Boy do I want to fuck the babysitter. Whose name is D____ and is an actress and dancer. She is this girl that does not on first glance stand out. Until you have a second glance and then you recognize, not by explicit, known features, but through your natural intuition of these things: her tremendous sexuality.
Tonight she bares her shoulder while talking to me. I see her bra strap. When she turns I cannot but allow my eyes to wander across the skin on her shoulders, the curve of her breasts beneath her sweater, the shapes of her legs, her ass. I am holding my son and he is wearing this thing that zips up the front, and the zipper is near my fly, and she asks, as she reaches towards the zipper, if there is a zipper.
My son falls asleep as I cannot stop thinking about her. And now we are here.
Tomorrow I am going to allow my eyes to wander while we are talking. I want her to see me looking at her breasts, at the crotch of her jeans, at her legs. I want her to see me stare at her lips.
My son will be asleep when she arrives and there will be the two of us alone in the apartment, the boy in his bedroom. Should I stroke myself through my pants while she watches? Should I ask her if she needs a backrub? That is kind of funny. But the question is, how do I convince the babysitter to take off her jeans and her panties and allow me to feast on her pussy, until my cock can take no more and must plunge into it. I want to cum deep inside her and for her to beg for me to cum in her and not to pull out.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Ana
I find myself now surprised, perhaps disappointed with myself at the way I have let these fantasies about Ana consume me over the past few days.
All of this began last week when we received an email from her offering a high chair. Since we needed one, we took her up on the offer. I was even disappointed, I admit, that I think the first email was to Anya alone and not me. It seems like something else must have precipitated this ... but I cannot remember what it was.
The fire was lit, however, when Ana responded to my email trying to suggest a time for me to pick up the high chair. In that email she seemed to emphasize the fact that her husband would not be there at one time, and that might be the best. The image of her kiss splashed over me, consumed me.
Unfortunately, I could not take that opportunity because I had agree to go on an ill-fated sailing trip. Ugh, how angering that whole experience was. That, for another time. And I think I was stuck for a few days, wondering how I could express what I thought would be reciprocal interest in Ana, although I could not meet her at that time.
So I sent her an email from this address. Leaving myself hidden by my pseudonym. It was very short and quite stupid. Naturally, she did what anyone would do when receiving a short, mysterious email from no-one in particular. Nothing. There is something funny about this, and in particular the hope that I had that I might receive a response. But the fact is, unless she was desperate, she would not respond. Just as I was not desperate enough to make my own person visible, but chose to maintain within a circle of irresponsibility, from which I could deny authorship.
Now I am thinking about how doing nothing is here considered an action. Ha!
But that for another time. What we are really dealing with are symptoms. I have found myself attracted to Ana since I met her, several years ago. But our encounters were passing, insignificant. That only changed in the past year when our circle of friends came together and Anya and I were able to attend. Yet I had not believed anything significant developed between us. Not, I guess, until that simple, single email from her. Which perhaps inadvertently emphasized her husband's absence, her presence.
I suppose I am desperate, in some regards. I am so angry and unhappy right now. Which makes no sense, since Marcello is so wonderful. But other things are crap, between even myself an Anya. Some of it predictable, since she's gotten a new job and I've remained only underemployed.
All of this began last week when we received an email from her offering a high chair. Since we needed one, we took her up on the offer. I was even disappointed, I admit, that I think the first email was to Anya alone and not me. It seems like something else must have precipitated this ... but I cannot remember what it was.
The fire was lit, however, when Ana responded to my email trying to suggest a time for me to pick up the high chair. In that email she seemed to emphasize the fact that her husband would not be there at one time, and that might be the best. The image of her kiss splashed over me, consumed me.
Unfortunately, I could not take that opportunity because I had agree to go on an ill-fated sailing trip. Ugh, how angering that whole experience was. That, for another time. And I think I was stuck for a few days, wondering how I could express what I thought would be reciprocal interest in Ana, although I could not meet her at that time.
So I sent her an email from this address. Leaving myself hidden by my pseudonym. It was very short and quite stupid. Naturally, she did what anyone would do when receiving a short, mysterious email from no-one in particular. Nothing. There is something funny about this, and in particular the hope that I had that I might receive a response. But the fact is, unless she was desperate, she would not respond. Just as I was not desperate enough to make my own person visible, but chose to maintain within a circle of irresponsibility, from which I could deny authorship.
Now I am thinking about how doing nothing is here considered an action. Ha!
But that for another time. What we are really dealing with are symptoms. I have found myself attracted to Ana since I met her, several years ago. But our encounters were passing, insignificant. That only changed in the past year when our circle of friends came together and Anya and I were able to attend. Yet I had not believed anything significant developed between us. Not, I guess, until that simple, single email from her. Which perhaps inadvertently emphasized her husband's absence, her presence.
I suppose I am desperate, in some regards. I am so angry and unhappy right now. Which makes no sense, since Marcello is so wonderful. But other things are crap, between even myself an Anya. Some of it predictable, since she's gotten a new job and I've remained only underemployed.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
the perennial female undergraduate
whose tight black jeans, bare ankles, and faux dance shoes, as well as the diamond shape of her face, provoked me to say, without second-guessing, that she reminded me of Audrey Hepburn. Is that a come-on?
I'm writing because I have been thinking about this encounter since, in fact, because of something she said shortly thereafter the above, which has made me wonder about non-linguistic forms of communication. The communication of those attracted to one another.
For she took that as a compliment, which I said it was meant to be, and I think I said so only innocuously. But perhaps I did not so much. In fact, I've think Audrey Hepburn is beautiful but I do not think I am attracted to her. Yet, I am to this student, who is blessed with a modestly nicer bosom than the former.
We began to talk about her essay assignment, on Aristotlian friendship, on Macintyre's views on the matter and she happened to mention her theory. Which is that girls bond over bad decisions. That I found hilarious, and I couldn't control myself, for some reason, I found it so funny. This is not to say that I laughed uncontrollably, but I did think it was very clever.
Her examples: the girls that decide to do another shot. And then, as she put it, "should I cheat on my boyfriend?" And I know her boyfriend because he is another of my students.
She immediately said, almost under her breath, that she should not have said it and I pretended not to pay it any mind. But I was suddenly struck by the fact that she was hitting on me and suggesting that she cheat on her boyfriend with me.
When I was in grade school it took me quite some time to decipher the signs that women send because I was convinced, as the result of my own poor self-opinion, that no matter what a girl did, it could not have been a sign of her interest.
Yet the certainty of this moment seems clear, unimpeachable. And I wonder why? Because she used the first person singular form. Because students don't speak to their professors about cheating on their boyfriends. Because they don't speak about it unless their professor knows that they have a boyfriend. Because you don't talk about cheating, especially when it comes to yourself, with someone you don't know that well.
Then I was totally distracted and she was distracted. Neither of us knew what we were talking about, but we continued talking. A moment occurred where I knew I could stand up and close the door and lean over and kiss her.
Then I might touch that subtle cleavage that appeared only by the way her hair hung over the curves of her chest.
Nothing happened.
Those moments seem so fragile. They last for a few minutes and the passing of the minutes makes it so that what happens is irreversible. A forbidden clutch passes unclutched and shall never so be. This is good. I am a married man, with gainful employment and a bun in the oven. I wish to risk none of this.
Yet the allure of her flesh, her kiss and her passion is so real. My heart races. I have lived through danger.
I'm writing because I have been thinking about this encounter since, in fact, because of something she said shortly thereafter the above, which has made me wonder about non-linguistic forms of communication. The communication of those attracted to one another.
For she took that as a compliment, which I said it was meant to be, and I think I said so only innocuously. But perhaps I did not so much. In fact, I've think Audrey Hepburn is beautiful but I do not think I am attracted to her. Yet, I am to this student, who is blessed with a modestly nicer bosom than the former.
We began to talk about her essay assignment, on Aristotlian friendship, on Macintyre's views on the matter and she happened to mention her theory. Which is that girls bond over bad decisions. That I found hilarious, and I couldn't control myself, for some reason, I found it so funny. This is not to say that I laughed uncontrollably, but I did think it was very clever.
Her examples: the girls that decide to do another shot. And then, as she put it, "should I cheat on my boyfriend?" And I know her boyfriend because he is another of my students.
She immediately said, almost under her breath, that she should not have said it and I pretended not to pay it any mind. But I was suddenly struck by the fact that she was hitting on me and suggesting that she cheat on her boyfriend with me.
When I was in grade school it took me quite some time to decipher the signs that women send because I was convinced, as the result of my own poor self-opinion, that no matter what a girl did, it could not have been a sign of her interest.
Yet the certainty of this moment seems clear, unimpeachable. And I wonder why? Because she used the first person singular form. Because students don't speak to their professors about cheating on their boyfriends. Because they don't speak about it unless their professor knows that they have a boyfriend. Because you don't talk about cheating, especially when it comes to yourself, with someone you don't know that well.
Then I was totally distracted and she was distracted. Neither of us knew what we were talking about, but we continued talking. A moment occurred where I knew I could stand up and close the door and lean over and kiss her.
Then I might touch that subtle cleavage that appeared only by the way her hair hung over the curves of her chest.
Nothing happened.
Those moments seem so fragile. They last for a few minutes and the passing of the minutes makes it so that what happens is irreversible. A forbidden clutch passes unclutched and shall never so be. This is good. I am a married man, with gainful employment and a bun in the oven. I wish to risk none of this.
Yet the allure of her flesh, her kiss and her passion is so real. My heart races. I have lived through danger.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Sex and Deception
My father is a member of the clergy, and so despite his and my mother's exacting wishes, I developed an idea that sex was something to which guilt must be attached as a condition for its possibility. Sex was something hidden. The fact that my parents tried to be open and to explain it to us (myself and my sibling) and to correct the idea that it was something hidden, inappropriate, made it all the more so the opposite, in that this was a private conversation about which there was something artificial and uncomfortable.
So yes, I blame Christianity for these views. I suppose I am advancing the Victorian, repressive hypothesis. SO be it. The Protestants have no confessions. Or at least not the helpful spoken kind.
That my father betrayed the marital contract and wrote about it in his diary confirmed this idea. That he kept books of erotic photography in his closet, on a shelf, again convinced me that I was right.
In fact, sex increased its allure for me, all the more it was prohibited. Yes, the law produces desire! That my dear cousin was the only girl with whom I'd kissed and touched, and the clear need for discretion that surrounded those encounters, from the age of 5 until high school--again, my desire grew and my conviction became more concrete.
Given these cues, is it surprising that I came to find sex identified with a subterranean, secret violence? Although the ass love of a man may not appeal to me, I loved reading Genet because I too felt those identifications between sex and violence. Not physical violence, admittedly, which, except for fulfilling the request of a girlfriend who wished I would slap her during the act, I can't say I've indulged within. Instead, the violence of deception. Exciting moments sneaking a kiss or a grope.
Such that, the sex sanctioned by law and community, I admit, holds less excitement for me. I enjoy the act, certainly, but the emotional rush leading to it is missing, which I think I might only find in the aforementioned subterranean, non-contractual, or rather anti-contractual, encounters of bodies whose meeting is forbidden.
So yes, I blame Christianity for these views. I suppose I am advancing the Victorian, repressive hypothesis. SO be it. The Protestants have no confessions. Or at least not the helpful spoken kind.
That my father betrayed the marital contract and wrote about it in his diary confirmed this idea. That he kept books of erotic photography in his closet, on a shelf, again convinced me that I was right.
In fact, sex increased its allure for me, all the more it was prohibited. Yes, the law produces desire! That my dear cousin was the only girl with whom I'd kissed and touched, and the clear need for discretion that surrounded those encounters, from the age of 5 until high school--again, my desire grew and my conviction became more concrete.
Given these cues, is it surprising that I came to find sex identified with a subterranean, secret violence? Although the ass love of a man may not appeal to me, I loved reading Genet because I too felt those identifications between sex and violence. Not physical violence, admittedly, which, except for fulfilling the request of a girlfriend who wished I would slap her during the act, I can't say I've indulged within. Instead, the violence of deception. Exciting moments sneaking a kiss or a grope.
Such that, the sex sanctioned by law and community, I admit, holds less excitement for me. I enjoy the act, certainly, but the emotional rush leading to it is missing, which I think I might only find in the aforementioned subterranean, non-contractual, or rather anti-contractual, encounters of bodies whose meeting is forbidden.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Who are you, 68.104.71.200?
I am so desperate for interaction I have been following the ISPs of my readers. Or reader. I know you are in Las Vegas. Which is no eastern seaboard.
I have not forgotten my promise and I will post on deception. But the time has been fleeting as of late. Visitors. The beginning of the fall semester. So many wonderful young female bodies. And the people I refuse to attach to them.
But I have also been thinking of my dear wife. Dear indeed. We're having a spat right now. It will last a few hours more, I think. I frequently joke that I was the one who benefitted from our union, whereas she only got me. My conscience forces me to say that. An ex-girlfriend wrote me a card for my wedding and it said the nicest things about me, that for once lifted me out of the grasp of my conscience. I thought that I was something.
And despite my desires, I have achieved no infidelous plans over the past two years. But the deeds themselves are immaterial. Intentions are the field of the conscience. She is an exacting master, wearing fur and leather. I want to be abused and my conscience abuses me.
I dream of being purely commodified for my lovely cock.
I wonder if it's Penny?
I have not forgotten my promise and I will post on deception. But the time has been fleeting as of late. Visitors. The beginning of the fall semester. So many wonderful young female bodies. And the people I refuse to attach to them.
But I have also been thinking of my dear wife. Dear indeed. We're having a spat right now. It will last a few hours more, I think. I frequently joke that I was the one who benefitted from our union, whereas she only got me. My conscience forces me to say that. An ex-girlfriend wrote me a card for my wedding and it said the nicest things about me, that for once lifted me out of the grasp of my conscience. I thought that I was something.
And despite my desires, I have achieved no infidelous plans over the past two years. But the deeds themselves are immaterial. Intentions are the field of the conscience. She is an exacting master, wearing fur and leather. I want to be abused and my conscience abuses me.
I dream of being purely commodified for my lovely cock.
I wonder if it's Penny?
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Penny
My first internet crush. Actually, not at all. In graduate school, for a short period before all of the voices became purely electronic, there was a woman who would meet me there and we would diddle each other with words. I sat in front of that old computer with its dialup connection and would write nasty little things in the dialogue box. She reciprocated. We exchanged emails, later, interspersed between meeting each other online, where we would simulate the encounters of bodies, purely imaginary. Then, phone calls.
Yesterday I tried to interest her in me, making myself an object, using words to seduce, I hoped. I posted my email in a message and then she posted it to her comments. Ah, nothing. Then I felt embarrased, such a transparent attempt. Perhaps Marianne is surprised, disappointed. And other commenters rolling their eyes. Then I remembered, I am "Bryce," and what do I have to do with shame?
So now I trumpet my silly crush. Which emerges out of the visual matrix. Words begin, dear reader, and words are vital. But images allow words to grow and blossom, like the excitations of an aroused sex. Like the excitations of my aroused sex, which yearns for the contact of skin and membrane, saliva and lips, soft sensation of teeth surrounding, a tongue stroking. It will suffer my own fingers, if it must. Whereas it desires to trace the contours of Penny's body, the crevice growing between her legs. (Metaphors are so boyish and silly, methinks).
In short, I want to fuck Penny. I just returned home from honeymoon with my wife who I love dearly, and I want to fuck Penny.
Next post: deception and sex.
Yesterday I tried to interest her in me, making myself an object, using words to seduce, I hoped. I posted my email in a message and then she posted it to her comments. Ah, nothing. Then I felt embarrased, such a transparent attempt. Perhaps Marianne is surprised, disappointed. And other commenters rolling their eyes. Then I remembered, I am "Bryce," and what do I have to do with shame?
So now I trumpet my silly crush. Which emerges out of the visual matrix. Words begin, dear reader, and words are vital. But images allow words to grow and blossom, like the excitations of an aroused sex. Like the excitations of my aroused sex, which yearns for the contact of skin and membrane, saliva and lips, soft sensation of teeth surrounding, a tongue stroking. It will suffer my own fingers, if it must. Whereas it desires to trace the contours of Penny's body, the crevice growing between her legs. (Metaphors are so boyish and silly, methinks).
In short, I want to fuck Penny. I just returned home from honeymoon with my wife who I love dearly, and I want to fuck Penny.
Next post: deception and sex.
Monday, July 20, 2009
In dem Biergarten
Her nipples are raw, because her lovely child uses them each day to nourish herself. But her body is closer to how she remembered it. Her abdomen resembles its familiar shape. Sometimes she leaks. Like now. She is wet. But it is a different kind. Or is it always this way?
She has known him for years, her husband's friend from graduate school. He is a strange fellow. Not as cute now as when she first met him. He says funny, disspiriting things. "She looks like that guy from 'The Shield'." An actor who is pale-complected, practically bald, with a wide face. And her daughter does look like this, in truth, if this daughter could be abstracted from being her daughter being. If she were just a small baby whose hair has not yet grown in, who still has deep blue eyes and fair peau.
Dreaming, this morning, in those few hours she got back as her husband took care of their daughter, her fingers slowly crawled between her legs. Her bedroom at her parents' house, where she'd grown up. This strange fellow laying on her bed as she comes in, wrapped in a towel from a cold summer shower. They'd been fucking all night long.
He sat up, with his head resting on the wall just above the headboard. His right hand stroking his cock. It was reddish and purple, she supposed tired from touching the deepest part of her. Erect.
He came across her face first, hours before, in the dark. She licked the cum from around her mouth. Wiped it off her forehead, cheeks, into her hair. She wanted to smell it and feel it on her. His lips kissed her sex, her flower, her ... cookie? His head between her legs, chin pressed against her pubic hair as she felt his tongue push inside her. Later he would push her face down into the pillow, kneeling behind her, she was on her knees. The head of his cock rubbing hard against her cervix.
"Take off the towel and come here." She let it drop to the ground. But she stood there, apart from the bed. She held her breasts in her hands, cupping her hands over them, twisting her nipples slightly. She had large breasts and she knew what that did to him. He watched and kept stroking. He had filled her ass too with cum, hours before.
"Cunt." She says "okay," smirking. Why does this talk excite her, she wonders. She'd put up with it from noone else. On the subway this word means nothing as it passes along with others into the continuum of noise. She bends over, running her fingers down her legs. Keeps them straight and slowly turns around like that, yet spreading her legs so that her pelvis, her crotch is open to him. She is blooming. They must be red, she thinks, although they are not really sore. Her pussy wants more. She wants more.
She has known him for years, her husband's friend from graduate school. He is a strange fellow. Not as cute now as when she first met him. He says funny, disspiriting things. "She looks like that guy from 'The Shield'." An actor who is pale-complected, practically bald, with a wide face. And her daughter does look like this, in truth, if this daughter could be abstracted from being her daughter being. If she were just a small baby whose hair has not yet grown in, who still has deep blue eyes and fair peau.
Dreaming, this morning, in those few hours she got back as her husband took care of their daughter, her fingers slowly crawled between her legs. Her bedroom at her parents' house, where she'd grown up. This strange fellow laying on her bed as she comes in, wrapped in a towel from a cold summer shower. They'd been fucking all night long.
He sat up, with his head resting on the wall just above the headboard. His right hand stroking his cock. It was reddish and purple, she supposed tired from touching the deepest part of her. Erect.
He came across her face first, hours before, in the dark. She licked the cum from around her mouth. Wiped it off her forehead, cheeks, into her hair. She wanted to smell it and feel it on her. His lips kissed her sex, her flower, her ... cookie? His head between her legs, chin pressed against her pubic hair as she felt his tongue push inside her. Later he would push her face down into the pillow, kneeling behind her, she was on her knees. The head of his cock rubbing hard against her cervix.
"Take off the towel and come here." She let it drop to the ground. But she stood there, apart from the bed. She held her breasts in her hands, cupping her hands over them, twisting her nipples slightly. She had large breasts and she knew what that did to him. He watched and kept stroking. He had filled her ass too with cum, hours before.
"Cunt." She says "okay," smirking. Why does this talk excite her, she wonders. She'd put up with it from noone else. On the subway this word means nothing as it passes along with others into the continuum of noise. She bends over, running her fingers down her legs. Keeps them straight and slowly turns around like that, yet spreading her legs so that her pelvis, her crotch is open to him. She is blooming. They must be red, she thinks, although they are not really sore. Her pussy wants more. She wants more.
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