by M Joy
(01/30/08)

The note on the kitchen table said Hi love. Headed off to Queens. Left you food in the fridge. Have fun tonight, and try not to make the boy too late to his conference. Remember he's a featured speaker. Love you, H.

I smiled broadly as I headed to the fridge to see what concoction my partner had left for me this time. I could picture her turning the key in the lock at our mutual lover's apartment, their embrace, their whispered, amused wondering about how my evening would go. I headed toward the living room with my bowl of potato and pea curry and tried to eat without pacing.

I was feeling that sudden twinge I always get right before sailing into something new -- why exactly was I bothering to make life this complicated? It really wasn't necessary, my sex life was just fine, how much did I really know this guy anyway? It always passed. I'd been pretty good so far about picking the right opportunities to follow up on. And I'd been hungering for the chance to follow up on this one for almost six months.

We'd only met once, at the press briefing during a policy summit in DC last June. I don't remember who made the first snide remark about the speaker, but the other returned in kind and suddenly they were flying thick and fast. The merriment in his black eyes was such a welcome relief from the strained schmoozing ("networking" for those who prefer euphemisms) I'd been doing all weekend. Honest conversation should not have been so terribly exciting. But when it came in a package that looked like that...

When we slipped out of the cocktail reception to catch the Pride festival, I thought he was going to have to beat the guys off with a stick. He had the look they were trying for without trying for it. Muscular without bulging, comfortable in his body without needing to shimmy. Looking at him you could imagine he actually bought those butt-hugging jeans because they felt good. Though he can't have failed to notice the attention they brought him. He had, after all, changed out of his khakis for this.

We belonged. Pride after the conference was like coming home after work. Suddenly it was OK to be a complete human, a sexual human, a queer human. We'd left the strained universe of assumed straightness behind along with the frigid recycled hotel air.

So despite our heavy flirtation, when he put his hand in mine there in the middle of the parade, I nearly died of shock. Partially sexual, electric shock, but partially the shock of having my second set of assumptions disrupted.

That was, of course, nothing compared to the looks we got from those around us. Some were amused, others confused, a few blanched with anger. Fag-dyke couple alert! You could almost hear the alarm. I didn't really bother with it though, because his hand had moved to my waist.

I never saw the inside of his hotel room -- I'm sure it looked just like mine -- because we each had prior-notice agreements with our partners at home. And since his home was three thousand miles away, all we'd done since was write letters that were half lustful and half peanut-gallery commentary. That was until he got a last minute speaking engagement in New York and I threw my schedule around willy-nilly to have him stay at our place the one night he'd be in town.

My hesitancy had passed. Desire headed straight for my breasts, as it always did, leaving them crying out for the touch of fingers whose handwriting -- deliberate, pretty, contained -- I now knew so well. "OK, you can show up now," I announced to the empty living room. He didn't. "I'm ready now," I mumbled a little petulantly.

I took a deep breath and raised one arm, pulling up the bodily memory of when he pressed me to the wall beside the coat check as the closing speaker of the conference droned on down the hall. The unexpectedly strong forearm of a writer pinned that arm above my head as his amused face, framed by curly hair, said softly, "It has been so long since I've wanted a woman the way I want you. I don't know what to do with myself."

I had been thinking of making a cup of coffee, to be sure my long week didn't distract us from this one night we got together. But now I had adrenalin on my side. That would be enough.

Of course despite all the waiting, when his knock came I jumped up feeling like there must have been some preparation I had forgotten to make. "Nice place," he said, looking studiously out our large windows and into the Brooklyn street. He took one long stride toward me (man, guys have long limbs!) and reprised the coat-check scene, only this time with a deep-throated kiss.

"Bedroom's this way," I gasped. "Excuse my rush, but my legs don't appear to be functioning very well. I don't trust their solidity."

But I was not about to go puddleward yet. There was too much of this beautiful body in front of me to explore. I opened his top two shirt buttons, and stepped back to admire the hint of chest it revealed. That could be the entire appeal of cowboys -- open neck shirts. I went for another, pulled, and forced myself to step back again. Was I teasing him or me? By four buttons I knew the end reward was going to be as delectable as I'd suspected. Indeed. Smooth, taut, lightly furry. Silly and probably not quite accurate phrases like bronzed Adonis were surfacing in my brain.

I stepped back to pull my shirt and sports bra off over my head, and when I emerged he was awkwardly trying to step out of his jeans...while staring fixedly at my erect nipples.

I ran forward and toppled him on the bed with my best lion growl, pulling his jeans the rest of the way off, and nuzzling my face into that chest. I straddled him and began nibbling his neck and shoulders. He drew a deep, uncertain breath and one shoulder started to rise. I pushed it down again and grabbed a nipple in one hand and an ear lobe in my teeth. The breath turned to a soft moan.

As I worked my way painstakingly down his torso, inhaling his mild sweaty smell all the way (and once even nuzzling into his armpit for a stronger dose), my cunt began to throb, with an ever-increasing demand to be full and fucked.

It had been such a long time since I'd been with a guy that it took a long time worshiping his very male body to realize that something was missing. It was true. Nothing was hardening against my thigh or poking at my belly. I wiggled my way a little lower and even snuck a quick peek between his legs. I'd known guys who would delay their own pleasure -- or try to avoid seeming like they were pressuring their partner -- by keeping their hardening cocks tucked between their thighs. That wasn't it. His thighs were rolled open, his crotch rocking with my unconscious rhythm. He was just soft.

My first thought was an embarrassing "God, what am I doing wrong?" I mean even twelve years queer can't quite erase the inherited wisdom of growing up a girl -- as long as you're basically good looking, the danger is supposed to be making erections happen accidentally, not not making them happen when you're even halfway trying.

Looking at his arched back and listening to the I-couldn't-make-this-English-if-I-wanted-to noises he was making as I kissed my way toward his cock gave my self-esteem a little boost. Clearly, I wasn't screwing up too badly. Maybe this was just going to take some work.

I reached down to clasp his balls, rolling them in my palm like Chinese balls as I reached up to remind his nipples of my presence. I was remembering some of my tricks, the delicate balance of enough pressure but not too much.

It was fun, and his cock twitched a few times, but that was all.

I could hear embarrassment creeping in as he started to speak and then stopped. I knew I had to change tack. Back before I'd discovered lube, I'd had my share of embarrassment over frequent and inexplicable spells of dryness. There I'd be, every nerve in my body singing, even feeling the blood rush to my clit, but every touch to my cunt felt like sandpaper. It was horrible. I also knew that such embarrassment could spiral quickly into a completely unsexy guilt fest. I had to act quickly; I wasn't letting this one get away.

"It's not working," he moaned. His angst was palpable. I began to worry that I might be too late.

Drastic measures were called for. "What do you mean not working?" I put on my sternest domme voice, though it had been even longer since I'd dabbled in kink than played with boys. "You seemed to be enjoying yourself quite well, which I -- and my cunt -- are finding exceedingly hot. If that cock of yours interrupts my worship I'll get ticked."

One of his eyebrows arched slightly, looking hopeful but still a little lost.

"Look kiddo, I've been there, sort of," I say, softer. "Imagine you're at a masseuse, or the doctor, taking naughty pleasure in being examined. But it would be terribly inappropriate to get an erection, and likely stop the whole proceedings."

My window of opportunity was closing. I had to stop talking and make good on my blustery optimism before I lost my own turn-on in the effort to save his. So I left the brainwork to him, and lowered myself down on his cock. I nuzzled my cheek into the hollow of his hip and worked his perineum, kneading and playing with it as if it were a set of labia. With my head where it was, I could ride the rise and fall of his requickened breathing, and on one particularly sharp intake, I slipped a hand under his ass, working him from behind and in front.

Meanwhile I shamelessly clamped my legs around his shin, riding the sharp bone like a glass dildo, letting my wetness tell him that I was not being self-sacrificing.

When I felt my neck cricking, I took a deep breath and suddenly switched to take his cock in my mouth. I was totally making it up at this point -- nobody, not even the kink books I'd shuddered my way through, tells you how to blow a soft cock. It was like a huge clit, only not really. It was more like a breast, but a different shape, and the head wasn't as defined as a nipple is.

I had to let go of the idea of this being a blow job, but it didn't take me long to appreciate the absence of gagging and the ease of keeping my teeth out of the way without unhinging my jaw. I decided on the breast approach, and started tonguing my way in circles up and down, putting a gentle bit of suction on whenever I came to the head. On my second pass I felt his hands twine in my hair, pulling painfully. But it was the guttural "Yes, yes, Oh God yes" that turned the faucet in my cunt to high.

I admit, I'd been expecting that taking the pressure off with a little reverse psychology would "work," as in making him hard. It didn't, but he was letting go with such abandon that I really didn't care.

I came up for a little air, moving up to kiss him and to let him feel more directly how wet I was. He started apologizing. "I'm sorry. This happens sometimes, it's not you."

OK, I thought, I got us this far, but I really can't think of much else besides getting fucked. Ramping down to consoling is just not in the cards. So, grabbing him by the shoulders, I shouted "Look!! I'm a dyke, remember?! I don't believe sex needs a hard cock! So get over it."

He took a couple of seconds to recover from the shock of being yelled at, but then gave me a wholly different kind of embarrassed grin, full of relief and mischievousness. "Oh but, you see," he started in that same plaintive voice, and then suddenly rose and flipped me on my back, sinking two fingers deep into my cunt.

My hands groped feebly to continue what I had been doing, to go for the mutual approach, but as my sense of up and down rapidly disappeared, as well as any real fine motor control, I gave up.

He moved up to three fingers in no time, plunging deep and pulling slowly back in a perfect maddening rhythm. I dug my fingernails into his back and clamped my thighs around his forearm. He looked up. "Less?"

"Nooooooooo. Just, um, saying hello." I willed my thighs to relax, taking deep breaths. As I half hoped, this let him plunge deeper, knuckles hitting my G-spot, in and out.

"Moooooore."

"I have big hands. Are you sure?"

"More. Now. Please. Thank you."

Guys don't usually have the patience to use their fingers for this long, and I suddenly realized it was possible that I hadn't actually known what I was asking for as his pinky slipped in and brought the full width of his knuckles up to my cunt. Had I not noticed how big his hands were? He paused and I breathed, willing all the muscles from my stomach to my butt not to tense in self-protection. I'd ride that fist if it split me open.

I felt myself suddenly tipped to one side. He'd noticed the lube on the floor and was trying to reach it without taking his hand out.

With the lube, he slid in with one explosive gesture. I was sure my chest was going to split. His knuckles were hitting every nerve in my body. No longer worried that this was too much for me, he settled into a rhythm like a sailor hauling a rope. When I was teetering on the precipice, he took a nipple in his mouth and completed a new circuit -- mouth to breast to cunt to hand to mouth.

His eyes widened. My cunt was suddenly fucking his fist instead of the other way around, gripping and opening, gripping and opening. Then my thighs and cunt clamped down on his hand like they'd found a treasure and wanted to make it into diamonds.

"A confession?" he asked, in the sweaty haze that followed, rubbing his wrist

"Sure."

"I've never had a woman come around my hand before."

"And?"

"I think I'd survive as a dyke."

"Can I make a confession?"

"Sure."

"I'm kinda hoping this isn't the point where you suddenly get hard, because I don't think I have the muscle tone to do anything about it. I'm already gonna have to take stairs slow for a couple days."

"I'll work on it."

"That's not the point."

"Good. I don't actually have the energy for much...except trying not to think of new excuses to come to New York."

"Ah, well."

We both just lay there and grinned. And grinned.

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