"No one ever listens to good advice once they are attracted to a person; logic and reason go out the window. I guess this is the best explanation for why I am doing what I'm doing with you."
I read this on the dating confessions section of the Nerve website. I like it so much that I had to re-post it.
OK . . . I give up . . . just fuck me like a whore
Date: 2008-02-27, 5:34PM EST
OK - I have been trying to meet a "nice" guy for quite a while now, using both traditional methods (set-ups through friends, the bar scene, work, etc.) and non-traditional (i.e., internet dating), and have had abysmal results. By "nice", I don't mean a bible-thumping, republican, up-tight putz who could make a diamond out of a lump of coal planted firmly up his a-hole. I mean a guy who is capable of having a decent conversation that doesn't center around the size of his cock; who is aware of the world around him; who is respectful of people and animals; who doesn't clip his fucking fingernails on the train; who makes me laugh; who parties like a rock star when he has the time; and who can fuck me like a champ after checking his hang-ups at the door. Someone with a brain. A sense of humor. A job. I'm a busy, successful, attractive woman with a professional degree and a great circle of friends. I have a life. What I don't have, however, is a lot of time to wade through a bunch of bullshit. If you just want to get laid, fine; just say that up front so I can move on. Don't make me waste my time exchanging e-mails for days, then stop writing after I don't want to answer the "money" questions after knowing you for 3.5 hours, like 1) what's the craziest sex you've ever had? 2) how often do you masturbate? 3) do you have a nice, clean ass, with clean ass odor? (I couldn't make that up) and 4) do you like oral? (DUH??!!?? WHO DOESN'T??) Apparently, no matter how pretty, sexy, funny, smart, successful, sweet, caring, interesting etc. I am, it all boils down to one thing: fucking. Fine. I give up. You want to fuck? I can fuck.
WANTED: a guy to pull out his big, thick cock within five seconds of our first meeting. I want to kneel at your feet and worship you (and your organ) like a greek god. I will take your throbbing love-stick in my mouth and service you like a pro. I will lick the head of your penis, concentrating on the sensitive spot underneath the head, where it meets the shaft. I will then take you fully into my mouth, and move my head all the way down, swallowing the entire length. When you're all the way in and I'm fighting not to gag, I will move all the way back to the tip, then repeat. I will continue, up and down, until I feel that you're about to cum; then I'll stop, lick my way down to your balls, and take take them both in my mouth while stroking your cock with my hand. I will then move around to your back, spread the cheeks of your ass and rim your asshole with my tongue while stroking your cock. I'll shove a finger or two up there, if you like.
Once you're good and hard, I'll let you eat my pussy for a while, preferably until I cum two or three times. A little rimming of your own would be nice. Attention can be paid to my breasts (which are D-cups, by the way), or I can pinch my nipples myself. Once my juices are flowing, you can proceed to the fucking. Shove your cock in me, hard, all the way in. The harder the better, and if you're hung like a horse, my prayers have been answered. Keep going. Don't worry about me; I will make myself cum again on my own, either with old-fashioned diddling or my trusty vibrator. My ass needs attention, too, don't forget-I'm a three-input kinda girl! After you've made me cum fucking me the old-fashioned way, slowly (and gently, please!) push your huge dick up my ass. Use lots of astro-glide. I will be a little hesitant at first, but then the yummy pleasure-mixed-with-pain will start to kick in, and I'll get really into it. I'll start shoving my ass back against your cock as hard as I can, until I explode with the hardest orgasm yet. At this point, if you feel like getting your freak on, we can pop in a porno and emulate whatever is happening on the screen. Or, I can pull out my cache of sex toys. You can have me straddle an enormous uber-cock and work as much of it into my vagina as I can take, while you get in on the action by fucking me up the ass. You want a threesome? No problem. I'll invite one of my crazy girlfriends over, and you can watch me eat her out while you masturbate. Or, she can sit on my face while you fuck me. Another option is you banging me from behind while I lick her pussy. The possibilities are endless, really.
Once that's over, feel free to pull out and cum on my ass / tits / face / mouth / whatever.
See, I do have what you want! Don't tell ME law school was all for naught. . .
w4m
He was handsome, well they all were. And an asshole, yeah.. they all were. He didn’t smile the whole time I was in his presence, he complained that his body wasn’t fit enough, and had little or no interest in whether I came home with him. Until I said I wouldn’t sleep with him, then his bad mood got worse.
The dates generally started and ended the same. They started with diners and coffee and they ended in my bedroom with nudity.
Towards the end of my slutdom I became lazy, I just asked if they wanted to come over. And I requested they bring things... Movies, food, my roommate always requested beef jerky. I didn’t care as long as they came. A girl brought flowers, that stayed alive much longer than she stayed in my life. A guy brought wine, which I didn’t drink. And another brought miso soup, for the cold I had. Not knowing that I hated miso soup.
I was a grocery whore.
I don’t know what I was looking for with them. However, I’m sure that part of what got me into trouble was my impatience and curiosity. I just wanted to know, wanted to know how they kissed, wanted to know what their cock looked like, felt like. And once I’d gone that far there wasn’t really an option of stopping.
My romantic life is mostly crushes these days. I used to hate them, they would lock me in a wheel of thought, "him, him, him". Pretty soon I could see why a fox would be willing to chew off its own leg to escape the trap. Never could figure out where to bite. They were incapacitating, excrutiating. They didn't have the fluffy, victorian politeness of infatuation. Or the groovy swing of a 'yen'. Nor were they the squirming, warmth or puppy love. They were a pin you to the ground, wish it would end, crush. Now they are nice, light. Something to look forward to like your favorite tv-show at the end of a long day.
One is at work, one of the tech guys. Dark hair, kind eyes, scruffy jawline. He's our local heart throb with half of the junior high girls giggling at his presence. He had a girlfriend, so what did I care really? I know how shitty I feel when I fuck someone else's boyfriend. Now that he's single, well there are suddenly more reasons to call the tech office for computer help.
"That sounds like me"
I was telling Adiva that I'd broken up with him via e-mail. Cackling I ask Lena,
"You broke up with Adam through e-mail?"
"Oh yeah, I got him on e-mail, the answering machine, one time on the phone when he was deathly ill and celebrating a birthday."
I like to look at the stat counter page. I enjoy thinking about the people who crawl into this clubhouse with me and lurk about like ghosts. I want to live in a tree house, with pink shag carpeting that never gets dirty. And a puppy who never gets lonely. And a bed with soft sheets that never need washing. If I could tell you my paradise, I think that would be close.
I realized this morning that Liz's blog has continued. I haven't read all of it. But I do miss her sense of humor. And I wish things could be like they were. But I need time, and don't know that I can trust her again. Especially considering recent actions she's taken, but I don't think it’s appropriate to go into that.
A guy wrote me. A tattooed, grungy looking fellow, who when I saw his picture made my breathing go all funny.
Its odd.
I like skinny guys, with tattoos and a love of computers.
I like tan, shiny, guys with a high school football career.
I like artsy, effeminate guys who I could beat at arm wrestling.
I love tall guys against whose strength I cannot win.
I like preppy guys, who work at hedge funds, and seem to be grown up versions of prep school crushes.
Really, I don't have a type. I am particular, I like what I like, but I can only say that I know it when I see it.
Take Salem for example, he's Jewish (not to be bigoted, but generally not my type), and a bit of a mess. But when he said that he'd sat down the cats and dog to explain that mommy wasn't coming home anymore (divorce you see), I could have made out with him right there. Later he picked up my iPod and accused me of being bipolar cause the Allman Brothers were next to Bikini Kill. His nose has been broken a couple times, he's angry, he's funny, he's unavailable, and I find him drop dead gorgeous.
Yeah, that guy, the angry, funny, unavailable one? He's my type.
(© Alice Ginsberg)
I am pissed. I am a catty, bitchy, pissed off nag, woman scorned; I am epic on the small scale. I shove the last dirty dish into the washer, “Well at least you’re getting some housekeeping done,” my inner positivity chirps. “Shut up.” Snarls the rest of me.
He’s late, 12, 24, 30 minutes late. “He could be reasonably caught up.” Soothes Reason calmly. “Fuck you.” I snap back at her. Pick up the phone, let it ring till I hear his machine, hang up, continue cleaning. “If he comes now, I’m not answering.”
“Uh huh.” chortles Disbelief.
“Now, now..” tuts Reason.
“Whatever” my inner child says with a slight roll of the eyes glued to her Gameboy.
The phone rings.
“Its me.”
“Uh huh.”
“What apartment are you again?”
Then he’s there, and despite everything I’m kissing him. He’s dressed in a trench, a sweater, trousers, all against the rain. All more than I’m used to seeing him in. Damn he looks good in clothes. I’m wearing white cotton and yellow silk, previously chosen for seduction, kept on for functionality.
We continue kissing. I keep thinking.. never a good sign. I lean my hips in, hyperflexing my back, and stroke against him. Hands never leaving his face, wherever his may roam. Its so close, why can’t he just tell, I want, I want.
“Push me against the wall”
“What?”
“Push me, oh never mind..”
“You mean like..”
With a whoosh of fabric and a pivot of heel, he has me pinned to my door. The imbalance of power is not lost on me (given his dressed state, and my half dressed one), nor is the proximity of my neighbors. My door shudders audibly with each shove of aggression, he bites, I moan, the silk is lost.
My hand is at his zipper a second after his, one hand as the other is clutched at the back of his skull busy trying to get his mouth ever closer. When his cock is free of the pants, he shoves me to my knees. ‘Yes’ I think as I suck at him gracelessly, pointedly, passionately. I gag, drool, slobber, all because I know he likes it and I want it to be about what he likes. His fingers tangle in my hair, grip my skull, and push me even farther.
He grabs my white cotton clad arms and drags my mouth back to his. I hear my neighbor vacuuming the hallway as he plunges his tongue into my mouth and fingers into my cunt. His mouth is spring sweet as I hear the rip of a condom wrapper. “Smooth!” admires the inner observer seconds before he silences thought with one solid stroke.
We pound against each other, against the solid door; I wrap my legs in the swirls of cloth getting off on our non-nakedness. He swivels me around, unto my feet, ass in the air, palms on the floor. I grapple for something to squeeze, pinch, grab, so as to silence the moans that threaten to alert the neighbors. One hand supports me, as another acts as muzzle, my shoulders ache.
Kissing we back into my room, bed is swept clear of debris, he struggles with the buttons of my shirt; I wrap my legs round his hips like a possum gripping a tree. He pumps into me again and again, more position changes, more aggression, tenderness, biting. Till we’re both flat on out backs staring at the chipped ceiling.
“Well,” I huff on the breath I’m trying to catch. “that will teach you for being late.”
(© Alice Ginsberg)
