Sex and Loathing

Remember when you were more easily led, Behind the cricket pavillion and the bicycle shed? Trembling as your dreams came true, You looked right into those blue eyes and knew. Pet Shop Boys – Can You Forgive Her, 1993

He wasn’t particularly handsome. His face seemed stretched somehow sideways, his mouth too wide and his eyes a little further apart than average. He was unevenly freckled and the adolescent acne of his past had left a few marks here and there.

He wasn’t particularly handsome, but his lean wiry body was just the sort which attracted me, had done since I was very young.

He wasn’t particularly handsome, but he was clever and gave good conversation.

He wasn’t particularly nice to me, but then, I wasn’t particularly nice to him either. It’s safe to say we didn’t really like one another very much. In a group we could just barely manage a passable civility and alone we called one another names, spitting hateful epithets with true vehemence. We had gotten off on such the wrong foot with one another, it seemed we would never resolve it. Both dominant personalities, both straining against one another, rebelling against our perceptions of the other’s attempts to dominate.

We were at a party together, just barely legal to watch the R rated movies on the screen, not quite legal to drink the beers in our hands. Young, anyway. Teenagers. There was to be a beer run, we’d run out. Gianni was going and he was going with. Gianni had the car, Jeff had the fake i.d. I passed off a fiver to him, enough at the time for a good share of a case of Molson’s Canadian. He sneered and asked what was in it for him.

I shrugged. What did I have to offer, really? A skinny little punk with a chip on her shoulder, a grade behind him in high school, no particular position of advantage. He’d been complaining of a wrenched shoulder, the result of the day’s sporting competition, so I offered him a massage. I was known to be good at it and I figured a few minutes of muscle rubbing was worth four or five beers. He agreed.

When they returned, I took up a position, obediently behind him, crosslegged on the floor. As I rubbed his back, we chatted. Pheromones filled the air.

Anyone who ever was an adolescent knows exactly that moment when both of you decide to go for broke. When the control is surrendered.

I slowly sipped my first beer of the evening as he drank deeply of his third and then fourth. First his left then his right hand found its way to my knees, my thighs. At first they just rested there, aiming for casual, though the position musn’t have been very comfortable at all. I remember that he was left handed and it was that hand that first made its way to the top of my damp tights, one finger lightly stroking there a few times before it travelled back down my thigh. My own hands stroked his shoulders less and his chest more, marvelling at the definition of his pecs, despite their slender placement. The next time his hand travelled up my leg, it slipped under my tights. I repaid the favour of his stroking, slipping my hand down his tight stomach and over the bulge in his jeans. I could only feel the tip of his cock, straining against the zipper. I considered freeing it, allowing it to burst forth from the denim, but a glance around the full room dissuaded me. I made eye contact with a girl I barely knew and she winked at me knowingly. Suddenly horrified by my own forward and public groping, my hand quickly retreated back up to his shoulders. He was not so easily dissuaded, thankfully and he slipped his finger around my soaked underpants and plunged it deeply inside me. Hungrily my pussy enveloped him and I felt his chest rise and fall rapidly a few times before he leaned back to slide another finger effortlessly inside. I was young and still quite tight, but my juices easily made up for it, dripping down his palm as he rapidly slid his hand up and down and craned his neck back to rest his head on my shoulder.

His lips brushed momentarily against the upward curve of my jaw, just under my ear before he murmurred a command. “Go lie down under the blanket on the futon.” He withdrew his hand abruptly and stood up, leaving the room.

My legs trembled and my pussy burned with the hot blood which swelled my clit and spread my lips aside. Shaking, I climbed onto the futon and wiggled down under the thin blanket. I waited, barely breathing, wondering if he was going to come back, wondering what he was doing, desperately trying to keep my hands off my clamouring cunt.

After a few minutes, he came back and sat down on the edge of the futon. Leaning back on one hand, his back to me, he reached back and resumed his rubbing. Blood rushed to my face. He ignored me completely except for his one busy hand, tucked under a blanket, stroking, pinching, penetrating. As my breath came in shallow gasps he casually held up his end of a group commentary on the film on the screen. I still remember that it was a brutal film, set in a Southern military academy. Some people associate Dixie with racism or slavery. I associate it with the titillation of being coaxed to orgasm by an indifferent adversary.

I tried to keep silent, to pretend to be simply sleeping behind him, but as my peak hit, my jagged breaths took on a high, quiet pitch. I bit my lip until blood sprung into my mouth. I held my breath and I came hard, for the first time daring to show my pleasure by pressing toward his hand.

When the spasms finally subsided he lay next to me for the first time. Bringing his face close he issued another command. “Meet me in the second floor bathroom in ten minutes” and again he was up and gone.

I used the next ten minutes to gather my senses about me and then crept like a thief down the stairs. I stood outside the bathroom door for several minutes, nervous and unsure before finally turning the handle. I found him behind the door, stripped naked, his hard-on bright red and pointing straight at me.

For all the under-the-covers fumbling I’d engaged in as a horny young teenager, this was the first time I’d found myself faced with stark nudity. With a penis standing at attention, with balls drawn up in anticipation. He pulled me towards him and undressed me, fondling my breasts, my ass. He drew my hand towards his cock and I took it into my palm, wrapping my fingers around it and tugging it toward me.

I held it firmly and massaged, I withdrew and tickled it with my fingertips, running them lightly up and down the shaft and over the tip. A dribble of precum escaped and spread between my fingers. My right hand took over the manual ministrations as I lifted the left to my lips, to lick the fingers clean.

He moaned and his knees buckled as my tongue ran down one finger and up the next. He seized a towel rack and thrust his cock towards me, burying it for a moment between my legs before drawing it back, slippery and sticky with our combined fluids.

My hands teased him for an hour, drawing him to orgasm and then retreating, leaving him with shaking legs and a cock more and more swollen. Finally he was pleading with me to let him sit, to finish him as he sat, because his legs couldn’t hold him any longer.

I pulled down the toilet seat and directed his body down, straddling him. Licking dry lips he asked if I had a condom and I had to admit that I didn’t. He tilted his head back and pressed his face against the cool tile wall, suffering to draw his cock up and down my labia instead of plunging it deeply inside me, where it clearly longed to be.

I cupped my hands over the top and let him grind against the soft, slippery skin between my legs, occasionally reaching down inside me to draw more lubrication between us. His dick throbbed with every beat of his heart, the skin stretched tightly over the swelling head.

I slid off his lap and knelt on the bath mat, both hands rubbing him trying match the ferocity of his thrusts. He cried out when I finished him there on my knees, his shout retreating into a long, low moan as I devoured the semen which dripped down his cock, between his legs.

We went our separate ways, never speaking, for good or ill, again.