mind game up, kid.)
And then it happened. Somewhere in between flushed cheeks and panting breath, the clock struck midnight for cinderella or 1045 for the barman and he had to go. Sure, getting dressed was slow what with me tracing his abs and him playing grab ass, but eventually he was ready to go. He had asked if I wanted to come watch (I assumed watch was yet another language barrier word and that he simply meant I could go with him and chill at the bar but I had
girlfriends to call and tell all the details of what had just gone down writing to do). Plus, I imagine chicks EVERYWHERE flirt their little asses off for him and no newly dating people need to see that. It’s just too much information. He also invited me to a football training session that he runs every saturday (and as much as I loved the idea of being in close proximity with a set of buff burly dudes throwing me the pigskin around, I wasn’t quite ready for him to see me all sweaty and out of breath at 10am on a saturday morning…that’s what relationships are for.
And that was that. A few more ass grabs. A few more you’re so sexys. A few more intense kisses and a song or two played in the key of rock hard chest and abs and I was closing my door, after the hottest dude ever, on the sexiest second date ever, on my first kiss…in Montreal.
And then proceeded to pant from excitement for the next half hour.
And PS…we broke the couch…and I don’t even care!
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