Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Impromptu meetings

At the bar in the middle of the week for a special occasion: a friend that was back from overseas, visiting town for one night only.

I ignore SM when he comes in the bar, not feeling the need to pull him in to our conversation. He eventually notices me in a booth, comes over to drunkenly announce that he's going to a different bar. I explain that I'm visiting with a friend that's only in town for the night. I believe he thought I was referring to the girl friend that we were with, and thought that my guy friend was his coworker - he was that drunk. He offers to host after hours, and he leaves but not before I correct him about my friend. I told him to call me but didn't really expect him to.

He does call around 1:30, and is surprised that I'm in same place, and comes back. My friends think he's weird and ask me if he's actually foreign. I secretly wonder if everyone has the same first impression of him, but remember that he's really drunk and everyone has the same impression of drunk people. They try to sneak me away from him at the end of the night, but somehow he convinces them to give us a ride.

We take our usual chairs at his place. He looks melancholy. A serious look on his face, he says slowly, deliberately, "I'm going to keep drinking, and at best will be a mediocre lover to you. I mean, I can go down for hours, but we've never really fucked." I'm not sure how to react to these statements. He puts on music that is emotional for both of us. He feels too far away, so I kneel on the floor by his desk chair and lean my head on his shoulder. Someday he'll get a couch.

He wonders why I put up with him, I tell him it keeps life interesting. He doesn't think that's a very good answer. My reply: "There are moments that can be quite confusing, but in the sum total of everything, it's completely worth it. Is that better?"

He smiles that disarming smile that makes me melt. I sit on the floor, leaned against his propped up leg, hold his hand. The music continues. He says the song is not about me, or about him, but about loneliness. A tear runs down my cheek and he gets upset. I drunkenly get up and say "Fine, I'll go back and sit in the chair and pretend like this doesn't affect me". He scoffs and gets up as well to use the bathroom. I scream the lyrics to the song playing that seem appropriate at that moment. I never know how to feel, how to react, to be what he wants. If he even knows what that is.

Something had told me that I would end up here at the end of the night even though I hadn't really wanted to. I hadn't showered before going out, I was wearing a guy's sweater and was generally feeling unsexy. It was a Tuesday for goodness sake. I knew that I needed to work at 8am so I wanted to get some sleep but that was not to be. When we end up in bed, he's practically using his body as a weapon (an actual one, not the metaphor) in making out with me; I fear I may be bruised by errant elbows and knees. I'm normally quick to remove my clothes but since I hadn't taken that initiative he was trying really hard to reach under my shirt and not quite figuring it out. At one point I had to force myself to roll him over because I was getting smashed into the corner and was almost getting claustrophobic.

He got up to get some water and put more music on. The end of the night shots or maybe the lateness had hit me. I decided to ignore my preconceived notions of my appearance and stripped and got back under the covers. I think he was a little surprised when he got back into bed, but pleasantly so. I let myself go, allowed myself to be overtaken by his kiss, his touch.

After a few orgasms we lie quietly for moment. He's holding me, and I whisper "You're wonderful. I hope you know that." He pulls away, and I immediately regret saying it. How do I always fuck things up? Why can't I just keep my mouth shut?

He looks me straight in the eye. "You're more than wonderful. I hope *you* know that." He rolls over and lays on his back and I curl up to him, my face buried in his chest - I can't even look at him. "I don't, but it means a lot coming from you." He tilts my head up and kisses me, gently this time. As much as I love intense make out sessions, sometimes a softer kiss really gets my juices flowing.

"I like it when you kiss me the way you want to be kissed." That was news to me...I always thought it annoyed him when I would try to slow down his pace.

He begins to kiss my neck, and before I know it, he's burying his face into my cunt. It seems his favorite position is 69, and he wordlessly directs my body into achieving this position. As always I'm distracted in this position, wanting to concentrate on what I was feeling as much as what my mouth was doing on his cock. I think he got into what he was feeling even though he was only semi-hard, but then I got confused because he started fucking me with his hands instead of his tongue. After I came a few more times, I sat up so I could concentrate more on him.

I get a zone sometimes when sucking cock. Even if I know the guy I'm with is too drunk or doesn't cum from blowjobs, this doesn't deter me. I keep thinking, "Maybe just this once the stars will align and I'll know exactly what to do at the right moment to make him explode." I've always wanted to create a story like that, to leave an anecdote to be told into the future.

"I can't wait til the day when you make me cum. Because when I do it, it takes me less than a minute." This was both encouraging and discouraging at the same time. It's as though he believed that I could make him cum with my mouth...someday...but probably not right now. But if he could do it in "less than a minute", why couldn't I do it even if I'd been trying for a long time? I felt awkward, inadequate.

"One of the biggest things about sex for me is pleasing the other person, and I feel like I'm not able to do that with you."

"I almost never cum from sex. Do you really think I'm keeping track tit for tat? If so, you'd be soooo far ahead." He smiles, which makes me smile and laugh a bit. As long as he's having fun, it's all good.

We go back at it. I concentrate on the feel of his smooth cock moving in between my lips, slowly. I silently wish the music was turned down slightly so I would be able to hear his soft, barely audible moans more clearly. The better the feedback, the better the blowjob, right?

After a while he puts his hand in my hair and gently pulls me toward him and kisses me deeply. He's got a look of sleep on his face, I imagine he needed to pass out but didn't want to do so while I was pleasuring him.

We lie together, quietly, my own few moments of personal bliss. As much as I love sex, I also love the afterglow. I hear myself say "Sometimes when I don't see you for a while, I think you're a figment of my imagination. too good to be true."

He tells me to shut up, and I say no. "I hate when you tell me to shut up." He laughs and thinks it's funny but I don't want to be told to shut up when I express how I feel. I suddenly realize that his drunkenness will cause most of the evening to disappear anyway, so why be angry? I fall asleep with my hand on his chest.

In the morning it's as though nothing ever happened, no intense words, no orgasms, nothing. I often want to ask what he remembers, if anything, but never find it to be appropriate. Sometimes I wonder if he knows who is next to him when he first wakes up. Never quite sure how to handle these situations and over time, it doesn't get any easier.

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