Every time Benji walks away, I find myself back to the last night he and I shared when I was the one to walk away from him. It’s been over six months, but the pain is still acute. In class, my hands long to reach for his fingers to hold. Or my fingers miss doodling in his notebook. My skin feels his absence night and day. When we do talk, my eyes search for his but he manages to divert from them. The doorway to this beautiful soul is closed. There is an actual hurt that my chest feels, a pressure that builds up into my eyes to a point where I need to excuse myself to find a place to cry. Silly, I know, since it was my choice to end things with us.
My parents fell in love and married young. Growing up I witnessed their love but also witnessed the parts of themselves that were lost in their unity. I am too young to get lost when I have yet to find myself. Benji is like the paradise you can escape to and not want to leave. This is college and just the beginning for us both. It’s better to feel the hurt now than to feel it after graduation when we either go our separate ways or worse, one of us gives up our dreams for the other, like my parents.
We have so many classes and study groups together, I try to leave before he does so that I can save myself the pain of seeing his figure disappear from my sight. Is this what a heartbreak feels like? I am not sure what I am expecting, this is my first rodeo, and I am being trampled by the bull. There are no rodeo clowns to divert the inevitable damage to me, emotionally and physically. I am in this alone, there is no one rescuing this cowgirl.
My body feels anguish, from missing his touch. Before Benji, I didn’t even dare open my heart to anyone. Aside from losing my virginity to John Quincy my senior year, Benji, is the second sexual experience of my life, until now. Now, I can’t even begin to count. All nameless bodies, fulfilling a simple physical need, my heart is back in its tomb.
Nights are the toughest, often my hormones take control of my body. The feel of restlessness in my thighs and groin. I know this feeling, it’s why I had started masturbating so young, it used to relieve the surge. Not anymore, this is more than a hormonal flush, it is a buzzing of the epidermis, covering my entire body. This missing is a realization of the absence of touch.
Most nights I can distract myself with schoolwork or fall asleep to a great book. Other nights I need to anesthetize my loneliness, I wander out late at night, to bars I where no one from school would ever dare to go. Moments of solo satisfaction is no longer enough, I crave playing with others. Benji, my ex-lover, took me from self-pleasure to pure pleasure. First real lover and during the many months we delighted in one another, we pushed boundaries and explored it all.
Beyond sex, is love, the part I didn’t account for. This is where my division of emotions hold strong lines. Compartmentalization makes sense to me. Love is reserved for my family and passion is reserved for my goals and ambitions. People have been just as they are to me. My professors influence and guide me intellectually. My few friends are people I am learning to care about and incorporate in my daily world. Then there is Benji. Benji my best friend; Benji, my study buddy, and Benji, my playmate. I know normal people see this as one person, I see it as three roles filled by one person. Benji agrees with the conventional consensus. Now we are only studying buddies and I am an addict, a sensualist. Benji wants himself to be my only fix; too late, my expanded pallet craves options.
Jodi, my roommate, and a friend tells me this is what being in a relationship is about, no dividers, just a single room full of various emotions. The thought of this brings the scene of me standing in a gym playing a game of dodge ball. In this vision, balls are thrown at me from empty space, I have no one to aim for, instead, I am forced to solely take the hits as they come. And tonight she is at her boyfriend’s, so I can’t rely on her judgmental eyes to keep me from my drug of choice, sex.
Maybe I should listen to Jodi and go talk to someone, she thinks that I am struggling with commitment issues and need help figuring out why. Benji, of course, wants me to see a therapist. Benji says that I have control issues. But is knowing what I want out of my life and staying focused on it really control issues? The thing is, what do I need to talk to someone about? Just because I am experiencing my college years differently than most of my peers, does that make me insane or just anti-social? Jodi thinks that I am socially inept and spoiled, again, not a psychological disease.
I could probably be a good case for sexaholic anonymous if there is such a thing. Enough psychoanalysis, time to feed my need for someone else’s touch, I jump out of bed and pull on a skirt. I debate on wearing underwear but commando allows for easy access. A tight tank top means no need for a bra and high heals says, “let’s play.”
Growing up as the daughter of a bartender, I do have some guilt about having a fake i.d., but it’s a part of college life. And my parents told me they want me to be like other college students, “try and fit in” as my dad put it. So when Jodi and her nerdy computer science friends were making their fake i.d., well, when in Rome. Taunnie Jane from Orange County is my alter ego.
“What can I get you, TJ?” The bartender asks.
I look around me, casing the scene. Berkeley is made up of such an eclectic crowd anywhere you go. Each bar offers those who have been here since the beginning of the Berkeley culture; they embody Marxism and still stand for so much social change. You have lifers, students on their first or second or third Ph.D., the intellectuals. A few locals mix with a few tourists. No one really standing out.
I want to tell the bartender that I want a tall drink of him. But if you hook up with the staff at a bar, it makes it complicated. I can hear clicking coming from the pool table, so I consider heading there after I order a drink.
“Macallan, neat.” I always need the first few sips to loosen me up, take my judgmental mind out of the equation.
“Make that two, and a second-round ready.” A rough but good looking man walks up to the empty seat next to me, ordering for us both.
I toast with him, glancing quickly at his grey eyes, good luck and all. Taking a big swig, I enjoy the burn in my throat and the instant buzz. My glass offers me a place to keep my eyes, the scent of scotch takes me to my happy place. I take another sip of courage before I dare another attempt at eye contact with this stranger beside me.
This is the type of man that you would classify as dangerous sex, you are not sure of what he will be like, but too curious not to try. His demeanor, edgy but his eyes are soft and trustworthy. His dark hair overgrown and slicked back, borders his tight black t-shirt, accenting the steeliness of his eyes. I can see his fit physique pressing through his shirt, strong legs tighten his 501s. At 5’8” it’s rare that I can find a playmate that towers over me.
“Come here often?”
I don’t even know how to respond to this question, it’s so cheesy. Instead, I take another big sip and inhale the heat of it.
“Sorry, I guess that’s kind of cheesy.”
The bar suddenly fills up. The band is back from break. I am grateful for the loudness, this means we can’t talk. I manage to smile and move my head to the beat, if I don’t engage somehow, he will most likely leave me alone. I don’t want him to leave me alone, I want to be alone with him.
“It’s been that kind of day, huh? Listen, I am okay with not talking.”
He turns towards the stage and begins to enjoy the music, fingers tapping, and feet moving side to side from his heel. I didn’t grow up a fan of country music, but tonight it seems to fit my mood. I am not sad; I haven’t lost my lover and I don’t have a dog to die on me. The lyrics hold my notice, the storytelling that Country music does, gains consideration. It lets me get lost in someone else’s shit and avoid my own.
My parents played music of all genres in the house. My mom, having been in a band is always signing and playing one instrument or other. So, this opportunity to get lost in music right now feels cozy. I can feel myself letting go and letting my guard down. In my own little world is not why I am out tonight, yet, lost in thought is where I end up.
How I even manage to get a man to bother with me is a puzzle, I must seem like such a bitch. When I am behind the bar, I see my kind all the time and think, “why is she being so unapproachable.” Now, I am acting standoffish and can’t get myself to stop. My social awkwardness can definitely come across as snobby or arrogant, as Jodi likes to point out.
“Great band!” I shout, attempting to be more than a ridged body next to the bar.
“Nothing beats live music.”
“Yeah, I used to love watching my mom on stage.”
“Really? Is your mom a musician?”
Instantly my walls shoot up again. Realizing he knows too much already. Or does he? It’s just my derangement, I know this. He doesn’t even know my name, this is far from getting too personal. Yet a knot hits my vocal cords and I am back to silence.
I focus on the bodies intertwining on the dance floor; a vertical expression of a horizontal desire. If you follow the multitude of hands exploring one another, it is mesmerizing. There is a curiosity it brings out in me, how do those hands feel? With his hands, his desire whispers questions that her body screams to answer. Suddenly, the surge vibrates from my toes to my head, I want to be asked, to be able to express beyond what my skin contains.
“Sorry, did I say something wrong?” He adds after an awkward period of silence.
I finish the second round and taste the scotch on his lips, he can’t ask questions if he is busy kissing me. The way a man kisses tells a lot about his abilities in bed, Mr. Dangerous Sex’s lips are full and tender. The scruff of a day-old beard rough against my face as he gracefully moves from my mouth to my neck. This man will surely do. I take his hand and lead him out of the bar, assuming he has a car and grateful when he takes the lead.
“So,” He begins, I have no interest in knowing anything about him so I stop and kiss him.
Lost in our kiss, he is too busy to speak, at that point I am able to pull away and get us walking again. His kisses have me wanting his lips all over me. We come up to a 1967 refurbished Chevy Impala, sorry, I love old cars. This makes me hot! The sleek black exterior with the burgundy interior gives full appreciation to the pronounced curves of the car, sexy. Impressive, knowing they only make this model in an SS, supersport, a lot of power under this hood. Smiling as I climb into the back into the massive seat, gotta love these older cars.
Music from the bar fills the parking lot. I slowly lose myself in his kisses and the sounds of Garth Brooks. The scent of vanilla from his air freshener hanging from his rearview mirror is overpowering the strength of leather. The dark tint on the windows hides us from the patrons moving in and out of the bar.
As he removes my tank top and tosses it in the front seat, the feel of his callused hands, tells me he works with them every day. Mixtures of pine and oak hang off his skin, I am guessing he is a carpenter or builder of some sort. We adjust so that he can sit with me on his lap. The feel of his 501s is rough against my pussy.
As I grind onto his hips, I can feel his girth, my girl flows in approval. Leaning against the back of the front seat, the leather cool and supple against my naked shoulders. He kisses along my body and caresses every inch of me. His scruff tickles and scrapes at my belly, awakening my nerves. The tingle his lips leaves behind stirs my inclination.
Impulsively, I pull his face onto my breasts, a proclivity for arousal. Thanks to Benji, stimulate my nipples and my engine will rev, he has lodged indulgence into their memory bank. My body shakes uncontrollably, it just feels so good, especially because this man knows exactly how to appreciate my breasts fully.
Mr. Dangerous Sex’s left hand follows up between my breasts and rests around my neck. I feel a strange excitement at the prospect of his fingers tightening his hand’s grip. Do I feel safe to be with such a strong man? On cue, he bites and pulls at my nipples, I surrender my body at this moment. Fingernails of his right-hand rake along my back. As much as I want to feel him out of his jeans, I decided to let him enjoy my wonderland for a bit. Allow my body to lie back and delight in every caress.
The windows of the car are now frosted with the condensation of our heat. To get better leverage so I can take control, I move my hands from the window to the headrest, leaving behind a view of the exterior in the shape of my palm. Lifting my hips up as he slowly frees himself of his jeans. Taking note of how my tank on the driver’s seat, seems natural there.
He hikes my skirt to my waist, lifting my hips up so he can taste me. Repositioning my feet to either side of his head, I ease myself onto his face. With his hands on my ass, he guides my hips, my softness, to his lips and tongue. Slowly I begin to grind. The quicker my hips move, the thirstier he becomes. Hearing the sound of his delight in my offering increases the speed of my ride.
Edging towards an apex, my clit hardens and aches, clenching and releasing uncontrollably, inner thigh muscles start to shake as my ass tightens. Coming into his mouth, I can hear him relish my offering as well as him fumble for a condom. Breathless, I peep out at the world through the shape of my hands on the glass, calming the strong pulse from between my thighs. Watching the movements outside of the car, a perfect backdrop to this porn.
He moves his right hand from my back and begins to work his fingers feverishly on my clit, delving in and out of my pussy. This is much-needed lubrication to prepare his access, my hands feel his fullness as it guides him inside. This is always one of my favorite parts of sex, the entry. My body expanding and allowing another to fit. Dropping my legs to straddle his hips; the minute he is completely in, my body goes into autopilot. As the tip of his hard shaft pressed against my capacity, I again shiver uncontrollably.
My body is feverish with the need to feel him extensively, not a gap between us when he is fully inside. I can’t help but ride him hard and fast. His pelvic bone hits my G spot perfectly, my girl is so wet. I open up my hips and allow the angel between us to place his gift onto THE spot, the one that makes me squirt. This sends him into a primal space. There is nothing that feeds the ego of a man more than the feel of a gushy pussy.
He grabs my hips and changes the rhythm. Pushing more of him into me, the more intensely she responds the deeper he reaches and faster I ride. Part of me wants another orgasm and I know how to get it, especially in the position of control. The other side of me is enjoying it all too much. Every motion, every nerve, every vibration between us makes all of me spasm.
His breaths get more desperate and heated, he is trying to catch them in between his attempts to maintain his hardness. His grip around my neck tightens as he struggles to evade his peak. This encourages my frenzy, turning this escapade into a game, he holds his position as I try and bring him to surrender. The sharpness of his teeth hover over my nipples, occasionally biting down to halt him coming. My throat feels his refrain, pushing me towards a climax. At my pinnacle, I come, as I do, he can’t hold off any longer.
“Shit! Oh God! Shit!.” As he shouts between clenched teeth.
His face slumps between my breasts, the heat of his breaths warms them. His heart beating rapidly against my stomach. I will sleep well tonight. Thank you Mr. Dangerous Sex.
Okay, I can add dangerous sex to my like column. A huge fan of his hands around my neck, pushing the limits just enough. He does fit his nickname.
I ignore his “wow” and start to dress, grabbing my phone to order and Uber.
“I can take you home.” He offers. Well, we all know the answer to that.
I smile and kiss him passionately, sending him into a spin. His head falls back and I pull away and order my car. If I keep kissing him, we will be going another round. Best to leave after great satisfaction.
“So, no name? No number? No chance of doing this again?”
Again, I smile, kiss him passionately, and shut him up. My friends from dance class accuse me of being a gay man trapped in a woman’s body. I didn’t really understand the meaning of that at all until now. Women are classified as the relationship type, wrong! Some are and some aren’t, is all I am saying.
Men, on the other hand, are labeled as more promiscuous and capable of compartmentalizing sex from love. I don’t really care about stereotyping. I do, however, get the reference. I am more male in my sexual philosophies, can you have philosophies on sex? Either way, I prefer to kiss and run then kiss and tell.
“Do you come here often?” He yells as I get into my cab. Funny, that’s the question he started our night with.
In my cab ride home, I exhale satisfaction for tonight’s successful outing, not all of them are. Some nights out are shorter, some longer. Don’t ask me any of their names. A few times I end up back in my room still finishing on my own. None of them quite like Benji. But it’s the physical contact that I miss and crave, so there is no point in calling Benji. At least that’s what I tell myself.
Opening that door means I need to be ready to move to the next level, not what I need right now. It’s my addiction to sex that gets me out, not a need for conversation and cuddling. After Benji, I find myself insatiable. The act of having intercourse was not important to me until it was with him. Now, I only want to explore all the ways that I can enjoy culmination.
I often try to curb my need for sexual release and all the different fantasies that now occupy my thoughts. Always wondering if I should just go back to Benji; at this point, my attempts to not let this addiction distract me is only making me want sex more. But Benji would be like fully experiencing The Sleeping Beauty Quartet when what I need is simple moments of ecstasy.
I try to understand the different sides of my sexuality in this as well. It’s like in the scene of Runaway Bride when Julia Robert’s character is asked about how she prefers her eggs. I am learning a lot about how expansive my taste in encounters is.
My first time with a woman was exquisite. The Cliff in San Francisco is one of my favorite escapes, a boutique hotel that excites the eyes. The perfect fusion of old-world charm and modern art, also great for people watching. Or in this case, I am being watched.
A sexy and edgy woman at the bar keeps glancing my way. At first, I think that she is waiting for someone until I realize that someone is me. The first thing I notice as for the difference in flirting with a woman versus a man, we are more fluttery. We share glances that aren’t quick but don’t classify as states. Giving one another hints of a smile, that starts to become more full as we begin to realize that we are both more than intrigued. I send her a glass of champagne, she raises the glass in my direction as a way to thank me.
After exchanging a few flirtatious glances, she motions for the ladies’ room. There is a difference between curiosity and opportunity. This is the most nervous I have ever been towards a pending rendezvous. It’s easier to have sex in a bathroom when you are of the same sex.
Pretending to fix her make-up, Ms. Cliff waits patiently, with the exception of us, until the bathroom is empty. The excitement of this reality grows, nothing smooth about my eagerness at all. Once alone, Ms. Cliff walks slowly towards me, building the suspense with every precise step. Toe to toe, she is slightly shorter than me yet her stance is that of a giant, she overpowers me. First with her presence, then with her hands.
She moves me quickly into a stall and places her hands on the sides of my face, bring my mouth to hers. Her lips are full and soft, nothing I have ever experienced. I don’t even know what to compare it to. Maybe the feel of my tender pussy after coming multiple times to the caresses of my own touch. I want to kiss her forever it feels so good. It’s hard to imagine we are in the stall of a bathroom, I no longer hear the sounds of movement around us, instead, I feel as if we have transcended to another place. A place as beautiful as she feels, as light and airy as her energy. Her hands stroking my hair as we kiss, lulling me into bliss. I love that we are in the moment right now.
There is no rush to get to second base, this is perfection. Minutes or hours may have passed, I am lost in her kiss. Slowly her hands begin to explore every inch of me slowly. All I want to do is be still, delight in her gentle ways. As if she knows that this is my first time, she is kind with me.
Her fingers massage my breasts, arousing my nipples to respond and my girl to moisten. Her lips never leave mine. Her fingers trace my hips, around to my ass, she squeezes gently at times. Her left-hand plays with my ass as her right-hand moves to my pussy. What a sensation, as if my own hands are caressing my lips and folds, flicking at my clit. Her kisses are harder as her passion grows. I want her to stay gentle but impressed with her finger play, my hips grinding onto her hands. Stimulated by her knowledge of exactly where and how to touch, my pussy squirts to her delight.
She knows me as well as I do, a sense of belonging and oneness eases throughout me. When her lips leave mine, I find myself enthusiastic as she moves down the midline of my body to my hips. Realizing that she has fully undressed me. The scent of her perfume lingers with the feel of her kiss; jasmine and mint fill my nostrils. Shivers run up and down my spine as she moves across my pelvis and her hand lifts my leg for her to access my girl. My legs open up to her willingly. Her perfume now mixes with the fragrance of my wetness, I can’t help but inhale deeply from my nose to the tip of my head. As I exhale, my flow is strong and my sensitivity is enhanced throughout my cells. This feels amazing.
Ms. Cliff devours my pussy better than anyone ever has, but regretfully, I have no interest in the taste of a woman. This doesn’t seem to bother her, she is enjoying my flavor and the conquest of making me come again and again. Feeling overindulgence, to be so taken care of in this manner, I breathe into every motion of her tongue and fingers.
Not wanting this moment to end, I keep thanking her through my orgasms. Ms. Cliff couldn’t be a more perfect first time with a woman. And as much as I want to explore her more, I have come to realize that I just love cock too much. She offers to strap one on, but I delight in the natural feel of skin. I do enjoy the tenderness of her lips and cherish that experience. So many nights out dancing, I do partake in a lot of making out, and often when I am back home finishing on my own, it’s her touch and lips that I access often.
I don’t like sex on the beach, too much sand to contend with during and after, those scenes can stay in Harlequin Romance novels. Not the camping kind, so I have not tried sex under the stars, but I can tell already it’s not my thing. Although sex in a convertible parked under the stars could count and that I do enjoy. The cool breeze tempers the rising heat. Just as I love the feel of the sun on my naked body, I have a zeal for the caress of the wind. The gentle breeze excites my nipples and the thought of being watched ads a sense of adventure.
My zest is for the explorative. Testing out how another person reacts to the things I do. A definite disposition for role play, even reverse role playing at times. A proclivity for dominating and being dominated, tie me up, tie me down. My body knows each lover and they know the most intricate parts of my body. But, I am definitely hell-bent on not knowing anything personal about the person, not even their name.
Ending always with my shower and my bed after. On my rides home I hear the priest in my ears and feel the guilt starting to rise. Years of the church on Sundays created this ritual, meed to get rid of the guilt and shame. A shower washes the church away. There is a pragmatic side of me that tries to fight this knee jerk moment, but the voices win every time.