The Story Of The Night I Really Fucked Up

This post, nay missive, is about John, and how I keep screwing up with him.  And screwing him.  In the fucking sense. You’re read about him before, but I feel I should give you, dear reader, a perspective on the man I now refer to as My Biggest Mistake. This is the story of the night I Really Fucked Up.

I don’t particularly like John.  I mean, he’s a nice guy and all, we get along nice enough, and if I can keep him from bringing up his deadbeat father or jailbait siblings, the conversation is mostly enjoyable.  He has a limited amount of schooling and it shows, as common things you or I could chat about easily I had to explain to him, things like science or literature.  He’s unemployed.  He’s not incredibly or even mildly attractive.  He smokes too much pot and has a stupid laugh.

But hot damn, when we get naked, it’s like I’m the best cello in the world he knows exactly how to play me.

I’m getting ahead of my self.

This past weekend, John called and invited me up for dinner last night.  I didn’t really want to go, as it’s a long-ass drive to the middle of nowhere and, well, I don’t really like John all that much.  But even though I dickeled around on which night I was available, he wasn’t getting the hint and I didn’t really see how I was going to get out of it without being directly rude.

I chose that night for two reasons: 1) I had work the next morning, so if things really sucked, I could play the work card and come home.  2) There was a meteor shower and I really did want a good place to watch it.

Well, I get there, late, and he has dinner mostly ready.  I get a tour of the house, meet the roommates.  Ron, a black man in his late 30’s who likes to fish and spent the night in his room watching action movies at high volume and laughing his ass off.  Jose, a Mexican man, early 30’s, works at a vineyard and is apparently frightened of me, as I saw him once when he walked in, didn’t make eye contact, and then never saw him again.  And, of course, Brian, who I totally forgot about him living with John until he strolled in and said a very quiet hello.  Awkward, at least on my end, but I truly think I managed to be very smooth about it. (For you see, the night before I first slept with John, I slept with Brian. And John knew about it. Probably overheard it. Even commented on how glad he was his friend was getting some. Like I said, the whole thing is pretty fucked up.)

Dinner was good, made from his mother’s recipe book, which he showed me.  I had brought dessert in the form of date-nut bread.  All good so far.

We play some pool (that’s all his front room has in it, a pool table, stick holder thingy, and ashtrays…men) with Brian, which it turns out I win a few games (hurray them scratching on the 8-ball) and wasn’t at all as nerve-wracking as it should have been.  I feel this is largely due to me not being awkward and Brian and John possibly not caring.  Brian left, as quietly as he came.

Time for stargazing.  We try a few different uncomfortable positions in the plastic chairs out on his balcony, which, I mention a few times, is facing the wrong direction.  After about half an hour of hemming and hawing, John produces two twin mattresses from Lord Knows Where and we pile under blankets on the front lawn and watch the stars fall.

What the fuck was I thinking, watching a meteor shower with a guy a barely like?  

Of course we’re doing the cuddle cuddle.  It’s ass cold and I hate the cold.  He takes my hand.  We have heavy hand petting.  We see about ten or eleven little one, three really good ones, and one Really Awesome One that streaks completely across the sky and causes us both to ooh.

About this time, I can no longer take the cold, wussie I have become (as I write this, a space heater is literally a foot from my legs and still I want more) and can’t stop shivering.  John makes the brilliant observation that we could be doing this inside and naked.  I agree.  So, we gather up everything, throw it on the porch, and go up to his room.  

Have I told you about the house?  It was built in 1833, has a wraparound porch and awesome fireplaces.  Everything is wood, save the appliances, and everything creaks like a motherfucker.  There is no sneaking in this house.  None.

We settle in.  John turns on his TV and puts in a BBC comedy about a book store with the prick boyfriend from Shawn of the Dead and that wierd guy with the long hair who tells the awesome pub joke, mostly to cover up any potential noises.  I turn up his space heater, then proceed to have incredible sex with him.  On a bed.  And mostly sober.  Check those off. 

(Actually, check them off three times.)  

We finally gave up the ghost around four AM, having ignored an entire DVD of what looks like a really awesome TV show that I’ll have to watch some time.  I don’t even remember sleeping and suddenly it was 7:45 and I had to go to work.

I got up, did the oh-so-stereotypical bed sheet wrap, and tiptoed across the freezing hardwood floors to peek out the window.  I had arrived in the dark last night and was curious to know what the land around the house looked like.

The sun was just rising, turning all of the dried grape vine leaves golden and bronze.  In the west, heavy storm clouds were rolling in over green and verdant mountains.  A small barn lay off in the distance, cattle close by.  It was such a beautiful, peaceful place.  I wanted to stay there and watch the sun climb higher, warm in the arms of an excellent lover.

I had a moment of clarity, dear reader, one that frightened and excited me all at once.

Standing at that window, I saw a future I could have.  I could wake each day with such a sight, watch the vines grown and die season after season, live in an old house with chickens roosting in the eaves, chasing blonde, blue-eyed, chubby children around the porch, cooking food I grew myself, having a helpmate who worshipped and adored me.

I turned from the window and saw him looking at me, like I was a goddess to touch.  It shook me hard, cause I honestly believe he was thinking the same thing.  

Grabbing for my clothes, I dressed with furtive movements, like I was back in middle school gym.  I left an hour early, citing the need to avoid traffic on the highway.

I scared the shit out of myself with all that thinking of home and family. It surprised the hell out of myself to know I wanted all of those things, and I wanted them bad. 

But I did not want them with him.

A Seduction Methodical

The longest relationship of my life was 18 months long with a man 16-years my senior. Most women like older men but 16 years is pushing it. But this is not the story of my relationship with the 40 year old. No, this is the story of the man who first introduced me to the world of older men, a world of experience and fun…

His lips parted as he smiled, the skin by his eyes crinkled and he threw his head back laughing. The sound that came from his mouth was full, loud and real. He looked at me, still smiling. I made him laugh. I couldn’t help but grin as we looked directly into one another’s eyes. I don’t usually make eye contact with people; too intimidating.

But this was easy, almost too easy. And it was that moment, as we looked at one another, as he ran his hand through his dark, messy hair and took his glasses off to wipe clean, it was then that I decided to seduce him.
I get what I want. I decide what it is I’m after and then I go for it. Some say I’m aggressive, too aggressive. But who defines that “too” anyway? I wasn’t always like this. In fact for years I was timid, shy to ask for things, always afraid of failing or taking that chance and being disappointed. Not anymore. I figure what the hell’s the point in living if you don’t take a few chances; even if you fail, you just get right back up and try again. It’s the only way to learn, to better yourself.

So here I was. Sitting in my parents’ kitchen with a man many years older than myself, ready to take a chance that could prove stupid and disastrous. But my curiosity had been peaked the moment he walked through our front door. Those eyes. The twinkle. That smile. Those hands. I had to know. I knew the danger in finding out – everyone knows that curiosity killed the cat – but what is life without a daring sense of adventure?

He would be my adventure.

He didn’t see me looking at him. Standing in the kitchen, helping my mother unload the dishwasher, talking about his new cd, he had no idea I was staring at him, imagining his hands in my hair, his lips on my neck and my legs wrapped around his waist.

For a moment, I found myself too bold, and had to look away.

I hardly knew the man. The man. He was a man, tall, tanned skin, dirty hair, and a few lines starting to show on his face. I had caught sight of his hands earlier, noticing the callouses from years of guitar playing and working in a studio. I had dated a guitar player before; I was already familiar with the feeling of rough hands on my body. I also knew what skilled musicians could do with their fingers; my body grew excited at the idea of what this man, with his experience and musical talent, could do with his hands.

I doubted I would find out but couldn’t help but want to. That desire could not be suppressed. I continued looking at him, waiting for him to turn around and catch my eye. When he finally did turn and glance my way, I refused to let myself be intimidated by his age and continued to look, forcing myself to be daring. His expression unreadable, my mother’s yapping continued, I felt the corner of my mouth turn up slightly and I turned just enough to let my hair fall loosely around my face. I parted my lips, allowing my tongue to escape, wetting my lips – and hopefully his appetite – before turning back to the book I had in hand.

Was he hooked? I still wasn’t sure but the pounding of my heart confirmed what I had suspected: I wanted him to be and would not stop until he was.

Time for a face check. Eyeliner. Dark. Mascara. Redone. Lipgloss. Mocha. Skin. Smooth. Hair. Perfect. How completely unlike me. Normally I don’t take that much time to perfect my appearance; a little eyeliner, a little lip gloss, a quick glance to make sure the hair isn’t too frizzy but other than that, its never a big deal.

However, for the moment, things are different. They must be perfect for this to work.

He was sitting in the living room, watching football with my dad. I wouldn’t have a chance to be alone with him many hours, if ever, so I had to make sure that everything I did up till that point communicated my now overwhelming desire. As I helped my mother in the kitchen, I planned what I would do.
A sway of the hips to grab his attention. A glance over the shoulder to check that he’s looking. Make direct eye contact to tell him I’m looking. Lick my lips casually thus bringing attention to my mouth. Smile so he knows that I know. Reach hand into back pocket thus directing attention to my ass. Turn away and walk out back door to walk the dogs.

Each move I made was on purpose. Every step I took I hoped he was watching. Each time I looked his way I made sure he knew I was looking at him, thinking about him, and knew that he was thinking about me too. I became more daring in my movements but never crossing the line of ‘obvious’. My parents had yet to catch on. I better back off or they might and I wouldn’t want my fun to end just yet. This game was too thrilling. I had to win. I was going to win.

As I opened the sliding glass door to let the dogs back in, I see that he has yet to move from his place on the couch. He’s looking at me intently as my mother asks me a question. I pretend to be oblivious to his eyes, as I answered her. A hand to my neck, fingers in my hair, lifting up my curls, showing tender skin aching to be kissed. I let my hand fall to under my chin as I thought about the answer to a question she had asked me. I don’t know, I said as I put my weight on one foot, allowing one hip to push out farther than the other. Bending over to roll down the cuffs of my jeans, I talked to my mom about my cousins, and asked when everyone would be arriving for dinner. Was he still looking? A flip of the head confirmed that he was. This was almost too easy.

There was no doubt about it. I would win. I would get what I want. But had I really decided what it is I wanted?

He was still looking at me, so when my mother left the room to check on the laundry, I looked back at him and smiled more daringly, openly, clearly expressing the lustful thoughts in my head. Yes, yes indeed I had decided what I wanted.

“You want something to drink?” I offered as I walked into the room where we kept our extra refridgerator. Everyone else was getting ready for dinner. He followed me, and I made sure to bend over just enough as I pulled some beers from the bottom of the fridge. Was he watching my ass? The jeans I had on were old, soft and full of holes, one of which was right below where my underwear ended. He could see the skin of my leg if he was looking.

“Sure. A beer would be great.” I could feel his gaze as I got the bottle opener from the door and swiftly removed the caps of two Coronas. My mom kept a dish of freshly cut limes in the fridge; I took two, kicking the door shut with one of my bare feet, still aware of the fact that he was watching each of my movements very closely. As I slipped the slivers of lime into our bottles, a few drops of juice made my fingers sticky. Making sure he was still looking, I licked my fingers slowly before taking my bottle and clinking his. I smiled. He did too as he took a swig. He was trying not to look at me.

I was making it difficult on purpose. It was part of the plan I had been forming along the way. Jeans that fit my body snugly, a button down shirt, sleeves rolled up to my elbows, unbuttoned down to my cleavage, hair in red curls bouncing wildly on my head, lip gloss and eyeliner applied painstakingly hours before. When I had woken up I had decided to go for it, stop at nothing to get his attention. I wanted his eyes on me when I wasn’t looking. I wanted his thoughts on me when I wasn’t around. I wanted him to want me.

I made eye contact as we both took a sip from our bottles. He smirked and looked away.

“What?” I asked as innocently as possible.

He looked at me, unsure whether he should answer truthfully. Looking down he said, “…you’re cute…”
Wanting to laugh and dance around, I remained calm and smiled what I hoped was flirtatiously, and said “You are too.” before turning on my heel and sashaying my way into the living room.

My heart was pounding so fast I was convinced my mother would hear it. She has ears like a hawk. She knows everything. I can never hide anything. But in the bustle of preparing dinner for most of the family, she didn’t notice my flushed cheeks or the wild beating within my chest. Instead she handed me a stack of plates and told me to set the table.

I tried to calm myself. Nothing had happened, why was I so excited? Maybe because I wanted him, I wanted his mouth on mine, his fingers inside of me and the weight of his body pushing down on top. I wanted it and so did he; I knew that by getting him to say that to me, to confess that he thought I was ‘cute’, I knew that I was more than half way to getting what we both wanted.

* * *

It had been two days. Two full days of stolen glances and hidden flirtations. Two days of nervous smiles and shivers running up and down my spine. Two days of planning and plotting and wondering just how far I could push this. I wanted it. I know he did too.

It was his last night in town. My parents had just said goodnight. I was watching TV in the living room. He stood up to go to bed. “Well, I guess I’ll just go to my room and read.” Was he stalling? Could he hear my heart pounding? Was this my last chance?

I turned and watched him leave the room. Breathe in, breathe out. Why was I all of a sudden so nervous? I had made it this far in the game. I could still win. I had made my intentions more than obvious, but now he was gone.

I heard the guest bathroom door shut and the bathroom fan come on. Standing up, I smoothed my skirt and walked down the hallway towards the door with the light underneath it. What if he were to come out and find me standing in the hallway? Not very smooth on my part. Up until now, I’d played it cool. As sexy as I could. Getting caught in the hallway, unsure of what to do, would not be sexy.

I heard him turn on the sink to brush his teeth. Thoughts raced through my head. Daring, unthinkable thoughts. I could hide beneath his covers, waiting for him. I could go change into something a little more…revealing and come back downstairs once he was out of the bathroom. I could barge in on him right now and push him up against the wall.

No. I needed a plan. Quickly. He turned off the faucet.

I turned around to the hall closet, opening it quietly and proceeded to pull out a towel. Just as I was closing the door, he opened the bathroom door, completely unsurprised to see me standing there. He smiled.

My heart was pounding and my skin was becoming flushed under his gaze. He wants me. And he knows I want him. He took a step towards me after switching off the bathroom light. “Come to say good night?”

I nodded and tried to smile coyly. Anything more and I might have given away how excitedly nervous I felt.
“Well. Good night.” He stepped closer. This was it. Something was going to happen. But I was not going to be the one to make the move. I had thrown enough signals. It was his turn. I was confident that my message had been loud and clear; I wanted to see what would happen after everything I’d done.

My eyes hadn’t fully adjusted to the darkness of the hallway but I could still see the slight smile on his lips as he leaned down towards me. Before I could react, he kissed me. Gentle and cautious. Exploring my lips with his. Until I reached up and slipped my hand up into his hair. Then…

Then he grabbed me, pulling my body up against his, forcing me to stand on my tip toes to keep kissing him. One hand on the side of my face. The other on the back of my head. Tongue delving deep inside my mouth. Teeth pulling at my bottom lip. Chills ran down my back. I became incredibly aroused. I wanted more than this.
And just as quickly as he had kissed me, he stopped. When he pulled away I noticed a brief, momentary look of surprise, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just done. We were both breathing hard.

We said nothing. What could you say after that? Inside my head, I was laughing. It had worked. All of my methodical planning had worked. He had finally taken the initiative and kissed me.

But now…now what?

“Well,” he ran a hand through his hair. Was he nervous? Or just trying to hide his arousal? “I guess I’ll be in there…” He jerked his towards his bedroom and raised his eyebrows. Was that an invitation? He turned and sauntered away leaving me alone in the hallway, quite uncertain.

I stood there for what felt like an hour but what must have only been a few moments. I wasn’t exactly sure what I should do. I knew what I wanted to do. And I knew I would wonder it if I didn’t; I knew I wanted to find out. Find out what?

I tiptoed towards his half-open door. I could hear him undressing. Pulling back the bedcovers. Climbing under the sheets. Turning on the side lamp. Opening his book. Maybe this was crazy. Maybe I had already pushed it too far. I turned around but not three steps later I decided ‘screw it!’ – I turned back around and before I could convince myself otherwise, I pushed open his door slowly.

Either he didn’t hear me or he ignored it. I tiptoed to the foot of his bed. He couldn’t see me with the book up in front of him like that. A floorboard creaked. The book came down. There he was, tucked in tightly to the middle of the bed, probably naked, looking at me expectantly.

“I wasn’t quite finished…” I managed to whisper. He put his book down as I crawled up onto the bed, well aware that his door was still open and that this was quite possibly the most daring thing I had ever done in a long time, if not ever.

He stared at me, trying not to smile, as I made my way on top of him, on all fours. His hands came up my thighs, up under my skirt and I could feel myself getting more excited by the second. I looked him in the eye, grinned and leaned down to kiss him.

My whole body was on fire. Nervous and excited that we could get caught, anxious but anticipating the possibilities that lay between my legs. When I pulled up and away from his mouth, I could tell from the way his hands gripped my hips and the from the look in his eyes that I had won. That I had succeeded in my original goal. This was easy, almost too easy. I got my adventure and had all night to enjoy its results. I let him unbutton my blouse and reveled in his touch as he looked at me with those eyes. That twinkle. As he slid my shirt off my shoulders, he chuckled.

“What is it?” I asked as I leaned down, licking his ear lobe.

“You had this all planned out, didn’t you?” His fingers roamed my back.

“What do you mean?” I knew what he meant. But it was more fun to play innocent. I kissed down his jawline.

“You planned to seduce me.” So maybe I did plan to seduce him. Maybe it was calculated. A step by step process, written down and documented, an experiment even. I nodded slightly, leaning down slowly, allowing him to scan every inch of bare skin before I pressed myself down on his body. “So what if I did? You seem to be enjoying yourself.” He laughed and pulled me tighter. He sounded impressed. Amused even. I sat up, straddling him and smiled, allowing my teeth to show and my eyes to crinkle before he pulled me back down and kissed me.

I had won. And got what we wanted.

New Year, Same Me, Except Maybe A Little More Whorish

I rarely make New Year’s resolutions. If I do, they are usually silly ones, like Try To Use Better Grammar When Instant Messaging or Stop Wearing Socks or other things of that nature.

This year, I resolved to Never Wear Pink With Maroon. Awesome.

I would have, for the sake of this blog, added in some resolution re: boys, but I had a hard time coming up with something I’ve done that I am ashamed of. Until New Year’s, that is.

Now look, I won’t go into the whole backstory between me and John and how we first met, that’s a story for another blog, but rest assured, it’s good. What you need to know is the reason I slept with John in the first place: Revenge, a good and healthy reason to sleep with anyone.

I had been dumped by a guy who was little more than a fuck buddy. Dan was an arrogant asshole and completely did not live up to what he promised in the sack. I had fully indented on replacing him, as the sex was hella bad, but he got to me first, dumping me via facebook chat. And that pissed me off. Like whoa.

So, I slept with his boss. John, his fat, not very attractive, somewhat white trash boss, fully expecting this to be a one night stand. And you know the interesting part?

It was the best sex of my life.

I’m serious. This tubby guy with bad hair and a small….ahem….was amazing in bed. I’m talking multiple orgasms, tiny ones and big ones and sweat and groaning and biting and moaning. A-maze-ing sex.

Problem was, I didn’t really like John. We had a tentative agreement to not get attached, easy to hold up on my part, but for a long time afterwards, he would call or text or message me at least once a day. We had to have the We’re Not Dating talk a few times before it really sunk in. He finally stopped texting me every day and things were good.

I went up to his house a few weeks after our first encounter, under the pretext of helping him cook for the holidays. We didn’t have very much to talk about. I felt like I was always explaining things to him. He didn’t seem to get any pop culture or historical references I made, nor did he like any of the musical cds I had brought to play. He mostly talked about his dead-beat dad and actually dead mother. So I guzzled some alcohol and we had fantastic drunken sex, three times.

Point of interest: this was the first time I’d had sex, from start to finish, completely in a bed. FYI.

Fast forward to New Year’s Eve. He’s throwing a huge party with lots of people attending who I don’t get to see very often. So of course I have to go. Douche-Bag Dan was there, with his new girlfriend. They were culinary students and made a huge pot of very disgusting spaghetti sauce which I had to fix. (spices in sauce? no way!) I mostly ended up cooking, which is pretty standard for me and large parties. I almost always ended up cooking. John stopped in often, making enough gestures and rear-end pats to let everyone know, who didn’t already, that I was claimed. We even kissed at midnight.

Now there was this guy there. Adam. Tall, cute as a button, in the Marines. Cut like glass. Incredibly sweet. And hitting on me. In John’s house. In John’s kitchen. And I completely and utterly hit back.

That’s not so bad, you say. It’s ok to flirt with someone, as long as…oh. Yeah. You see the look on my face?

John and I eventually went upstairs and had carnal relations. Just as good as usual. John goes outside on his balcony to smoke a post-coital and I put most of my clothes back on, as we intended to rejoin the party. Instead, the door opens and Adam walks in. Sees me on the bed, en deshabille. Sits down next to me. We start to make out. A lot. There’s bases being reached and fast. On John’s bed. On the bed in which I slept with him not ten minutes ago. And I’m close to coming again.

We hear a creak of the floor boards on the deck. I push Adam off. He smiles, gives me one last kiss and leaves. My pants are half off. John comes back in. I rip off my shirt and we go at it again. I’m too drunk to feel guilty.

Later, I get mostly dressed and stumble out to the bathroom. I open the door. Adam is there, his head buried between some girl’s legs. He looks up at me. I wink. He winks back. I go and use the downstairs bathroom and go back to John.

I’m still not sure how I feel about all of this. John hasn’t called me since, thank god, cause I’m not sure if I could keep a straight face about all of it. Adam I’ll probably never see again. As for the girl, hot damn, I’m envious, cause from the look on her face, combined with what I felt while making out, she was having a Real Good Time.

So I suppose my New Year’s Resolution is to Not Be Such A Whore, but I can’t help thinking I’m gonna break that one. And soon.

Sometimes They Get Away, Sometimes You Run Away

I’m pretty handy with tools, and while I never actually took Shop Class in high school, I do know how to use a welder and can make almost anything out of wood, provided it doesn’t have to be pretty. In college, I spent hours at Home Depot picking out paint samples and penny nails and my truck was often filled with lumber or sand or some other building substance. Point is, I know my way around the building arts, and feel confident around power tools and the like.

Today, I was at a hardware store, looking for some tack nails and a can of dry wall putty.

It being the day after Christmas, I suppose they had bumped up the staff in expectation of post-holiday sale crowds. When I went in around 3 PM, the place was a ghost town. No less than six different sales staff asked if I needed help, a few of them more than once. Poor guys were bored to death.

One guy, however, I do not feel sorry for. According to the tag, his name was Michael, and he was there to help me, wether I wanted it or not.

Michael was the first sales person I encountered. He was wearing a bright yellow vest and a pasted-on smile. Cute enough, I suppose, but he walked like a duck. He took one look at my pea coat, ankle boots, and trendy hair cut and immediately decided I was helpless. He asked if he could do anything for me. I gave him a polite smile and said no, thanks, but I knew what I was getting.

Putty and nails secured, I had some time to kill. Since I kinda missed working with my hands quite a bit, I spent some time wandering the isles, looking at different things and daydreaming about living in a place with a garage I could pack full of power tools and work benches. I had to fend off several offers of help. I suppose I did look somewhat lost, and the wistful look in my eye could have been mistaken for confusion. But I was having a good time and was determined to browse every row, even the plumbing isle, looking for…I dunno…something.

It was in the step stool and ladder isle I first noticed my human shadow. I glanced back to see Michael straightening a display of garden kneeling pads. He smiled at me and asked if I needed help. I said no, thanks, I’m good and went over into the next isle. Two isles later, there he was again.

“You really look lost,” he said. “Are you sure I can’t help?”

“No, I’m just killing some time. I like to look at things.”

Should have kept my mouth shut, cause then he started pointing things out to me, like that pair of needle nosed pliers was a shooting star and that adjustable hose clamp was nothing less that Orion. I gently told him that yes, I know how to use a clamp and no, I don’t need any work gloves. I was starting to get a little creeped out by the guy when he said:

“You really do know about tools, don’t you?”

I tentatively agreed, seeing as how I really hadn’t said anything about my skills with a hammer.

“I really like that in a girl.” Warning bells! “You have pretty ears. Do you think, maybe, I could take you to lunch?”

“No,” I said, a little too quickly to be anything other than rude. I softened the blow with the first lie I could think of. “No, I’m…married.”

I flashed him the ring on my (right) hand and he apologized. He stood around for a few more seconds, then shuffled off towards the back.

I was about to turn the corner when the man who had been stocking something in the isle stopped me.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “He always does that but he don’t mean any harm. He’s a good kid, he just don’t make the best life decisions.”

I dumped my shopping cart, ran to the cash register and paid. Michael was fiddling with another register by the time I finished. He told me Merry Christmas and to stay dry. I ran out into the rain, started the car, and made plans to never visit that hardware store again.

You Can’t Call Fives On a Man

Once, at an outdoor camping festival, I fell for a man named Max.

He was completly adorable, with just enough cushion to make him eminently hugable.  The first time I remember meeting him was at the Well.  He winked at me, then while we were posing for a photo, he full-palm grabbed my ass.  We’re talking lifting and separating, here.  I brushed it off with a joke about butt clenching (not my finest moment) and made eyes at my friend Kayla, suggesting she should flirt with him, as Kayla has been searching for a tent mate.  She shook her head and said there was a reason she wouldn’t, but would tell me later.  I brushed it off and left to go settle up at the booth for the evening.

Later that night, I was hanging out with Kayla and a couple of other guys, Max came up with some girl (we’ll call her Rachel, even though I’m pretty sure that’s not her name) and he was all kinds of touchy-feely with me.  And I was all, ok, then!  Nice!  I would like to point out that I was extremely drunk by this point and still going at my flask.  Kayla and I excused ourselves to, erm, partake of something adventurous in smokable form, and I asked her what was the deal with Max and why she wouldn’t flirt with him.  She said Rachel had called dibbs on him, and Kayla didn’t want to hit on her friend’s guy.

I wish you could have seen…hell, I wish I could have seen the look on my face: part humor, part rage, but I’m guessing it was mostly wild calculation.  And I was like…you really should have used a different word.  But you used “dibbs” so now it’s on.

Now, I don’t know this Rachel chick.  I’m sure she’s perfectly nice, and I should probably keep to the girl code or whatever and back off of the guy…but she said “dibbs” and that just pissed me off.

So Kayla and I headed back the the nighttime gathering.  I had all kinds of things swimming in my bloodstream and was feeling incredibly wanton.  I’m not at all ashamed to say that I somewhat all but threw myself on him, but on the sly like.  Miss Kitty would have been so proud of me.  The casual touches, leaning just a bit too close, bumping into him for no reason…I really laid it on thick.  Most of the time, it was literally me on one side of him, Rachel on the other.  I had visions of the Angel and the Devil sitting on his shoulders and I had no illusions about which one I was.

And it so worked.  He was all over me, hands finding reasons to brush against me, excuses to move next to me whenever I changed place.  I of course ignored the other girl, except to now and again pull back and give the impression I wasn’t actually hitting on him.

Now, things are a bit muddled, I will admit, but two incidents remain clear and vivid in my mind.  I had left the circle where everyone was standing to sit down for a while and admittedly having a bit of a crisis of conscious.  Max did seem, while I was away from the circle, to be paying a good deal of attention to Rachel.  And I totally watched her grab him and pull him in for a kiss.  I began to have doubts.  Perhaps it was bitchy of me to so openly tug at the man.  But I liked him and was feeling frisky, so I began eavesdropping on the conversation to find an opportune moment to join back in.

I don’t remember what pretext it was I found to come back, but I do clearly remember that as soon as I rejoined them, Max grabs my hand, saying something to the effect of “let me make a clear illustration.”  He pulls me to him and buries his tongue in my ear in the best way possible.  And I’m turned to face Rachel and doing my best to look surprised (not that hard really) and mildly offended (not successful at all, I’m pretty sure I purred).  I keep expecting him to let go of me, but he keeps going, working his way down my neck to my collar bone.  We’re talking a good, slow, thorough move here, with just the right amount of tongue and breath and lips.  And of course I shiver and clutch at his shirt where he has my hand pressed against his chest.  I’m feeling like a total deer in the headlights, getting what I wanted, but in a mildly embarrassing way.  There’s about six to seven people standing around watching, Kayla included.

Finally, he lets go and I wish to God I remembered what I said, because it was exactly the right thing.  It made everyone laugh and relax and go back to being all casual.  They must have been magic words.

I took my place as Devil at his shoulder again and didn’t give two shits about who saw me put my hand on his ass.  Boy was making a pass at me and I was going to let him, friends-in-law be damned.

(I should mention now the other memory most clear in my head from that night, that of Kayla handing Jonathan her cat-o-nine-tails and having him whip her in the ass till she couldn’t take it any more.  It was just that kind of night.)

The night progressed, people got tired, buzzes wore off.  I think Rachel finally got tired of playing nice and declared that she was going to go to her tent.  She broke out of the circle and turned to glance at Max.  He sighed, kissed me on top of my head and said he was going to walk Rachel to her tent.

And I thought, aw-fucking-shit.  I mean fuck.  Really.

They disappeared off towards her tent.  I didn’t watch them go.  I was making jokes and doing a most excellent job of not pretending to give a shit.  I didn’t stay long after that.  I was crashing pretty hard and now that I faced a lone sleeping bag, I found I wanted to crawl into it and just not think about anything for a while.

The next morning, I felt pretty decent, and aside from having horrible hair, awful morning breath, and very cold feet, I felt downright chipper.  I was walking to my car so I could drive it in to load it and pack away stuff, when who do I spy walking my way but Max, coming from the direction of east camp (where his friends were camping) and not the north camp (where Rachel’s tent was).

In my drunken stupor before I had dozed off the night before, I had come up with several clever phrases to say when I next bumped into him in the fair, things with double meanings that centered mostly around asking if he was into Rachel for the long haul or if he could pencil me in.  When I saw him walking up in his pajamas, all I could think about was how shitty I probably looked and absolutely nothing clever was coming to mind. He smiled at me and stopped.  We talked for a bit and he asked me how I slept last night.  I told him about my cold feet and he said that was a shame and I agreed.  He then casually mentioned I hadn’t been at the constable camp when he went back and that he had spent the night under the stars.  Alone.  And you know that means…

I fucking WON.

That’s right.  Rachel told Kayla the next morning they hadn’t slept together cause Max didn’t have a condom, a lame ass excuse if I ever heard one, especially since Kayla had been telling everyone and their little brother she had a whole pack for group use in her tent (take that however you will).

He went back for ME.

And you know what?  I never got to sleep with him.  He ended up having to leave early and didn’t come back for the whole run of the festival.  I’m not even all that put out that I missed him.  I mean, I’m still gonna jump his bones if I can next year, of course, but the fact that I won…that’s  enough.

Fucking call dibbs on me again, bitch.  I’ll fuck you up.

Number One with a Bullet

Alright, fine.

I guess we’re telling first time stories then. Normally I’m pretty closed mouthed about my first time; not that I’m ashamed mind you, just that people tend to think things. Not that I blame them – take just the naked (teehee) facts, and The Make-out Bandit (That’s your Nom de Plume now, bitch! Deal with it) has nothing to worry about; unless we recruit some more girls I win the Red Badge of Whoredom hands down. (Can we please recruit some more girls?)

So here’s the story. With some background.

Well, I was just 17 (ya, you know what I mean) and about half-way through my journey towards becoming someone who’s happy with what she sees in the mirror. This is important. As any high school womanizer will tell you, un-pretty girls put out. We feel like it’s the only way to get any positive male attention. If they just wanna look, and flirt and get nowhere, they’ll do so with a hot chick.

I was a pretty cute kid, who went through a God-awful spurt of ungainlyness that lasted most of my teenage years. Middle school was awful. No love-notes in my locker or stolen kisses behind the bandroom; accusing a boy of having a crush on me was a favorite insult among the popular set. With high school things improved somewhat. I got a bit cuter, and (some truly disastrous hair choices aside) developed a bit of a style, and was generally happier – which I’m sure didn’t hurt in terms of being more attractive to the opposite sex.

It was still pretty slim pickings, though. I was 14 the first time I had a male non-relative tell me I was pretty. He flirted and flattered and I hung on every word.  He was quite a bit older than me, and thankfully a good enough guy to not let anything actually happen between us, because I would have been hopelessly in over my head. I had many (many, many, many) crushes that went no where, one really bizarre on-again-off-again thing in which we skipped pretty much straight to second base (giving me the dubious distinction of having doled out my first handjob before getting my first kiss), and one guy asked me out (to Prom), which ended in…not romance. (For me). Although it did sorta kick-start my love-life in a way.

A few days after the disastrous Prom, I received my first kiss. (Yes, at the very belated age of 16. Embarrassing, but the boy doesn’t know, so it’s okay.) It was with the on-again-off-again boy, who we’ll call the Bastard from now on. The Bastard was dating a friend of mine, but they had a fight, and he was cheating on her with another (closer) friend of mine, when he pulled me behind the curtains of our school theatre and cheated on her with me. Yay high school!

Followed that up by making-out with a (younger) guy at a summer program, and crawling into the lap of my (very) drunk freshman-year crush and kissing him at a party. Which he apparently doesn’t remember, but it sure pissed the Bastard off at the time, and so was worth it.

Graduation time is approaching, and the Bastard is itching to cash in his v-card, and wants my help. For some reason he thinks I’ve already accomplished this, and I don’t discourage the idea.  I am not so inclined to help him, yet have a pretty poor track-record when it comes to resisting this idiot. And I’m pretty tired of being all pure and untouched m’self. I decide to focus my attentions instead on an underclassman who A) is very hot, B) has been sort of pursuing me for a while, and C) is hated by the Bastard. We’ll call him Junior.

The plan works. The Bastard backs off in disgust, and I get invited to Junior’s end of term party at a condo on the beach with no adult supervision. Some pretty fantastic fooling around occurs in the bathroom and outside on the beach.  We go out again, spend most of the evening parked. This boy is a very good kisser, and his hands? Magic.  Second date I bite the bullet and ask if he has a condom.

Long story short, the sex is awful. Too much, too fast, we never got into a comfortable rhythm. I can take some of the blame, seeing as I had no clue as to what I was doing, but I lay most of it at his door, since he was rather experienced and knew I wasn’t. In retrospect I wish I hadn’t told him he was my first, I didn’t bleed, and he didn’t go easy on me, so all it did was pump up his (considerable) ego.  The only thing that went well all night was the blow-job I gave him. Also my first. Apparently I’m a natural. (;

So there ya go. I picked a hot guy, who I didn’t have any feelings for, went out with him like twice, jumped his bones, and then never called him again. Or answered his calls. (To be fair, I prolly would have if it had been any good. But it wasn’t so I didn’t.)  Whorish? Ya, a little.  Ya wanna judge? Judge away! At least now you’ve got the whole story. (:

<3 – Miss Kitty

Like I Said, Everybody Has A First

I love first time sex stories. Finding out how someone loses their V card tells you a little something about that person – how they view sex, how they view themselves, maybe even a little of how they view romance. I’ve heard some pretty terrible, painful first time sex stories; and I’ve heard some pretty lame-ass boring ones. One of my friends was in love with her high school sweetheart when she decided to go All The Way and another was in college and finally lost it to a fat chick whose name he can’t remember.

I also love having sex. Of course, when I lost virginity I didn’t know this. In fact, I had always viewed sex as this elusive experience I would eventually have with someone I really cared about. I didn’t date much in high school and therefore remained fairly innocent, save for the occasional clandestine makeout session in the band room and a few one night make out flings on family vacations. I swore to myself that I would wait until college to have sex, wait for my ‘childhood’ to be over before crossing that bridge, and to this day I am very glad I did so. I had a *lot* of fun in high school – I earned the nickname Makeout Bandit honestly to say the least – but clothes always remained and no one ventured below the waist. The mere thought of someone touching or tasting my vajayjay gave me hives (though, let me reassure you that once someone introduced me to the fine art of oral sex, I quickly changed my mind) and I’d seen enough penises (penii?) in movies and magazines to think they were funny and didn’t really want to see one in the flesh.

I made it through my first semester of college pretty much the same way I’d made it through high school. Making out. Very limited nudity. Secret snog fests in the practice rooms of the Fine Arts building. I got off more on the thought of being caught than actually doing anything worth getting caught for. I casually dated a couple guys but as I approached my 19th birthday, I started getting antsy.

For no real good reason, I was sick of being a virgin. I was sick of worrying about what would happen when I finally did have sex. I was tired of wondering what kind of sexual partner I’d be. Back in high school, I would sneak and buy Cosmo and Marie Claire and rip out all the sex articles. I had a 1″ binder full of “101 Ways to Pleasure Your Man” and “12 Crazy Tantric Positions” and “42 New Ways to Tease and Tantalize”. I was ready to try some of these! I wanted to be comfortable getting naked with someone, I wanted to learn how to give a blowjob, I wanted to know what it felt like to have an orgasm with another person. I was tired of getting myself off and wanted to start doing what a lot of my friends said was so much fun!

But I also didn’t really want a boyfriend. Or any sort of commitment. I’ve always been a bit of a commitmentphobe and while Hollywood and Christian America will have you believe that college is nothing more than wild orgies and walks of shame, I will have you know it was rather difficult to get laid. None of the boys that I dated were interested in a casual, no-strings-attached sexual relationship. And I wasn’t interested in the doting, romantic, You’re-the-only-one-for-me relationship.

So Christmas break finally comes. And I make a vague promise to myself that I will have sex. Soon. I didn’t want to put any sort of pressure on myself to lose it, and I didn’t tell anyone this is what I wanted to do. But in my head, as I was packing for my family’s New Year’s Eve cruise, a fleeting question passed through my head: should I buy condoms? Naaaaah. I’ve always been a relatively good girl. I wasn’t going to have sex on our family vacation cruise!

I was wrong.

Let’s call him Robert, just to be safe. I met him the first night of the cruise and used probably the world’s worst pick up line on this guy. We were both standing out on one of the balconies and I had on my lucky, flirty denim skirt and he was smoking a cigarette, and we were both looking out at the stars. You couldn’t see anything but stars. A perfect, clear night. No land in sight. Just a few people out on the decks and the sound of the waves rushing by as we cruised on down to the Caribbean. And I looked over at him, forcing myself to make eye contact, and he looked over at me and smiled, and I finally worked up the nerve to say, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

ITS BEAUTIFUL. ISNT IT?

Thank God I’m a woman because I can’t believe a man would ever get away with something that lame.

But Robert smiled, agreed with me and scooted closer so we could talk.

So we talked. And walked around the ship. And made out in dark corners. And I felt awesome. I had just turned 19. This guy was 22. And I had somehow convinced him that I was sexy.

Two days later – or maybe it was 3, I’m not entirely sure – it was New Years Eve. And I got drunk. And we danced. And we drank some more. And we laughed and partied (with my parents) and danced some more and at 12:30 am, just 30 minutes into the new year of 2004, I stumbled with Robert down the hallways, bumping into the walls and swaying with the ship, on the way to the room he was sharing with his two younger siblings. Luckily, they were still out celebrating.

He kissed me fiercely and passionately, making me feel desired like no one had before. Working his hands up my body, tangling his fingers in my hair, pulling down my underwear and looking up at me, asking with his eyes if this is what I wanted. He started to go down on me as I lay back on his tiny, single bed. My head spun, the room danced wildly around me, as he did things to me that I didn’t even know I liked. And then he was in me, and I was in pain and ecstasy and in lust all at the same time. I don’t remember much more than that because I was pretty smashed. I remained fully clothed. And afterwards, I went to the bathroom to find myself bleeding profusely. But that did not stop me from partying until 6:30 am.

Right afterwards, we stumbled back to the main deck where the party was in full swing. My mom was dancing with younger men as my dad swigged more beer. I was convinced they could tell I’d just had sex – that it must’ve been emblazoned on my face – but of course no one could. And the night went on and on and on . . .

It was utterly fantastic (:

Of course, the downside of all this is that I bled for 3 days. Now, I’ve never been horseback riding. And I never did gymnastics. And I didn’t start wearing tampons until after I’d had sex. So, I bled. And bled. and bled. This did not stop us from bribing my 12-year-old brother with $20 the next night to leave the room for an hour (which he then spent on the 6 cute 13-year-old girls who followed him around for the entirety of the cruise). And that didn’t stop me from having a good time. Boy, was it a GOOD time.

Robert and I actually dated for 6 months afterwards. I lived in Florida and he lived in Georgia, tragically separated by 6 hours. But those 6 hours on the road always provided for wild fantasies that I then got to live out whenever I visited him. Robert initiated me into the world of sex and taught me many, many things not only about sex but also about myself.

So what does my first time tell me about . . . me? I’m sure some people view me as easy or slutty for getting it on with a total stranger. But I’m glad I did it. I had fun. I didnt want to lose it to somebody I’d known forever or that I was even in love with. I look back on my time with Robert fondly and am glad that I have such a fun first time story. Besides, it gives me something to celebrate every single New Year’s Eve. And this year, will be the 6th anniversary of me losing my virginity. How’s that for a reason to party? (:

Everybody Has A First

Since this is the first entry, I suppose I should tell you about the first time I ever had sex.

First, I should mention the difference between sex and a sexual experience.  I’m in no way ashamed to say the first time I had actual penetrating sex was when I was twenty-three.  This is not, and by a very long shot, my first sexual encounter.  After all, I went to both art school and church camp.  I even had a very uncomfortable threesome with an engaged couple (totally didn’t go to their wedding); there simply wasn’t any penis-vagina action or even an orgasm on my part, so I don’t consider it actual sex.

Such was my upbringing, renting romance novels from the library and hiding them under my bed, watching the Oxygen Channel after dark, experimenting with boys at camp, yes, even watching porn in college–I felt well versed in the language of humping.  At 22,  I finally discovered what would actually  give me an orgasm.  It took years but holy shit, once I got it, I had it down.

My first actual sex encounter came two weeks after my first marriage proposal.  Do not leap to conclusions here.  Let me set the stage.

I took a weekend job at a Renaissance Fair.  Yes, a real horse-jousting, ale-drinking, wench-pinching, rigamarole of a Ren Fair.  I didn’t know a soul there, save my boss, and set about making friends.  How I did that is another story, but rest assured it involves a boy named Fritters, and my accusing him of stealing my tent.

I was sitting with Fritters and his family one Friday night when my cell phone rang.  It was Ilka, the Hungarian woman who used to be the house keeper for my boss when I lived in L.A.  We had formed a tentative friendship, both having to endure the same kind of crazy.  She made me sandwiches, I helped her pass her INS tests.  We had a good thing.

Ilka was calling to ask if maybe I marry her friend so he not get deported.  After all, I am a good girl with job and not crazy like most people and would not have to be sleeping with him.  I stopped laughing as soon as I realized she was dead serious.  I told her that I was honored she thought of me, but I would have to turn her (him?) down.  I never talked to the guy or even knew his name.

For the next few days, I thought about why Ilka had called me.  I wasn’t dating anyone, wasn’t likely to anytime soon, so maybe her phone call wasn’t as ludicrous as first thought.  It was a niggling thought in the back of my brain, never fully conscious, that she had called me because she believed I would never be married otherwise.  I grew slightly resentful of the idea and redoubled my dieting efforts without realizing why.

And that was my first marriage proposal.  But that is not the story I am telling here, merely the prequel.

Two weeks later, I was sitting on a hay bale one evening, waiting with the rest of the crowd to watch a documentary on the history of the Ren Fair.  I was already pretty drunk, as drinking at Fair begins whenever the hell you feel like it.  I had a six pack with me, and was just polishing off my second beer when Jake sat down next to me.

I vaguely remember meeting Jake the first night I was there.  I know we spoke, he made some terrible joke about how his friends called him Superman, but don’t really recall much else.

Anyway, he sits down, reintroduces himself and I offer him a beer.  We finish off the rest during the movie.

I completely blame that film for what came next.  (Don’t worry, I’m getting to the sex soon.)

It was an ok film, from what I remember, though it did instill me with a great sense of history, not of the actual Renaissance Period, but of the tradition of the Fair itself.  Of the fun, the frivolity, the freedom.

We left the film, stumbled into one of the legendary after-parties that had been talked about in said film, laughed about how the tradition was still going strong, then started making out.  When the party closed, we set out on a walk around the fair grounds.

We made out in front of the glass forge.  We made out by the rock climbing wall.  We made out on the hay bales at the Fool’s Stage.  Then, for a change of pace, we talked to a complete stranger in the pitch dark about the fair documentary.  Then we went and made out by the ale stand.

Stumbling quite a bit, we arrived back at my tent.  I did have a fleeting moment of hesitation, then said to fuck with it and pulled him inside.

Admittedly, I was nervous about being naked in front of him, but once his mouth was on my breast, I didn’t give a shit about anything other than feeling as good as I could.  I called upon every romance novel, every love scene, every porn film I could think of.  I knew there would be no blood, my years of horseback riding had seen to that, but I was determined to be as casually sensual as I could.  Quietly, of course.  There were perhaps twenty other tents within talking distance and some of them had kids, including Fritters and family.  A few people had spotted us going into the tent.  No sense it letting everyone know.

Boy howdy, was it hard to keep quiet.  Jake was taking his time, stroking my side, kissing lines down my belly, burying his fingers in my hair.  I could feel myself edging closer to a Real Good Time and, from the stream of strained and whispered nothings in my ear, he wasn’t doing so bad either.  He liked it when I took his boxers off with my toes.

I will not go in to vivid detail as most of those details are a bit hazy.  I know there was some very good kissing involving grapes, a very terrible Irish accent on my part, and at least four positions I can recall.  The alcohol was starting to wear off, but in a good way.  Details became clearer and lines sharpened.  My skin felt more alive, tingling with sensation.  I was no virgin being deflowered; I was a sex goddess being devoured.

Then Jake opened his big fat mouth.

We were getting down to business.  You know, the hard, insistent boning that often precedes a really good O?  I was in the home stretch, a spring about to snap, all but mentally reaching for it when I hear him.  And I quote-

“Oh, god it’s so good…not since I…engaged…no…sex…three years….oh fuck.”

And then my spring was a slinky, tumbling down the stairs instead of launching me to heaven.  I managed to keep my rhythm steady, but my mind was reeling.  Engaged?  He had been engaged?  Had he done the dumping?  Did he love her still?  Dear god, was he thinking of her?

I didn’t have time to react, so I shuttered and gasped, I clawed at his back and clenched around him.  I tossed my head and gritted my teeth.  I bit his shoulder and shook with all my might.  In short, I faked it, and did a pretty fucking good job of it if I do say so myself.

Afterwards, when he went back to his tent for pajamas, I had to check his wallet to remember his name.  I of course facebook stalked him as soon as I got home.  Found out he was a medical student.  With a farm.  In Hawaii.  Fuck yes.

We lasted three weekends.  Three weekends of really great sex, without any big orgasms on my part but still incredibly hot.  On the fourth, he handed me my blanket, gave me a hug, and sent me packing in front of all of my newly made friends.  I was so pissed off, I didn’t even notice how cold it was that night.

Didn’t find out until the next year the reason.  Apparently, whilst sleeping with me at night, by day he was courting another woman, and had decided she was the one he wanted to marry.  So out of the tent I go.

They’re already hitched by the time I learn this.  There is some great confusion on my part, owing to his aforementioned mid-coitus comment on his engagement. I was enraged at the thought he had cheated on his fiance with me, so the first time I speak to him at Fair, I’m all but screaming infidelities at him in front of a large group of people.  He tells me no, he had just met her when he had met me.  I apologize for yelling at him, then scurry off to asses how I feel about him meeting the two of us at the same time, sleeping with me and marrying her.

I decide to not think about it very much.  And that’s the first (through seventh) time I had sex.

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