In November I finally emailed one of the top cutest chicks. She was cute, tan, very petite, blonde-brown hair. Not only was she one of the cutest in at least a 300 mile radius by far, she had a really freaky profile, and had put up some really kinky pictures of herself being abused. She seemed kinky, down to earth, unshockable, and upbeat. She wrote back right away, and gave mer her instant messenger name. We started messaging back and forth, and she gave me a very friendly vibe. I tried to keep up with her when she was culturally over my head, by, for example, Googling for song lyrics to make sure I knew which group she was referencing, etc.
I researched her online based on her screenname, and found her real name, address, and home phone number. I also found a personal website she had put up. On it were pictures of her being whipped, caned, urinated upon, brutalized, degraded, and humiliated. Throughout it all she had a sad-eyed smile. I really got the impression she just wanted someone to love her, and was trying to find it by offering herself up in a way that most no other girl would. That way, she could beat everyone else out for top place for the attention.
I had just misplaced my Harry Tasker cell phone so I used a pay phone to call her to set up dinner. At the restaurant I was exhausted and felt really off my game. Even so, it seemed to go well. When I said we should talk soon, etc, she said she already had my number since it popped up on her caller ID. I explained it was a pay phone and played it off by saying I was against cell phones; had one in the past but got sick of everyone placing expectations upon me of being able to reach me at any time, and what ever happened to the days where pay phones and planning were our only means?, etc. She told me to call her that Friday.
Come Friday I drove to her neighborhood and got ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, then voicemail. I left a message and drove around killing time, then called back and immediately got voicemail.
I was irked, thinking I had been blown off, so I tried to write her off and forget about her. In a couple of weeks she wrote me briefly and we started a light exchange, but eventually I said Fuck it and stopped responding. After a month or so, I was about to email her, but she wrote me back and said she had found me fascinating and couldn't stop thinking about me, and would I please give her a call or email.
I emailed her and we set something up for last night. But when it came time to call her back that day, I found myself procrastinating in any way possible. Finally I called another friend of mine and ended up chatting until it was way too late. I was just hesitant to call her, I don't know why. Sometimes I get this shyness about people who make a big deal about the beginning of a convo. Finally I did call, and it wasn't too late after all.
I drove down, picked her up (she gave me directions, not knowing I knew where she lived), and we walked around this small seaside town until we found a decent restaurant that was still open and wasn't a loud bar with a band playing. It was an uncomfortably quiet sushi joint. We had a good time, and it was fun. She had a real upbeat personality and was very laid back and down to earth. The downside was, I had gas and the whole night I was on fart lock. There wasn't any way to get away from her to cut loose. In retrospect I could have said I needed to go to the bathroom but for some reason I didn't. I mean, what if it was like super quiet and echoey, since the restaurant was super quiet, and so on.
You know how it is if you're on fart lock: You pinch it off and don't let any out, and your gastrointestinal tract goes through this cycle: first the fart swells up and tries to force itself out. Then with a rumbling noise it dissipates and slithers back up your intestines for reinforcements. In a few minutes it has regrouped in your rectum with increased strength and size. When it swells up you have to try harder to restrain it.
After that we went to this place I had been meaning to check out, a Tiki lounge, one of like two in all of southern California. Outside I parked in a dark section of the street under a sidewalk tree, and had on the perfect music - score another one for me, for intentionally having just the right mix CD in the changer - and I could tell she wanted me to kiss her. For you gamehounds out there who want to suck up the game from your big daddy, it's Playground Love by Air, the Vibraphone version, not the regular one. I flirted, played dumb (successfully) like I didn't know she wanted me to kiss her, and made eyes at her. It's all part of my method.
The place's decor was very cool, but it had the ambience and clientele of just a regular beer bar. Sleazebags and lowlifes, not Hollywood hipsters. It wasn't quiet or dark, either. But like I said, the decor was great. A terrific song came on; yes it was angst-rock-y, but it touched me.
We were meant to live for so much more
Have we lost ourselves?
I sat for a moment listening, hoping she wouldn't say anything. I wouldn't want her to talk over the lyrics, because if I heard them I could go download the song off the internet later and I didn't want to have that heartache that comes from knowing that something that touches you is out there but you can't find it. I could hold up a finger and say Hush a moment, let me hear this song, but that would suck too.
She was a good conversationalist, considering she had some unusual stories to tell, such as her having sex with a dog, and how she's always analyzing tits, what being made to drink urine is like ("You never forget your first piss-burp"), and how a girlfriend of hers had anal sex with a horse in San Diego.
We were meant to live for so much more
Have we lost ourselves?
And also like I said, I was still on fart lock and had some heavy artillery cued up and ready to rumble. It was all I could do to hold on to it when it swelled up. What an annoyance.
We ended up talking outside her place in the black moonlit street into the wee hours, then kissing, and finally went into her tiny house to snuggle and talk some more - still on fart lock. Since my wife was working and shouldn't be home til the next afternoon or evening, I fell asleep with her. The next morning it was a beautiful day out, and we layed around in bed talking some more. STILL on fart lock. I hope. Hopefully I hadn't farted in my sleep. Anyway, she sucked my dick, and had me finger her. For some reason I found her unattractive. Online and with her clothes on she was cute, but she had what definitely felt like stubble in one spot under her chin, as if instead of having her crazy-hairs waxed, she shaved them off. Naked and in the light of day she had a very small but very saggy belly. Her ass wasn't as cute as it looked online, and her tits were very saggy since she had lost some weight over the past year. Fooling around with her, I found her tits the most elastic of any breasts I'd ever messed around with. When I'd pull on her nipples, instead of feeling resistance, it felt more like I was fishing a soggy napkin out of a toilet. You know what I mean? You're lifting more and more mass but you don't feel any additional resistance from elasticity. The inside of her pussy - which she called her cunt - was loose and very muscular, felt like a big mess of ridges and lumps, much more so than most or even all of the other girls I've ever been with. She was horny but I was just really turned off. I wasn't horny, plus she was such a nice person that I didn't feel like whipping her tits, slapping her face, or gagging her with my cock, the way I might've if she were really cute but bitchy. She was too loose for me to want to have straight sex with her, and her ass wasn't attractive enough for me to want to sodomize her, and I just wasn't even feeling like I wanted a blowjob. I also didn't want to get into a big seeing-each-other-all-the-time dating thing where I HAD to be accountable for my whereabouts and stay in touch with her a lot - and have her want to visit my home, etc. Nor did I want her to get too close and then break her heart.
Eventually I went home in the afternoon and finally was able to let 'em rip in the car. Jesus.
~
I raced home - over an hour drive - showered, and got ready for my date with my mistress, which was just down the road from where this one lived. Drive home for an hour and fifteen minutes, shower, and turn right back around and drive down (another hour-plus), and drive back at the end of our night (yet another hour-and-some-odd).
Unfortunately I got caught up looking at porn. I justified it to myself by saying I wouldn't have time to go to the motel with her after dinner, and rather than being frustrated, I deserved a whack-off.
I was about 20 or 30 minutes late to dinner because of it. We were at a Mexican joint, a very popular little hole in the wall that features authentic food from Oaxaca - not your regular mexican food, not at all. All the sauces are much sweeter and many have chocolate in them. There's no salsa as we know it with "normal" Mexican food, either. It's good; we go there on special occasions. Like, my Harry Tasker birthday (eight days after my real one).
She looked great; I mean, she always does, and turns heads everywhere she goes, but she had just started going to the gym again and had lost a noticeable amount of weight; was down to 115 lbs (the lightest of any girl I'd dated for 10 or 20 years); thank god her ass and tits hadn't shrank a bit. She's very dark, a very warm cinnamony tan. Unfortunately I still had gas and was on fart lock once again. I tried to avoid eating any cheese or anything with dairy in it whatsoever.
It's nice to have the hottest chick in the place with you, but I felt sorry for the waiters and the homelier of the women working there. These poor bastards work their asses off 7 days a week for $6 an hour, and have no chance of getting a gorgeous hottie like I'm flaunting. And any one article of clothing I'm wearing - shoes, shirt, jacket, pants, etc. - any one of these costs more than these poor guys make in a week. Outside is my gleaming giant new luxury SUV with huge, expensive wheels and tires, custom leather interior, GPS, DVD player and drop-down LCD screen for the passengers, all that. I spent what for the waiters would be an entire day's wages, in gas money driving down here, one way. I feel like such an asshole for having it.
When we finished eating I claimed I wanted to go to the bathroom and wash my hands. Once in the bathroom I couldn't fart without risking shitting my pants. I hadn't timed it right, and to wait for it to regroup so I could expel it would mean taking long enough that it risked her thinking I was taking a shit, or someone walking in on me or trying the door, etc.
After dinner she wanted to go to a motel, and it took easily an hour of driving around trying to find a cheap one. I must have gone into five of them asking how much for two hours, and since none of the ones with vacancy in that part of town were hooker motels, they didn't offer an hourly rate and turned up their noses at the idea.
I used the time to bring up the subject of why she wants to be in charge all the time, in bed. Or at least, doesn't always do what I want. It wasn't a high pressure conversation; I'm not a pig. She pointed out - rightfully - that our sexual relationship is more 50/50. I told her I wanted to be in control 100%, at least some of the time. Maybe we could alternate. Secretly I actually didn't like the idea of alternating, and was hoping I'd never have to honor my half of it, or would be able to get out of it if the time came. Anyway, she asked what I wanted to do differently that we don't do now. Of course there are some things I want to do that we currently don't, but I was taking it one step at a time so I told her, "Nothing, I just want to do what we do now, with me in charge." She got the message though and eventually she agreed to try it.
I went into motel after motel, and finally found one where I managed to talk the Indian night shift guy down from $75 to $50 cash, for all night no less. I had to do a whole song and dance. I was stressing out since I knew my wife would be home for sure when I got back, I mean it was already 10:30 or 11 pm, but I knew I'd get out of it.
Inside, it was a non-smoking room. Nice. Right off the bat, on goes the TV, off goes the sound, and the lights in the room. It's the only way to get the room dark enough. Clothes on the bedside lampshade don't obscure the light enough, and get burnt or melt. Try explaining that to the wife. I set up my mp3 player with my tiny portable speakers and turned on my non-distracting background chillout mix. At first I gave her a massage. The muscles of her back and her calves were sore, and her pained moans as she submitted to it, gave me a raging hard-on. When I got to her calves, I was rock hard, and massaged her with one hand, holding her down with the other as she squirmed, groaning and moaning in pain and pleasure.
Sex was quite possibly the best ever. I didn't change our repertoire much at all, I just had her do pretty much what I wanted, when I wanted it, and put her in the positions I wanted. I had her give me oral sex and suck my balls repeatedly, for more than just a moment each time (as it was in the past), and I gave her explicit instructions and lots of encouragement. She did a great job of following instructions, which turned me on in itself. It got me so hard, despite having rubbed one out a couple of hours earlier, that I pounded her for what seemed like an eternity in doggystyle while I had her reach back pulling her butt cheeks open. Even my orgasm was bigger and better than usual. It felt great to be a man, shooting a big load like that.
When it was over, she was excited and happy, and told me she enjoyed it a lot and that I was getting better and more athletic than ever. I took a shower while she lay there semi-napping, and since the shower had a fan that seemed to be a true exhaust fan sucking air out of the bathroom and into the ceiling, I cut loose with a few. Whew.
On the way home I could finally let go. I felt relief and a mild sense of accomplishment as I raced home farting at 3:30 a.m. Two dates out of the way and I could finally relax. Now to make up an excuse and get myself out of trouble with the wife. Possible drama, but should be a piece of cake.
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