What the fuck did I do?

I call it my time of the month. Unnanounced the dark descends upon me and I feel weary and dreary and dull.  Oh Jeez,I can't even think of what to write.

Crap post, eh?

The time for heavy petting was over.

On all fours on the bed. I was behind her. Behind her behind. Admiring the view. The curves. She was wet. I was hard. These things had to be dealt with. So I entered her. And she pushed her cunt into my groin and I responded with ever quickening thrusts. On my feet, crouching, holding on for dear life I fucked her like the proverbial bunny. She clenched ever tighter, and then I slipped out. Sorry. Sorry.

Not sure about who led then. I think she took control.  On my back, she mounted me.  Grinding and screaming. Cumming with shudders. Richter measures required.  So much release. But still only Act Two.  No interval yet.

I wish that was mine, but I confess I stole it. But the description is right and the analogy is appropriate, so I thought I'd share it with you.

There are so many things buzzing around my head many of them sex-related (oh yawn, here he goes again).  One thing is about what men and women need for good sex. There is a commonly spouted misconception that women need emotional connection and men don't. For me, that isn't true.  It's not just mechanics, which partly explains why porn leaves me cold. I need an emotional connection, something that draws me into the woman's soul, otherwise the pleasure is diminished (i.e. no more and sometimes less than self inflicted pleasure).  And although I cannot speak for all the escorts I've met, it is apparent that some/many/all (delete as appropriate) are able to switch off the requirement for an emotional connection in order to get mechanical with a fee-paying stranger. So both sides can be more masculine/feminine in their requirements. 

My God what an awesome revelation! He's onto something there! It ain't all black and white!  Why didn't I think of that. He's a genius that Sexy MF!

Ok so startling insights into the human psyche aside, where is this leading? Last week in 316, aside water, before bridges, upon white sheets, Bardot and me fucked for England.  And it was good. Oh yes, it was good.  And apart from the fact (the obvious fact) that we're both sex magnets (I mean there was a disorderly queue forming outside the room, drawn in by the orgasmic sirens playing inside), the fundamental source of all that quality love making was the emotional connect.  And that connect was built up over six months of blogs, e-mails, texts followed by walks and talks from station to latte, so that when we finally got in to the room every little emotional atom had been brought to a perfect simmer.  And then we blew! For an evening, a night and a breakfasted morning, we kissed, licked, sucked, nibbled, touched, caressed and connected physically and mentally.

And she remains there in my head.  All those minutes replayed over and over in a different order each time.  And each time I relive a particular touch or kiss or look I am there in 316 again: hard as rock and wanting to pleasure and be pleasured.

But now we're both back in our respective lands and the simmer is back, ready to be brought to the boil once more. But patience is required. Good things come to those who wait. And I can't wait but I shall wait.

But.

Somewhere in a North Eastern corner, by flowing water and arcful bridges, opposite glass halls of music and Baltic art, two atoms spun on their axes and wended their way at high speed towards one another.  Stars and colours, sparks from friction, the collision of noisy mating driven by the primeval desires that manifest themselves when ape-like beings of skin and light attract.

Moment one:

She walked to the window, parted the curtains just enough to take in the view of car parks and offices, bending as she did so to push her voluptuous backside towards me.  No more invitation was required.  I walked up behind her and pushed her against the window.  She twisted around and we kissed; hot, wet, urgent. I felt her curves pressed against my chest, her arse in the palm of my hands. Momentarily I stopped and looked her in the eye: "You do know you're sexy don't you".  That was the spark that lit the fire that burnt the house down.

As clothes were ripped off and discarded, as juices were tasted and blood vessels engorged, as climaxes rose and lulled like waves building for the perfect storm, time moved relentlessly on outside 316.  But inside that room, inside her cunt, inside her mouth, we only existed in our timeless universe.  Two hours of lovemaking, fucking, sex (whatever you want to call it and it was all those and more) passed in minutes and these two atoms collided noisily in a furnace of their own making, hurtling at light speed towards the sunset.

Moment two:

Sleep was fitful. I was overheating. Bed clothes were thrown off. Beside me she lay in night white satin. Her desire was not sated, but mine, I thought, was solely a desire for sleep. But then she moved, she moved towards me. And I stirred.  Half asleep, but awake enough to know, I sensed her moving inexorably down.  I wanted it, but still I wanted sleep. She took me in her mouth, coaxing life from the weary soldier. I made no attempt to stop her. I allowed myself to give myself over to the pleasure being given. Sleep, who needed sleep, when a sexy Bardot was taking you deep inside her mouth and licking all the mounting pleasure between my legs. I could not move. I was incapable of response. I let her control me and take me, all of me. The groans I emitted grew more urgent and her determination for pleasure was evident. I offered no resistance. Relax, don't do it. Relax when you want to cum. And I wanted to cum. And she wanted me to cum.  As I reached the pinnacle and was launched over the edge, there was a momentary freeze frame as I soaked up all the pleasures of the act, all the minute molecules of le petit mort and she eagerly swallowed all of me. As the pleasure subsided she remained there, her lips and tongue gently and deftly cleaning all away. When we kissed, I held her and the pleasure of peaceful sated sleep stole me away.

All the meticulous detail, the attention that goes into creating plausibility.  The art is in building the edifice upon real foundations.  Put enough real bricks in the wall so that the eye is not drawn to the gaps. It scares me how easily I do this.  I tell people I'm a terrible liar, but it isn't true.  Scarlett once told me we all lie and she was right. The lies are in what we withhold more than what we offer up; sins of ommission more than commission.  Being economical with the truth.  That's the liar's craft.

But my muse for this Tate style installation is worth it.  Sometimes that's not the case, but this time it is. I know. I know for sure. She sent me some very erotic texts yesterday at the most inappropriate time...which made them even better.  50 hours left and then I shall lay eyes upon her for the first time.  Add some minutes and I shall lay hands upon her.  Add some more and we shall lay down together.

There are some small details left to finalise. Little touches. And then it shall happen. And the last on the left will be occupied and all heaven shall break loose. 

Our allotted time approaches.  Bardot and me.  Soon the wait will be over.  And then?

Lunchtime today. Went for a walk. Well more of a limp (running injury strikes again!). And thought what I so often think: why do the English stare at the ground when they walk.  When you go to France/Spain/Italy and the like people look at you, make eye contact, connect.  The English act like an exchanged glance would turn them to stone.  Everyone avoids eye contact.  No wonder we get road rage.  Don't flash your headlights at me: look at me and wave me through.  Don't switch the hazards on to say thank you: give me a wave, say thank you.  Don't stare at the front of my car when you step off the pavement on a red light: look me in the eye to know my intentions.  And for pity sake, don't stare at the ground when you're trying to walk to the left, right, left of me: look at my face and then we'll all know where we're going.  Is that really so hard? 

People start from the assumption that intentions are bad.  If I look at you I obviously intend to molest you.  If you look at me, I may get the wrong idea and give you my phone number and before you know it we're making the twin backed beast in an alleyway, even though you need to hurry home to make tea for the kids.  What is everyone so afraid of?!?  If I look at you, it doesn't make me a pervert.  I'm admiring you, your clothes, your hair, your shoes, whatever.  By returning my gaze it says no more than "thank you". 

First time? December 1983 - aged 19 (a late developer)

How many? It sort of depends on what we're counting.  Slept with? Well I only slept with three, since most of the sex has been in the daytime.  Got butt naked with? Over 20 probably. It would be more but sometimes they kept their boots on.  Had sexual congress with?  Well as Bill Clinton might say, what is sex?  Sometimes sex involved oral only.  Sometimes just mutual masturbation. Precision is difficult here as its not like I kept contemporaneous notes.  But I guess the total is over 30.  Which is pretty shocking.  Maybe I'm an addict. 

How many did I tongue? All of them I think. Well near as dammit.

How many swallowed? More than five, less than ten, all I enjoyed!

Anal? Only once.

Maximum number of orgasms in one night. Seven.  In one hour? Four.

But in an amongst all this debauchery I've only loved four women, and I wrote about that a while back.

But now the only numbers that matter are: 10 (April), 8 (days to go), 1 (there is only one Bardot). And the numbers that follow that may not be for public consumption.

Anyway three spillages in two hours seems pretty damn sinful to me.  It's five in the a.m..  I'm asleep.  Wet dream (God, they're great...oops, blasphemy, double damn me!).  On my back, Bardot's sucking me off (in the dream I'm asleep at first) and when I came I woke up, with  seed everywhere, a throbbing head and an erection that wouldn't go away.  So nothing to do but, spill some more.  Is it being unfaithful to masturbate next to your sleeping wife?

This time the orgasm is driven by the fantasy of entering Bardot for the first time, slowly, gently, naked on the bed, but the pace rises as the climax approaches.  Jeez, that was good and bountiful too!  I went back to sleep after (is it neglectful to fall asleep after a fantasy fuck or only a real one?).

When I get up for a shower 90 minutes later, I'm still aroused and naughty notions of shared soap and a hot steamy shower with plenty of lathered nudity and slippery fondling are enough to ensure a further ejaculation.