What’s my sex agenda? I don’t want to play fucking games anymore, I want to play fucking games. I’m tired of him trying to sneak past the line without admitting to himself that that is what he is doing. Saying one thing, doing another. He wants to fuck me. He has a girlfriend. He’s fraught with guilt but can’t resist me. Awkward sex stories.
Me – I don’t care. I have had enough of monogamous people, and am even more exhausted from polyamorous people pretending to be monogamous. The lying and cheating and cowardice and weird sex agenda irks me and is usually a cue to move on. But in his case… there’s something special there, and the chemistry is strong.
And so I leave the lights on, and we’re stone cold sober. A definite beginning to many awkward sex stories.
Before we’ve smoked/vaped cannabis together. We’ve drank together. But not today. I want him to cross the line with no excuses. I want him to make the choice, not to thrust it onto me as some sort of temptress.
I’m nervous when he arrives, a little awkward. We hug in the hallway and then he goes to wash his hands. Another note to most current askward sex stories. There is, after all, a deadly virus afoot. Yeah, that’s right, he could kill his girlfriend with this choice. But couldn’t he always? HIV isn’t quite the death sentence it used to be, but when ignored, it sure is. I know I’m clean and safe.
My room in London also is clean and safe, neat and tidy. There’s no clutter, all my things are put away. All of my things fit into a small carry-on bag, anyway. I’ve started to hang art on the walls, a collage of images to represent the time period and the experiences. I do this when I am in a place longer than a month. I like to make it my home for a bit.
We talk at first of meeting elsewhere, but then decide on my place. He’ll have to go soon, so that his girlfriend doesn’t get suspicious. I wonder what lies he tells her. It doesn’t matter. He’s cheated so many times before.
Lying to himself about who he is and what he wants.
Perhaps so am I, do I. I want to fuck him, yes, but there is more to the sex agenda. There’s potential, and we both feel it.
Before I know it we are naked in bed. He’s soft. Big belly, thick thighs. I am so used to skinny men, because they are who draw me in, but not as any rule. I like the feeling of his body. He is bigger than me. Taller, broader, and his belly outdoes mine. It’s new to me, and I revel in the sensation, the solidity, the softness. We’re nestled together, no angles, overflowing into one another.
When I open my eyes the track lighting on the ceiling blinds me and so I look at him, at us. At the contrast between his rosy brown skin and my own, more cream than peaches from the UK shadows. There is not enough light here. The sun shines on other places.
And even in the harsh indoor light, and at baseline, I lose myself.
His energy is overwhelming. He is an old soul, deep, and broad.
He too, loses it. My lover freezes, eyes rolling back into his head, surges of energy through him so powerful that I can feel them along my spine.
His hands betray his mind, they are all over me, soft skin, cupping, cuddling, appreciating my curves. I arch my back and display myself to him, show him this beautiful body of mine and he loves it and he loves me.
His hands snake down my torso to my mound, dipping one finger between my lips to find me soaking wet.
“Oh wow.” he says. “Oh wow wow wow.”
And I am purring as he gently strokes my wet, slippery clit, in perfect tiny circles. Magnetic energy between us builds and pulses, adding the slightest vibration to his strokes. The pads of his fingers are soft and the pressure is perfect and before I know it I’m releasing into orgasm after orgasm. Shaking and moaning and nothing held back.
He watches me with heat in his eyes and desire on his face.
I know that this is what he craves. Unfettered sexuality. His girlfriend is censored and uptight and full of shame. And I am not.
And in this moment all orgasmed out I feel the block, the rigidness. I feel us holding back for the elephant in the room. What we are doing is so right, so perfect, and yet, for him, so wrong. I’ve created an environment where he cannot leave that behind. Intentionally.
Rolling him over on his back, I smoothly kiss his belly, in spiraling circles, ever lower. He knows what’s coming.
He has been dreaming of a blowjob from me. He’s told me so, emphasized his need for oral. We’ve talked about doing it on the cable cars above the Thames, a fantasy agenda that hasn’t yet become reality. He wants my mouth on his cock.
And I, I want to blow his mind.
And so I test my tongue against the tip. He’s not hard yet, though he was earlier. Earlier when we were still dressed I felt the thick meat pressing against his pants, yearning for me. But he’s a grower, not a shower, and now he is small and hidden within his foreskin.
And so I lick the tip of his cock.
“Wait!” he says. I freeze. The pressure bleeds out of the room. My heart sinks. I pull away a few feet, staring him in the eyes. Has he had a change of heart? No. “I think I’m going to come.” he explains.
And he does. He grips his cock and pulls the foreskin back and oozes come out onto his belly. It surprises both of us. I stare at his face, his mouth open, head back, regret interknit with his features.
Awkward sex story: He wanted a blowjob, but his body wouldn’t let it happen, he tells me later, with so much regret.
“It felt good.” he says, shrugging again. I kiss him on his side and vault out of the bed to grab a small purple washcloth, the only towel I travel with. I throw it to him.
He cleans himself up.
“Is that what this is for?” he asks, all confidence gone.
“It is now… No, I carry a small come-towel around the world just for that purpose.” I joke. The truth is that the towel has been used for that before. And it was placed there for that. But I have used it for so many things, and most often for drying my body, as best I can, when no other towel is available.
After some chit-chat, he leaves. It’s an awkward sex story, and sad, but not the last time we meet.
I apologize later for having an agenda, but I’m not sure I’m really sorry.
We have cybersex a few times, but it’s always quick and disappointing to me, especially in light of the three week, sixteen hour a day marathon that I’ve so recently had. He is sad, he says he feels as though I didn’t get to see his cock at its best. I think it’s cute that he thinks I would judge him so brutally. I wonder about his other lovers and experiences. Once, on our first date, he told me about them, and confessed every time he’s strayed from his girlfriend, emphasizing whether it was PIV or just making out. I find it cute and immature, at the time. Now, I pity him.
A few weeks later, the day before I leave London, he visits me again. This time the lights are low. And we are both high. He sits on the couch and me on the bed. But he can’t resist me and soon he crawls into bed with me. He states he doesn’t want to have sex.
This time there is freedom.
The vibe is different. There doesn’t seem blocks because we’ve set a boundary. My sex agenda this time is to respect him, to listen to him, to let him direct the course.
And then as we are there cuddling and laughing, something takes over, and again I feel him yearning to cross lines without taking responsibility for the movement. His hands are all over me, squeezing my breasts. Hand on his cock, his head thrown back, again the energy overwhelms his system.
But this time I stop him. This isn’t on the sex agenda.
I say his name.
“What do you want?” I ask, bringing him back to consciousness.
He doesn’t answer. Because he still is not sure what he wants.
I only sleep with men that want me. That’s my sex agenda.
Another story about this lover: Will He Or Won’t He?
More stories about monogamy, polyamory, and cheating:
2: His first discretion? The European Lovers: Hookup
3: In more detail: The European Lovers: Barcelona
6: Use a Condom
8: Rapid City