I am sitting on the balcony of my Honolulu hotel suite and I can see so many large, high-rise hotels in my field of view. The first thing that comes to mind is the fact that there is a good possibility that there are people in each of these building fucking each other’s brains out.
Just going at it.
Tons of rampant fucking. Hot, sweaty, hair-pulling, furious sex with gritted teeth and flushed faces. I wish I was one of them.
One thing that I’ve noticed… and I mean DISTINCTLY noticed since going sober is that my interest in sex has tanked faster than Drake’s libido after he was kissed by Madonna.
I’ve always had a healthy appetite, even to the point where I recently had to get myself off five times in one day. But since Day Zero, that lust has faded. I’ve reached deep into my spank bank for the best material, I’ve found some great porn vids that would normally have made me dump a load and have me snoring in less time than a prime time TV commercial break.
Now? Yeah right. I can barely even get turned on. I did get off yesterday evening though for the first time in a couple of weeks. I just hope this trend continues.
In this situation, what is running through a woman’s mind? It’s a heat of the moment kind of thing, what is driving you? Please share in the comments.
I am playing a game with you. It’s the same game that you are playing with me. I say this to ensure you are aware.
I don’t know what your endgame is, however. That being said, I don’t think it matters that much to me. I’m flexible and I have my own house in order just how I like it and need it. And whatever endgame you are playing towards cannot change that.
But let’s forget the endgame. The endgame is boring and menial and exhausting. It’s not the kind of living that we are moving our chess pieces to win. The game is afoot but it is not this game.
This. This is the real game.
This is what you want; it’s what I want. It’s your soft lips tenderly accepting a kiss from my lips. It’s my fingertips finding their way down the front of your panties. It’s our hot breath commingling during the sweet agony of our union. It’s the smacking of our bodies against each other, in sweaty ecstasy.
It’s your hair wrapped up in the grip of my fist with you on your knees while I bury myself into you from behind over and over.
As they say, the game’s afoot. And I am engaged to claim my prize.
From Behind.
On Labor Day, it’s ok to let someone else do some of the work:
I can remember myself as an adolescent, growing into a young adult. As a young man under the age of 20, I had a lot going on. I was figuring myself out with brash bravado and various kinds of self-expression. I doubt that I was unique. Pretty much every guy goes through this, I’d imagine.
Now if you are a guy under the age of 20, with almost complete certainty I can say that you probably know at least one guy who is always drawing cocks. And, guys over the age of 20? You can remember that guy. In fact, you’ll never forget him.
When I was in college, the guy who was always drawing dicks became my best friend. I’m keeping his real name to myself but his nickname? His nickname was Woody. Go figure. He didn’t only draw them in his notebooks; he drew them in other people’s notebooks, on desks, on frosted-up winter windows, newspapers… once, he even drew an eight foot long cock on the wall while waiting for our professor to show up and let us into the classroom.
Anyway, it’s very entertaining. I started my own line of drawings since I was brutal at drawing cocks. I drew stick figure sex. All kinds of bizarre scenarios, orgies, gangbangs with elaborate scenes and settings. It was pretty funny, actually. Granted, it was never on the same level as four military cocks raising an American flag on Iwo Jima but it was amusing. For me.
