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Use A Condom

I drive up to the winding road to the house not too far in from the mouth of Kagel Canyon, Northeast of Los Angeles, near Sylmar, where The Plant Whisperer has made his home for the moment. I chuckle at the name of Kagel Canyon, like most do, even funnier in the context of the place I lived in Topanga, Northwest of Los Angeles, when The Plant Whisperer came to meet me and never left until it got me evicted: Tuna Canyon.

But that’s a different story. This one is about vaginas.

Use a Condom

My underwear are still wet from fucking Darab and The Plant Whisperer is well aware.

The Plant Whisperer and I broke up because I felt he wasn’t into me, physically. He seemed to have to detach himself entirely and conjure up other imagery consistently in order to be sexual with me. I felt he attached worth to a specific body that I didn’t have, and just wasn’t into someone who didn’t love me holistically, and someone who devalued me.

I left. Drove around the country. I met Foryst. I played out that drama. I’m still playing out that drama, on my way back to Rapid City, South Dakota for one more turn. Recreating that same pattern of mismatched value with a few others for good measure.

And meanwhile, The Plant Whisperer changed. When I left, his life lost all meaning. He lost weight to skin and bones. He made the wrong kind of friends. And, he began to yearn for me. Deeply. Specifically. Including my body.

And so when we met up, a week before this, there was chemistry, and there was sex. We use a condom, we aren’t fluid bonded anymore – The Plant Whisperer is vasectomized – but we have gone through a lot of condoms.

Now, he is on a mission to prove just how much he wants me. I don’t foil it.

The Plant Whisperer is a capable, down-to-earth Northern Californian with a soft heart and sly hands.  He has a streak of genius and an open mind, and continuously grows, but has a tendency for magical thinking, which makes him fun to play with and difficult to partner with. 

He’s in his late 30’s, I’m in my mid 30’s now. The Plant Whisperer is average height, a mixture of Eastern and Western European roots, mutt USAmerican from a middle class family. He has a beautiful set of bright blue eyes with sunflowers for pupils, and a head full of brown curls and a handsome face with a strong chin. His energy is grounding, capable, and direct. He’s a hot fuck.

When I arrive he’s waiting outside. He grabs me and kisses me.

“I can’t stay long,” I say. “I have to drive at least 6 hours today.”

“Want to go out to the deck? Have some strawberry herb water?” asks the Plant Whisperer He knows that I love his concoctions. He has an intimate relationship with plants, and is growing many herbs and some fruit and vegetables on his deck. 

“How could I say no?”

When we get there, I see that he has prepared. There is a pitcher of water and glasses, and he’s dragged his mattress out onto the deck. The sunlight dapples the spread through the leafy oaks lighting a scene from a home design magazine. The Plant Whisperer pours me a glass of water and hands it to me.

“I bet you’re thirsty”. I sense the slight dig. 

“You’re the one that wanted to see me, directly after a sex date, on my way out of town, when I have no more than an hour.” I say, sassily. I drink the water, mustering even more sass. I sassily swallow, even. There is basil and rosemary and strawberries in it. They have been there long enough to infuse it, but not to mush. It’s perfect. All sass is gone.

“Yeah I did.” he says, and takes the glass out of my hands. He throws me down on the mattress and wrenches my clothes off.

“Owwww.” I say, but I am laughing. And then gasping.

He pulls my legs apart and dives between, his tongue darts directly into me, licking up the taste of condom to get it out of the way.

“Glad someone else did all the warming up.” he says, and goes directly for the spot on my clit that only someone I’d spent 6 months living with could know. He is expert, efficient, and relentless. The last few lovers I’ve had did not eat pussy and that is not the kind of shit I will settle for anymore after having my pussy eaten by someone within an hour of fucking someone else.

The warmth of the Southern California sun on my skin and the warmth of his tongue bring me quickly to rocking orgasm, and he keeps licking me through it until I pull him away by his shirt. 

But he knows me. 

He turns and pulls off his shirt and then dives back in again. I wrap my legs around his back, white skin speckled with beauty marks and freckles, sun damage on his neck from years of working a shovel landscaping and installing irrigation, and a slight farmer tan. His brunette curls are graying at the temples and his two day-scruff rubs against my inner thighs in a way that stimulates me even more. 

He’s licking the other side of my clit, precisely, quickly, with flicks that make me jump when he hits parts still sensitive from his last treatment. This time when he brings me to orgasm he does not stop, he just moves slightly lower and to the other side again, and then I feel his finger weave deftly into my pussy, curling upward with the pad of his fingertip giving me even pressure to the forked tongue of the inner part of my clitoris.

My third orgasm takes me.

Before I finish he’s prodding at me with his rock hard cock, wrapped in a condom. I’m glad I don’t have to remind him to use a condom. He slips in an inch, loosening me, priming me. He shudders, I know it’s harder for him to maintain when it’s slow and just the tip.

“I just wanna fuck you.” he says, pulling out and flipping me over on my stomach. I don’t resist. 

“What a coincidence, I just want to be fucked.” I reply.

He slams into me from behind, fucking me hard, and I yelp. He ignores me. I love the feeling of him not holding back. Love that he gives me that agency, that he knows that I am big enough and strong enough to not feel disrespected by his desires if they don’t match mine, and to stop him verbally and even physically if I don’t like it.

I feel one hand under my hips, and one hand on my sacrum, steering me at 12 and 7. He plays with subtle differences in angle,  rotating me around his cock and pulling me back into him so that he can fuck me even harder. He flips me back over onto my back. I bend my knees to give his pounds some cushion and shift the angle as he slams down into me. He fucks me feverishly, and I feel him tighten, his muscles clenching. 

“I’m ripping off this condom and cumming inside you.” he says, and does just that before I’d have time to stop him.

“Asshole.” I say. “You know that means I have to use a condom with Foryst.”

“You know you should use a condom anyway.” he says, kissing me.

He’s right.


Another story about The Plant Whisperer: Mile High

More stories about monogamy, polyamory, and cheating:

1: Cheater

2: His first discretion? The European Lovers: Hookup

3: In more detail: The European Lovers: Barcelona

4: Will He Or Won’t He?

5:  Stop. Falling. In. Love. With. Monogamous Men.

6: Agenda

7: Naked in the Dark

8: Stuck

9: Rapid City


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