Violet Blue of Tiny Nbbles says
- Sex bloggers need to have more sex and post about it. Dammit.
That puts me in a bit of a bad spot. I’m not comfortable identifying partners too closely and I’ve only had one for years so I can’t say “wow, last night…” without kind of pinning her down too.
On the other hand if I have no unidentifiable partners now I’ve had some wonderful unidentifiable (to others, silly, not to me) partners in the past. For instance…
History lessons in intimacy: a (slightly edited) message I wrote for someone I corresponded with years and years ago. It marks the moment I understood the intimacy of the (pre-web) internet. We never met in real life but had an intense, very passionate fling in bits and bytes before parting on very good terms.
I’m so glad we didn’t first meet in real life! Instead I got to meet you at home, soft flesh in knockaround clothes, a little gray at the roots, baggy pants, vulnerable, sweet, and full of hopeful horniness. Way past the formal obstacles of this and the social strictures of that.
I never wanted to “date” you. I just wanted to be there when you wanted me or I wanted you. I wanted to walk up behind you unawares at your computer while the kids are out of the house. I wanted to smell your scalp where your hair parts and rest gently squeeze the tension out of your shoulders in their t-shirt, pulling them back to help to help them relax. I wanted to slide my hands down and support your breasts in my strong hands and feel their different kinds of softness as my fingers cross fabric over breast to nipple to breast again. I wanted to lean down, my cheek against yours, and watch my hands move down over your soft mother’s belly to the waistband of your pants and then move in. Maybe your hand is already in there and I won’t have to fumble past elastic (lazy me) and I’ll join you there, between your legs, stroking and patting what I’ve never yet seen, greedily slipping under your own fingers feeling their wetness on the backs of mine and glad they stay to give me a tour. I wanted to feel you lift up to give me more room, to arch back so our lips can meet. I wanted to feel you start to slip down off your chair and hold you in place with the arm under your breasts and the fingers curled down and in and under your pubic bone. I wanted to see your bare feet, maybe between your toes the traces of mud from a scamper to grab the paper before it got wet. I wanted to watch them curl and cross as my fingers penetrate your core and the heel of my palm rocks your clitoris. I wanted to hear your breath, to smell the mix of morning and coffee and breakfast as our lips separate to regain our breath. I wanted to spin your chair around and kneel in front of you, pulling you awkwardly down, pulling up your shirt to sloppy-lick your breasts side to side and up and down. I wanted to grab the waistband of your obstacle/pants, impatiently hoisting your hips off the chair the way a parent undresses an uncooperative kid, sliding them off your bottom, rolling and awkwardly snagging your undies half-way down and hopelessly tangling your pants legs, inside out, around your ankles. I wanted to stand and pull them from the bottom up, making you grab the arms of the chair so you don’t go flying while you giggle in disbelief at my urgency. Then, too impatient to fool any further I wanted to shrug between your legs, under your still snagged panties, so I can feel your skin next to me, so I can kiss your breasts and belly and thighs, totally unmindful that over my head, you’re patiently if a bit distractedly trying to free at least one leg so you can spread yourself wide for me.
I wanted to be there when you haven’t touched up your “five o’clock shadow” for company, to smell your morning pussy smells and taste your morning pussy tastes. I wanted to yank my pants down no further than my knees, rip buttons getting my shirt out of the way. I wanted you to see how hard I am and then slide you off your chair and onto me and me into you. You know this position isn’t going to work, not for long, and you shift so we topple slowly sideways, pulling me on top of you. Satisfied that I’m where I’ve wanted to be — inside you! — I can instantly back come to my senses — some of them anyway — and we can settle in for a slow, deep, comfortable screw.
When I’m inside you I like to move low and deep so our mounds meet. I don’t know if you can come just from intercourse (maybe not the first time with someone new but there’s always practice, practice, practice) so I’d like to try, experimenting eyes to eyes, till your expression turns inward and I know I’ve found the right place.
Sometimes it feels so good I could come right away. Sometimes I can’t help myself! Often I go right to the edge and beg you to stop, stop, just a second please. Sometimes I have little mini-orgasms, squirting just a tiny bit of semen into you, and then if you hold still for just a second more the “danger” passes and though my pleasure is undiminished I can move, your way, my way, for as long as you like. I almost always come when you start to come, or when I think you’re about to, or when you say “come in me.” I like to reach behind and under you to feel where our bodies meet. If you don’t mind my weight I like to reach further around and between to diddle your clitoris as we move. When you get close I don’t like to change my rhythm for fear of putting you off yours but not automatically — I’ll respond to your urgency with mine.
That’s how I think about you, about you, a mother, no longer a teenager but a real, mature woman, in shape enough to “risk” a date, but not at all ready — soft, and vulnerable, trusting a man who wants to deserve your trust. Fucking a man who’s not jealous but glad you’re seeing someone else tonight. Kissing him with lips that might (but probably not, not on a first date in too long) be sucking another man’s cock (and certainly maybe thinking about what it would be like.) Breasts cuddled and mauled by one man who knows that soon another man will eye them appreciatively, appraisingly, wondering how they’d feel in his.
Mmm, mmm, mmm. I want that. I can’t have the at-your-home-address you, the real world you, but I want the tender, secret shared thoughts you. The too-late-for-first-impressions you. The “just you” you.
Not really physical sex at all, Violet, but sweet and passionate none the less.
