I didn’t decide on him until late into the night. Felt his arm wrap further around my waist as I danced with him. Another woman danced with him too. She was beautiful, freckled, big breasted. On another night I would have seen how far I could have gone with her and her straight tendencies. Not tonight. I wanted him, his boyish face, his lean, experienced body. I knew, as his hand slid further around me, that I could have him. The other woman danced between us. We shifted, his arms all the way around me. Some more dancing, we walked out. Maneuvered the other woman to go home while we stood on the street corner. He had some early family obligation in the morning. He was unsure, “raincheck maybe,” he asked.  I kissed him and I felt him sigh. “You only live once Raymond.”

He showered before getting into bed with me, which I found quirky, but I let myself get comfortable on his bed. His weight on me felt amazing, his body made mine feel small. His hands, as they explored my body, my thighs, my breasts, my cunt, felt so good. “You have great tits,” he told me as he squeezed them and I blushed in the dark, enjoying his appreciation of my body. He went down on me not long after getting into bed, surprising and delighting me. Most men don’t do that so quickly. Most women I’ve been with recently do. I wanted him on top of me more, and pulled him up.  I would let him lie between my legs and hold me between his muscles all night. Sliding my fingers up and down his back, he pulled me on my side, massaged my back with those strong hands while we wrapped ourselves around each other. I returned the favor. Just as I started to doze off entwined with this beautiful man, I felt his hard dick push against me and the breath escaped me. He was full of delicious surprises tonight. I grabbed one of my condoms, originally intended for another this night, but the best things happen when they’re not planned.

His hands were as amazing as his dick as he fucked me, slid his hands under me, pulled me onto him, pushed my legs apart, dug his fingers into my hips, flipped me ontop of him, pushed my shoulders down. “Shhh,” he cooed as I grabbed his headboard and thrusted onto him. Volume control is not one of my strong suits. My head tipped off the edge of the bed, he held me with his hands slid under and around my hips and pushed himself hard into me. “many women don’t like this pressure,” he groaned. “it’s so fucking good,” I managed to tell him hoarsely.  I don’t remember how he came, but he did with a proclamation that he’d get me again in the morning. My body shuddered as he laid back down beside me.

I woke up with my face against his shoulder, he grabbed my hand and had me feel his morning wood. I laughed as I peeled my eyes open. His were closed. Sleepily caressed his chest, arms, dick. Dozed off again. Touched him again. He rolled ontop of me. Slid his fingers along my inner thigh. Put his weight on me. He laid between my legs for a while. I could have slept like that. He moved intermittently. Then more steadily. I moved back against him. Pulled me on top of him. We grinded against each other for a while, sleepily. Working up more and more desire. I let him drive, decide when to take off my panties, he let me reach for the condoms. He teased me, only putting in the head. I couldn’t thrust as he held out my legs, giving me little leverage. Finally he pushed all the way into me and laid on me. I dug my nails into him instead of moaning like I wanted. I grabbed his flesh, he slid his big hands under me and fucked me wonderfully. He made sure I had come before he released, I tugged his hair, enjoying his groaning as my body made his come.


Nose to nose

The fabric between us was maddening. Finally we were in my bed. I wanted him inside me so badly…

I decided that our flirtation had gone on long enough. I brought him home with me. After we had both made out with the same boy, the young one, who I sent home alone.  In my elevator again, where things happen. Start. or continue.

He wasn’t as grabby with me as I was with him. Although he fucked me desperately through the fabric of our pants. But he wouldn’t move to take anything else off. Why, I asked. He wouldn’t say. Our friendship? His other hookup? Did his experience with men outmatch that with women? Please, let us fumble with each other’s bodies.

The morning was intimate, not at all awkward. In the state between self-consciousness and sleep, we faced each other, nose to nose. My leg across his body, his hand firmly on my leg. I caressed his chest, arm, neck. Placed my palm on his sternum. I peeked at him, his prominent thyroid cartilage, his freckles, his very present and firm, but not bulging biceps. My lips found his shoulder.

Just a week ago I did something similar with a woman. But this feels different. I loved her soft body and put my mouth all over her in the morning. But something was missing from that. The caress. There was no nose-to-nose sleepy wakefulness.

In retrospect, I realize that maybe this was just a moment. A moment our friendship allowed us to have. But just a moment. 


Friday night taught me

1) I do not mind having my feet stepped on if the person stepping is a tall blonde woman trying to dance too close while two-stepping.

2) Woah, I forgot what a sucker I am for blue eyes

3) I try to lead when I should be following.

3) Make out with a homoflexible man in a gay bar, and other gay men are libel to get bitchy as fuck.

I don’t know if he wanted to go to that gay bar because it would be more empty, the music was better where we already were. I suppose he was trying to take our friend home, but our friend wasn’t having it, not that night.  So we did our thing we do on dancefloors. Grab. Kiss. Unbutton. I was bolder this time. My hand on his crotch. No whiskey dick for him. His power over me, however, seemed broken. Maybe it was my discomfort with the sparse dancefloor, feeling eyes on us. These two gay-looking people acting straight. We kissed again, like the week before. Not making out. Just kisses. Sexy kisses. My mouth on his neck, his hands grab my flesh harder. Another boy liked him. Danced on him. I backed off, letting him have his attention. He reached back to grab me anyway. A hand on my sternum from the stranger, pushed me away. If he hadn’t been between us, I would have pushed the bitch back. Instead I backed off.

On the walk home, “Why didn’t you save me from that guy?”
“You’re bigger and taller than I am!”
“It’s your fault.”
“I thought you liked it!”
“You should have saved me.”

Maybe he wanted me to lead after all. 


the Argentine

I was hungry. Starving, really. I took it out on his body. I didn’t mean to leave those marks on his body. They did make me smile when I woke and saw them. I remember the night before, but not in sequential order. I don’t remember having that much wine.

I remember the beat, the dancefloor, the other bodies, his body. His sexuality not at all ambiguous, thankfully. Neither was mine that night. I have no idea how long we danced without kissing. Three minutes? Ten? None at all?  We couldn’t even hear each other inviting the other home, the music was so loud, but we understood and left.

In the elevator he pushed me against the wall and kissed me more. I could barely get my door open. I pushed him onto my bed, still in our coats. I felt free, totally uninhibited, wanting to fuck, pushing his hands away then back.

Thinking back, I worry that I was too aggressive for him, and maybe I was. But he matched me. I barely remember, but I know he pulled off my shirt, my pants, my panties. They ended up in different spots on the floor. When I demanded more than he could give, he gave me what I wanted.

He fucked me with his hand, and I woke up deliciously sore. Perhaps better that way, less personal, we were both so vulnerable.



My nails dug into the skin above his paraspinal muscles. His hand responded in kind, pulling me tighter to him. How I longed to do this horizontally. We were on a dancefloor. Again. Sweating against each other, our legs in between eachother’s. My skirt riding high on my thighs. Our torsos move apart, legs still intertwined, he dips me, showing off his strength. He faces me the entire time this time. I don’t shy away from eye contact. Our mouths are together, tongues. Not for long. Who kissed who? He is so tall and has to come down to meet me so no one. Or both of us. I slide my tongue against his salty neck and bite down. I turn my back to him and his hands grab my hips again eagerly, like so many times before, but this is different. When I slide my hand back around his neck and rest my head on his chest and look up, his mouth is there on mine again as though we’ve been doing this all along. The clock is nearing 0200, and I don’t want this to stop, this thing that seems to only happen on these dark floors with loud music. We continue grabbing each other, pulling tighter, letting go, hands moving, grabbing again. He pulls me the tightest when I grab his belt along his back, or grab his back under his shirt. He threatens to pull off my shirt while I unbutton his to his undershirt. I would let him. 



I poured kerosene all over the bridge between us. The bridge I helped rebuild so strong. The bridge that was getting shorter and shorter, pulling us closer. I pour kerosene all over it, then I threw the match and watched it burn. She was on the other side yelling something at me. “It’s ok. But I was just rolling with the punches. You know this isn’t just my fault.” Then the flames ate her words and hid her face.

“Do you know how many times you’ve brought up Blake on this trip?” My dad asked me.
“I know, I know!” I answered. We were taking a cab home from dinner the last night of our vacation together.
“I’m not saying anything.”
“Say it, say it!” I told him, needing to hear it again. Needing to hear what my best friend had told me.
“There’s nothing to say.” He said simply.

She’d been sleeping over, we’d been holding each other. “I know this blurs the lines,” she said, “I don’t want to hurt you again and I don’t want to be hurt.” I thought I could keep my emotions in check. I thought we could have this. Somewhere between platonic and romantic. No sex. As Jaden said to me when I called her for advice, “sex complicates everything anyway.” Apparently, so do feelings. Maybe I could sleep with other people and just love her. The thought crossed my mind.

I made the mistake of mentioning that I had a date one night. She was so excited for me, like a Jewish mother who’s kid hadn’t had a date for years.  It was weird. It seemed fake. What had I wanted? Her to be disappointed? To fake a “oh that’s nice.” I’m not sure. I guess I just didn’t want to hide my date and see how she’d react. Well, I hated how she reacted. And I countered with that kerosene. She was on vacation with her family. It was probably cruel of me. I know it hurt her. I know it hurt me. Better to burn that bridge than watch it disappear and just merge though, right? I told her, “You don’t know what you mean to me. I know this is my fault. I’m sorry.” Burn baby, burn. 


Gay man

His fingers dug into the flesh around my hips. He’d done this before. The night we’d both made out with other people, both matching our own sex. His left and mine declined my advances. We were both second choices for each other. He grabbed me on the dance floor. His hand across my belly, lightly at first, then with more force when I encouraged him with my hand on his. He intertwined his fingers with mine as he pulled on my hips. He walked me home and we kissed on the cheek, both laughing at the tension and I went into my apartment alone.

He woke up in the same man’s bed only yesterday. But I don’t care, not the way his hands are on my body. He’s tall, but he bends his knees enough so that I feel him through his pants against me, and we might as well be fucking. He becomes more timid when I turn to face him. Even in my heels, my head only comes to his shoulder. He is thin, I didn’t think he was attractive at first, but he’s reeled me in with this ambiguous flirtation. Now I want him. I’ve been wanting to fuck a gay man anyway. He doesn’t advertise his attractions, he likes to remain ambiguous, to receive the attention from men and women. I’m growing tired of the flirtation, and of playing with my food, I want to eat already.

The fantasy
I whisper in his ear, “you’re going to take me home and fuck me, or you need to stop.” He smiles, surprised at my bluntness. Turns his head just enough to kiss me, finally. It feels as though I will devour him with my mouth, my body’s hunger having no other way to express itself in this dark room full of people with the music so loud I might as well be deaf. He pulls away, “let’s go.” On the street we look like two gays, laughing, walking to another club together. In the elevator I pull him against me again and our bodies are eager for each other. Right to my bed, he moves against me like he did only a few minutes ago, but this time horizontally, still clothed. I feel his hard cock straining against his pants, my other hand behind his neck, still devouring him with my mouth. Am I attracted by his eagerness? Am I flattered that he’s attracted to me? Do I feel like I’ve won the game? Or am I intrigued by his artist side, by the danger that he’s in my grad program? It doesn’t matter, his skin is against mine now. He teases me about my flogger he knows I keep under the bed, “that’s for repeat offenders only,” I tell him, just wanting him inside me already. I reach for the toy bin anyway which is where I keep the condoms. Then I devoured him with the rest of my body. When it was over, he asked if he should go. I told him he better stay because I wanted seconds.

The reality
My out-of-town friend was in town, so he went home alone that night. He came over the next night with another mutual friend. I made dinner. He made dessert. He wrestled me for my phone, a teenage excuse to feel me up. Not that I minded. If our other friend wasn’t there we wouldn’t have kept it platonic. He stayed to do dishes, but made no indication he wanted to stay more, and I didn’t risk the question. His history playing with people is too dangerous, I’m too proud to risk being made a fool of for sex. This is what I get for pursuing the sexually ambiguous.