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I've always been girl-crazy. I can remember as far back as being three years old and madly in love with the girl next door. This isn't that story.
This is the juicy story of one man's journey to escape a bad relationship, and going about it in all the wrong ways. (The names are changed to protect the not-so-innocent.)
Throughout my life, I've loved, made love, and been loved. These are the reminisces of love won, bodies explored, fantasies played out or missed out, and sometimes, well, sometimes it had nothing to do with love, we just wanted to fuck.
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Jackie--Hawaiian Hottie, part 2
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Posted:Aug 20, 2012 11:54 am
Last Updated:May 16, 2024 11:42 pm
689 Views
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After a certain point, the hook up becomes a foregone conclusion. We were about a mile and half beyond that, and proceeding rapidly in all the right direction.
I have only vague recollections at this point. Exchanging hats--we were both wearing soft ascot caps. My hand on her thigh. She pushing my hand farther up her thigh. The ever-embarrassing-but-always-fun making out in public, in this case right there in the booth with everyone else still around.
Thankfully, I lived only half a block from Rudy's. At some point Raul kicked us out--knowing where we would be just fine. I have no specific recollection of leaving Rudy's nor going back to my apartment, but given the short distance, I'm going to make a wild assumption that we walked the 20 yards. What I do remember is when we hit my bedroom.
I couldn't tell you what she wore that night. I have no idea if she had on a t-shirt or a blouse, a skirt or shorts. What I can tell you is exactly what her underwear looked like. Matching bra and panties. I remember thinking to myself, "she came out tonight to get some dick." I was right (though at that point it wasn't a difficult conclusion to reach.)
Her clothes were quickly on the floor, barely even before I had the bedroom door closed. We were furiously attacking each other's bodies, but I managed to take a moment to admire her underwear.
Ladies, if we ever have the chance to meet in such a capacity in person, rest assured that I will take a moment to appreciate your well thought out matching underwear selection that night. In this case, in that moment, I did.
Red bra with blue lace trimming, matching panties. How patriotic, I thought to myself. The panties were boy-shorts. God almighty, did this girl know all of my weaknesses? I flip for boy shorts on sexy petite girls for the way they really show off the curves of a great ass. And she had the perfect ass to pull them off.
She was standing as I pushed her shorts down to the floor, and I traced the route they took down back up with my hands and tounge. Her toned legs flexed and when my hands reached her ass I cupped the perfect shape in both hands and she squeezed it for my edification. My mouth found the outside of her pussy, already wet through her underwear. I pressed my tongue into her then continued to trace my way up her body.
Standing now, I spun her around, kissed the back of her neck, pushed her hands up to run her fingers through my hair, while my hands ran down the length of her body. I pushed her panties down just a fraction of an inch, teasing her, then ran my hands slowly, sensually along her tight stomach, tracing a line up her chest and into her breasts. With my right hand I cupper her left tit, squeezed gently, and found the nipple. With my left hand I brought it up behind her and unsnapped her bra in one motion.
I thought about spinning her around and forcing my tongue down her throat again, but I still wanted to see that ass. So I pushed her forward from the shoulders while holding on to her hips--she let out a meek shriek in surprise at the sudden force but went along with it. Her legs were on the floor, her arms and naked torso spread out on my bed. I knelt behind her, tracing my hands down her side, down along her panties, pulling then down past her ass, but yet off, just hovering above her sweet pussy. The scent of her filled my nostrils, I let out a moan of satisfaction and continued down the outside of her legs.
Then my hands came back around, up the inside of her legs. She shuddered slightly as my tongue met my hand on her inner left thigh, my hands kept climbing higher into her crotch brushing lightly against her pussy but not penetrating. Through her underwear I could feel she was swollen and wet, ready for whatever I would give her. I let my tongue linger on her inner thigh, gave her a gentle bite, and worked my way up, up, up, up slowly
With sudden force I used my right hand to push her shoulders and head further into my bed, my left hand reached around and under her hips to lift them up, and buried my face hard into her pussy from behind and through those red panties with the blue lace trim still half-on, half-off. She let out a scream of ecstasy, partly from the sudden, supple violence of it, and partly because christ it just feels good to have a tongue in your pussy.
With my teeth I pulled her underwear down farther, eventually bringing my right hand into play from behind to finger and flick her wet labia. My left was now holding her hips high, and I brought my hand around to spread her lips open wide so my tongue could dive deep into her.
With the shock and excitement of the suddenness of my moves now worn off, she was enjoying being eaten out from behind, but was ready for something new. My face was covered in her juices, she tasted pungent, but sweet At this point I made a nearly fatal blunder. I flipped her over, looked her square in the eye and said, "no sex tonight."
It took a moment for that to process. Then she looked at me like I had two heads with and little green alients protruding from all four ears.
Allow me a moment to redeem, or at least explain, myself. My past two hook-ups (more on those later, I promise) shared one thing in common. During that hot, clothes-coming-off-in-a-mad-flurry moment both girls stopped cold and made me promise "no sex tonight." I surpressed a chuckle first time because in my early college days I learned saying exactly that was always met with relief from the half-naked girl on my bed. Invariably that little line led to a deeply impassioned blowjob on nearly every occassion. I must admit, got a lot of use out of that line during sophomore and junior years. I hadn't used it since, but given my last two hookups, the trend seemed to be going in that direction.
Her look has now gone through distinct phases: confusion, shock, horror, and now... is that murder in her eyes?!
Missing only a beat, I realize my mistake, and say, "just kidding, let's fuck" with a wink, and reach for a condom.
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Jackie--Hawaiian Hottie, part 1
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Posted:Aug 17, 2012 12:50 am
Last Updated:Aug 17, 2012 12:56 am
798 Views
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In the heart of Hell's Kitchen, nestled comfortably among the sea of new, fancy restaurants and even newer and trendier bar/lounges, is a classic NYC dive bar called, Rudy's. My best friend Raul and I had a saying, "there's always an adventure at Rudy's. Always."
The prices are cheap, and it's one of the few bars above 14th St. where you can get beer by the pitcher. The place reeks of urine, stale beer, and perhaps that's a mild whif of vomit, just for good measure. Despite all that, it's typically packed on the weekends. You don't go to Rudy's to meet girls, you go to get drunk--really, really drunk.
Like many nights, Raul and I started at Rudy's. Some friends were going to meet us so we grabbed a booth and settled in for a night of hard drinking. The first group to arrive were two guys and one girl. The girl was a moderately tall, toned but curvaceous, and my best guess was she's half-black, half-white, but certainly with the most amazing curly black hair.
I'm a sucker for curls. I told her so, and she took well enough to settle in beside me in the booth, being sure to lean in and press her breasts against me any time we talked. I was getting a great vibe from her, and reciprocating. But then the next group walked in, and when I looked up, I saw exactly what I wanted that night.
She was petite, maybe 5'2", toned, with perfect legs, and just slightly tanned despite it being late winter. I got up to buy the next round, hoping to strategically position myself next to the new hottie. But unfortunately, I was going to have to work for that seat because one of my friends was trying to hook up his firefighter buddy with either of these two smoking hot girls.
As it happens, Raul and I had lately been obsessed with Rock, Paper, Scissors. So obsessed that we often put up the most ridiculous things as wagers, and all too often took on--and subsequently humiliated--random people from around the bars we happened to be gracing with our presence. And so we started up a few rounds with the big crowd we had gathered at Rudy's.
I was in top form that night--most likely fueled by the sexual desire to bed one of these two girls, ideally the petite tan one. At this point you might question the correlation between something as mundane as Rock, Paper, Scissors, and the ultimate pay off of getting laid by the smoking hot girl who you've known for less than two hours. And it is precisely because of your questioning that I would eat your lunch, beat you down 3-0 in RPS, then fuck your girlfriend for good measure, simply because you don't understand what RPS represents in this sort of a situation.
There is a primal, core level within all of us. At that level, men compete like cavemen for women, and women choose the "fittest" among the men. That fitness contest normally happens on a subtle level and you never know a woman's scale for determining the most fit guy in the bar. It could be the guy spending the most money, the one with the most friends, the literal definition of fit, or something so subtle that it can't be defined.
But the fact remains that men compete with one another for one reason and one reason alone: to impress women. Put it all into a situation with copious quantities of alcohol, more men than women, and it doesn't matter what the contest, the alpha male takes all.
I live for these unusual alpha male moments. RPS that night was my night to claim dominance over the other men in the group. After countless rounds of beer and RPS, I stood wholly & completely undefeated in best-of-three matches. And best of all, I was now in the middle of the booth with the curly-haired girl to my left and the petite hottie to my right.
I focused my attention to the right.
Jackie was her name. She was a 2nd year resident at a prestigious hospital on the east side, and originally from Hawaii, which explained the tan. And yes, thanks to my prowess at RPS--or more accurately, my prowess at proving my alpha-male-ness with RPS being just a thin veil and an excuse to play up the alpha act--she was very, very interested in me.
To be continued...
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The start of it all
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Posted:Aug 15, 2012 1:24 am
Last Updated:Aug 23, 2012 11:53 am
1119 Views
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As was typical for a sticky summer Sunday afternoon in SoHo, I was standing alone outside Uniqlo waiting for my then-girlfriend to emerge. Usually I'm a great boyfriend shopper. After all, I'm the one who benefits from her outfits, so why not have input, gently nudging her towards that shorter skirt, those higher heels, and that more revealing sundress.
But this Sunday we were fighting, and that was far too common these days, too, so I waited outside. It was high tourist season for foreign and American tourists alike, and I wanted to watch the eye candy go by. Little did I know what a great decision that would be.
The amazing thing about NYC is the sheer volume of gorgeous women all around you, all the time. So when I tell you that the girl coming down the sidewalk lit up my insides, believe me, I'm coming from a place of vast experience. Experience both of the hands-on variety, as well as the accustomed-to-being-treated-to-eye-candy variety.
She was a tourist, clearly and easily identifiable by her camera, her guidebook, and her two girlfriends clutching the same. My first guess was Japanese, and I was proved correct when I saw the writing on her guidebook and overheard her speaking to her friends.
She would have stood 5'0" if not for the platform stiletto heels. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a pony tail--slightly and intentionally off center--with long bangs coming right down to the top of her eyes.
Her eyes. They were extraordinarily wide, and she was wearing the decorative contacts that were all the rage with Japanese girls: they covered her cornea and retina in a dark black. The look was intended to make the wearer look like the girls in Japanese anime cartoons. It worked. And let me tell you, if you're not used to see it--or even if you are--it's startling how subtle yet devilishly sexy it is. When a Japanese girl with these lenses on looks up at you and bats her eyes, all you see is a deep pool of endless black, and all you can think about is how many ways to Sunday you can fuck this little cartoon character.
Before I go any further, let me digress and explain that I'm not some Asian-creeper looking for a submissive geisha or objectified schoolgirl. NYC is far too diverse a town, and I've been exposed to nearly every culture, and as many women in each as would have me. I have no preconception or stereotype in my mind about how a woman should be based on her race or nationality. I love them all with equal vigor.
But there I was, standing on the sidewalk, ogling at this girl like she just walked out of a cartoon. Her face was in perfect proportion, round, with a cute button nose, full cheekbones, and, wait, was that just a hint of babyfat still? God it was a picture of pure intentionally farcical innocence.
I gave her body a quick glance up and down, and then decided that quick glance was far too short. Not only did she have a beautifully proportioned face, but her body was just perfect. Her shirt was an oversized American Apparel see-through rag that fell off her left shoulder, revealing smooth silky pale skin. Underneath was another shirt, this one perfectly tight fitting showing off her pert breasts. Despite the sweltering summer heat, the outlines of tiny nipples could be made out, even from a distance.
The girls made their decision and started off walking again, now heading toward me. As she approached, I found myself looking down at her legs, shapely, a little bit of curve to them, despite her slim figure. And then I noticed as she came closer, her black tights--and she wore nothing else on her lower half but these tights--were so tight fitting that I could actually see the shape of her vulva.
It was as though time slowed down for me.
Here in front of me, walking by me, was exactly the kind of girl that not too long ago would have found her way to my bed. Instead, I was just leaning against a standpipe, staring passively, while waiting for my girlfriend to emerge. Girlfriend. Fuck. for a few blissful minutes I had completely forgotten about her. Nearly ten years of on-again-off-again relationship had soured so badly now that everyone could smell the wretched stink of it all.
Once upon a time, I ruled this town, its sidewalks, bars, and offices. I laid out brilliant game in daylight, aggressive chatter in the evening, and last-call drunken hookups in the early pre-dawn hours. I took advantage of introductions from friends-of-friends-of-friends to always nab a hottie for a night of lust and passion. Notorious to some, reviled by others, rejected more often than not. Not afraid of rejection because I had no shame--what's one rejection when there's a whole metropolis of 8 million people, probably a good solid 500,000 are fuckable girls in my age range?
That was me, once upon a time. And now here I am, waiting for a girl to emerge who I often regret being with, who doesn't make me happy, and who's let her body slip into a comfortable flabbiness. She's in there, I'm out here, we're fighting, again, and I'm being a total creeper staring at this girl's perfectly outlined pussy.
It's all going through my head in slow motion: My little wide-eyed Japanese princess with her pussy wagging in front of me. She's splayed out on my bed, shoes off, shirt off, tights still on, legs spread, her hair out of the off-center ponytail and strew over my pillows. I pull her in close and rub my hard cock against that bulging outline of a pussy. And it goes from there.
Only it doesn’t.
The moment passes. She walks by. I stand still.
Waiting.
What am I waiting for? I’m waiting for this relationship to either improve, or end. It’s not going to end itself. I’m going to have to do it.
I miss living out those fantasies. I miss chasing girls on the street, in the bars, in the offices. I miss the thrill of the hunt, and lust of the conquest. It’s been lacking in my life for far too long.
That sweltering summer Sunday in SoHo with my little Japanese princess whose tights were just a bit too tight, her eyes a just a bit too wide, and her possibility just a bit too far outside of my reach. She changed my life there on the sidewalk.
That was the beginning of the end of that relationship. And the start of it all. Again.
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