I thought long and hard about how to rep my set. I could go charming (“Here’s a guest post about how I always bring candy and a banjo to every first date”). I could play the hard-edged, possibly damaged guy (“My keys to a successful first date: chloroform, bandages, and a Catwoman costume.”). Or I could just give her something that’s so completely out there, she’s bound to be intrigued enough to return my calls (“Sex in the car is awesome. But, man, sex in a space shuttle…that’s the stuff.”)
In the end, I decided to take the more direct approach, and write something about how I’d envision our first date to go.
In the interest of time (and trying to keep this under 1,000 words), I’ll skip right through the first two hours of my trifling dinner conversation. To summarize, I once dreamed of owning my own lumber yard; I spent one memorable summer working as a butcher; I own more comic books than an adult male probably should and I can clap with one hand (not a euphemism, BTW.).
Assuming she stuck around through this (which isn’t likely), I’d try to somehow con her into coming back to my place. While I don’t like to reveal too much about my technique in this regard, let’s just say that when a grown man starts crying and explaining that his dying mother had one last wish to see her son on an actual date with an actual woman, even the hardest of ladies can become very accommodating.
Back at my place, I’d be playing the part of the charmer. Getting her a beverage, adjusting the thermostat to her precise level of comfort, and perhaps even offering her the chance to view the VHS tape of my high school graduation that I keep on hand for emergency viewing purposes.
Soon, once I’d run out of things to say or finished explaining why a grown-ass man has a life-size cardboard cut-out of Ricardo Montalban in his bedroom, I’d try to make a move. Because hours of staring at the science-defying curve of her hips, the light glistening on her mouth, and the way the very fibers of her shirt were straining to hold in all that goodness would be making me dizzy.
I’d start in smooth. Asking if she’d enjoy a back rub or, depending on my level of desperation, setting my pants on fire with a cleverly concealed lighter and screaming for her to help me get them off.
The eventual goal—as it typically is—would be to somehow get her into a position in which she’s sitting on my face. Granted, this isn’t easy to achieve “by accident” (unless I discovered some way to burrow under the couch where she’s sitting without her knowledge), but it’s where I do my best selling. Because experience tells me that when I finally shut up and put my mouth to better use, letting my tongue work at differing speeds and ever-fluctuating rhythms – in perfect sync with her every moan and flex of the hips – women tend to not mind having put up with four hours of my bullshit.
So let’s assume through some miracle of science, SS decided, “What the hell. I’ll make this nerd’s day.” I’d have to fight the urge to simply sit back and stare at this gorgeous ass she’s been kind enough to stick in my face, and go to work. Up and down, in and out. A long, slow lick here. A quick but deep tongue penetration there. A gentle flickering of my tongue along her clit. I’d listen for her breathing to quicken and let it be my guide.
That’s it, she’d tell me after a while. That’s the spot. Right there. And I’d work it like a man possessed. My mouth and tongue going to town like a deranged possum at an all-you-can-eat barbecue. My hands on her hips, holding her steady, feeling her try to buck and grind while my tongue simply would. Not. Stop. Fucking. Her.
So I’d keep at it. Harder and deeper, every muscle of my jaw working in perfect time, moving, moving, moving. She’d be engorged, hot and throbbing, and I’d know it’s only a matter of time. And she wouldn’t believe I’ve kept it going this long and I wouldn’t even remember the last time I took a breath because I’m so focused on working her over and who gives a fuck about breathing anyway when there is a gorgeous female sitting on your face? I’ve spent the better part of my life taking in oxygen, and this is one of those occasions where you simply pull from the reserve tanks and don’t let it fuck up your game, bro.
That’s when I’d feel it. It’s happening. It’s working. I’d give my tongue a solid twist, working my whole mouth (and perhaps even a few fingers) into it. And just like that, she’d throw her head back and scream in approval. And I’d feel my cock start to balloon as she fell back, exhausted, exuberant, satiated, and sat down on my face with full weight, burying me between her utterly fantastic ass cheeks. So engrossed in the moment I wouldn’t even notice the damage we’d done to the stack of mint copies of The Amazing Spider-Man that I keep next to the couch.
And then, right at that moment in fact, is when I’d wake up. And realize I don’t even have the balls to call her and ask her out.
But some day, man. Some day…
By Ken (@Tenacious_Ken)
Oh Ken. I would say there are no words to properly describe Ken except that there are. However, most of them should only ever be utter with warm breath across pillows and under bed sheets. Needless to say, I’m already planning the wedding. And the divorce. And the make up affair. And then the friendship that stands the test of time. Or something that sounds more spontaneous and less “planny” because I’ve heard guys don’t like that stuff. Seriously though, I’m moving to Montreal and you know what’s close to Montreal…Boston…and you know who’s in Boston?…Ken. Just sayin’. All jokes and sexual innuendo aside, Ken writes an AMAZING blog with the lovely Ariel who was featured earlier this month and if you don’t read their work…you’re really missing out. To be honest, I’m not sure who I’m more jealous of…Ariel for being around Ken or Ken for being around Ariel. But basically…LOVE TRIANGLE!