If you're new here, you may want to subscribe to my RSS feed. Thanks for visiting!
There’s nothing like Freud to unleash the inner thoughts. Take a term like parapraxis. Have you ever responded to a question and blushed after realizing that you’ve said sex instead of text? Parapraxis, commonly known as the Freudian slip, is a real phenomenon.
Last week resulted in an unexpected mash of food, alcohol and flesh. In that order.
During the week, I arrived at one of many regular family Christmas parties; there are too many people in the family to celebrate Christmas at one place. One of my aunts decided to introduce me to one of a family acquaintance. Luke stood around six feet, was medium built, with tousled brown hair. He presented an appealing profile, a nose I could rub mine against. I easily slipped into the mixed group of cousins and we eventually began chatting about the week that was the Christmas nightmare of last minute shopping. When I mentioned my new laptop (purchased a fortnight before Christmas, making internet shopping and gift giving easier), it became inevitable that we’d drift toward everything internet related. His excuse for avoiding internet shopping and his general paranoia over purchasing items online related to a recent nightmare credit card statement that listed something like five thousand dollars from a questionable company in Romania.
“I can understand your paranoia,” I said, getting the p-word out without any qualms. That’s the beauty of being sexless. After some time passes, it’s easy to forget the usual mating rituals – like being careful about sensitive conversational topics, like sanity.
He shrugged. “I even turn to see if my laptop is glaring at me.”
It was my turn to pause.
“Only joking,” he said, laughing. There was no need for him to break the ice as he hadn’t come across as a 12 AM desperado. So we happily chatted about our respective occupations, traded hellish office stories and dipped into the torrid tide of relationships past. At some point, he became peckish and picked up an appetizer, one of my aunt’s strange gourmet constructions and brought it to his nose.
What I thought he’d said and what he actually said are up for debate, but returning to the opening paragraph of his entry, parapraxis.
I thought he said, “This smells fucky.”
He vigorously denied my observation, maintaining that he said ‘This smells funky.”
Maybe I ingested far too many champagne cocktails. Nevertheless, the pleasure set in and began massaging my inhibitions away. I couldn’t drive, but he could.
At some point my aunt decided that he’d be my designated driver. The parts that unfolded, unfolded in unexpected order and it was only in my hung over, well fucked state that I decided that pre-planned sex sessions failed to work with me. Now I doubt that my therapist will agree with me, but obsessive organisation can ruin the sexual moment.
The vivid parts that I recall occurred after Luke accompanied me into my apartment. Maybe he thought I needed guidance, but secretly, I suspected the real reason. I wasn’t incoherent. I wasn’t slurring words but I did think it possible that he lacked as much sex as I did. Despite the dreaded cocktails, that I’ve vowed never to drink again (until another year passes to blur my memory), my mind felt clear. Despite the festive week, I offered him dreary tea. Okay, my brain didn’t feel like operating my espresso machine, besides if I drank espresso at three, I’d be awake for ninety percent of the day.
There was a clear sexual vibe in the kitchen. Luke stood close by and, whether it was via the fading notes of his fragrance or his natural scent, I felt drawn to him and gave him the lusty one over, allowing my gaze to linger around his groin. He took it as a signal and I thought, ‘I still have it,’ when he came up behind me and ran his lips down the skin on my neck. God, how good, I thought. He then opened his mouth and unleashed his moist tongue and that’s when I started feeling my pussy revving. It was easy to turn and remain locked in a stupendous kiss. We tongued and groped. By the time we were up, the tea was tepid but I still made a point of completing my ritual. Symptoms of OCD? I don’t know…don’t care.
In the living room, we came apart. When I awoke hours later, I confronted the tea stains on the carpet, but back at that moment, clothes rapidly came off and we made out until my nipples screamed. Luke stuffed his fingers into me, worked them in a mechanical yet effective fashion, until I squelched and dripped pure pleasure as I knelt over his lap. I simply closed my eyes and let go, without delving into the chances of orgasming. I actually didn’t think about it and…I was overwhelmed by the electric pulse in my groin and the familiar warm undulations I usually experience during masturbation. Fuck, I thought, he made me come!
Then his cock caught my attention and I slid downward until I reached the floor.
I positioned myself between his legs, yanked down his jeans and start stroking his cock with a firm rhythm, up and down, all the while gazing at his face. Aroused beyond belief, I kept it to myself within as he squeezed his eyelids shut and bucked in response to my mouth. I was amazed by his erection. His girth thrilled me to no end. There was no warm up or prelude to the oral action; I didn’t talk to him in the first stages. Instead, I began my licking his shaft like I’d lick an icy pop, and continued for a while, until every square millimeter of his cock was moist enough o enable me to alternate and use my hands before I got a little more animal and sucked his thick shaft. It started off as rigorous fellatio, until he became more vocal and ground his pelvis forth, and it shifted from controlled fellatio, to Luke fucking my mouth until I – shockingly – didn’t flinch as he splooged in my mouth.
Even now, I can’t believe that I clamped down, and sucked him to the point where he couldn’t speak, and in my wakeful state this is the type of blowjob I prefer; I don’t like receiving instructions, and I can’t say that I have received many over the years, which I take to be a good sign. He whimpered, moaned, and tried to control his facial muscles, which further distorted his face, and I loved it, just as I relished the warm moist texture of his shaft in my mouth.
As for the after, that can become awkward. After the explosion, we were ‘Oh wow, gee, did we do that?’
I did the contrary to what usual relationship manuals advise. I paid a visit to my bathroom first, for a change. Then I checked him out as he dressed while I sat, cross legged in my womanly nakedness. When he turned to say something to me, I beat him to it.
“You can do whatever. Call or not,” I shrugged. “It’s not a biggie.” Yet I didn’t hand over my number. My brain was fuddled with post coital amazement and bliss. I didn’t have to consciously end my four year hiatus. Nature (and a meddling aunt) took care of it.
Hours later, after a ten hour sleep, I woke up to ask myself if it was a dream. After a late cup of coffee, I checked my phone and noticed a few messages. I didn’t think anything of them until I came across Luke’s message. After listening to Luke’s follow up message, I had one thought:
My meddling aunt gave him my number.
Related posts:
[...] And a blowjob just for me… Luke stuffed his fingers into me, worked them in a mechanical yet effective fashion, until I squelched and dripped pure pleasure as I knelt over his lap. I simply closed my eyes and let go, without delving into the chances of orgasming. I actually didn’t think about it and…I was overwhelmed by the electric pulse in my groin and the familiar warm undulations I usually experience during masturbation. Fuck, I thought, he made me come! [...]
I know the feeling of finally not worrying if you come, and then you do! A man that can do that is one worth keeping.
I think so too. Fingers crossed it all works. One of the reasons I dread sex with new partners is the awkwardness of not coming, even though I do make efforts (and succeed) in not obsessing over it beforehand, stopping short after the sex really drives me mad.