Time for Meditation on Pussy

Today I again solicited Pet. She stands by her promise, unknown, to Anya, not to sleep with her groom-select. Although I know that were I to soften Pet with liquor, as she has a easy way with, her bedroom door would again open. Or so I think.

And the truth is that I am not even sure I would so enjoy being affirmed in my solicitation. I thought about it this afternoon as I drove back from the Newark airport, where I left my friend. He had been visiting for the past four days and is the only one who knows everything. We've known each other since graduate school when he studied creative writing and I studied literature. He was the non-cerebral type who got drunk a lot and had every luscious pussy solicit him. Including this ballbuster named Gina who eventually turned out to be cheating on him, having never ended her previous relationship with a man who also turned out to be her fiancé. Tough times. He's now married, a professor like me, teaching literature and creative writing, although I've switched fields.

We confess to each other our unfortunate deeds whenever we get together. I have had nothing to confess, as my dear reader would know, despite all the half-baked attempts that I've made. In fact, that is not completely true, I suppose. I mean, if there was a serious persistent unremitting drive that freed itself from responsibility and witness, then couldn't I be successful in finding some entertainment for my cock?

I like to think so. Last night we went to this barbecue joint, myself, my friend, Anya and then another friend from graduate school and his very pregnant wife who I once lusted after. From a distant. She is still quite beautiful. Jewish with olive skin and dark hair. She is a lawyer and in fantasies my cock has penetrated her holy of holies on several occasions.

It has occurred to me that I have a distinct problem with the romantic possessions of my close friends, some desire to conquer each of them. My fellow confessor is married to a startlingly beautiful Russian woman that I know I underestimated. This makes me think of Myra. Oh Myra and the wonderful taut skin across her midriff, her hipbone. That physiological zone has bedeviled me since high school and college, when lovely Jodi splayed herself on my cock. I see Myra's profile on Facebook, a friend of other friends, who the machine tells me I may want to befriend. And that that I do. 

But I would rather humble myself between her open legs and lick that clit up and down, watching her squirm. The blond down above her labia, barely visible on her alabaster skin. I would pull her hips into my face and press my tongue inside as far as it could go. Would that I were Gene Simmons and could taste the deepest salty goodness within her.