I went to the beach today, and I took that plunge to untie my top to prevent unnecessary tan lines. I had no idea how horny it would make me.
A trip to the beach is like mental masturbation for the single and lonely. Laying almost nude in the sunshine as the breeze drifts softly over all your skin. It’s touch is never too harsh, never catches stubble, sweat or fat rolls and always manages to simultaneously simulate all parts of your body at once, only interrupted by the occasionally sprinkle of sand on your back by child running by. The kids don’t know what a danger zone they’re in. Their hormones haven’t kicked in yet and are ignorant to the erroneous nature of the beach.
As I lay next to this stranger, a tan brunette with a ripe rump, I watched the sweat bead up on her stomach and my mind began to dive into the “inappropriate to tell your parents zone”. I wanted nothing more than to straddle her soft, butter tanned skin and gently pusher pink string bikini bottoms to the side and let my tongue slip between her hairless lips. As my tongue would plunge deeper into her, caressing and massing her inner folds, a silent moan would escape from her pursed lips. Her pelvis would gently start to thrust up and down, mimicking the methodically nature of my tongue.
As her playful moans grew louder, my left hand crawled up past her navel and slide under her triangle shaped top and gently squeezed her breast, my thumb circling her erect nipple. While my other thumb was planted square on her clit massaging tiny circles, as my tongue still slide back and forth, up and down, covering every part of her that men had neglected in the past.
She wouldn’t tell her husband of our secret encounter on the beach. Feeling the spasms of her pleasure made my groin throb with delight. The more she moans, the closer I can to violent thrusts of uncontrollable sin. We readjust our bodies so our hip bones touch. I am on top. We rock back and forth as I untie her top. Her luscious C-cup fills my hand. I suck on her nipples and slide my under hand back down on her clit. Her legs tremble and mine follow suit. She falls back on last gasp of ecstasy. My fingers fall across her inner thigh as I return to my respective towel- and become just another near by naked stranger, and realize that it was all, but a fantasy.
This is what happens when I untie my top and lay nipples to the sun, the breeze touching every inch of my body. Damn breeze makes for better foreplay than I’ve had in a while.
This is what it must feel like to be an 18-year-old boy. Horny all the damn time.
For a sex-craved girl, my stats are low. It wasn’t until last night that I had my first one night stand, well at least I think I did. You’d think I would have slept around a little bit more at the ripe age of 22, but if I did in fact sleep with him, it would have only been the third man I’ve taken the plunge with.
The worst part is, I’m not sure if we actually had sex. The last thing I remember is him saying he thought he had a condom somewhere in his room, then I woke up bare-ass naked next to him with a condom wrapper on the floor. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention I’d drank more than a lonely sailor that night.
The way I see it this could have played out two ways. 1) We fucked. It was just too quick and boring for me to remember in my drunken state or 2) I fell asleep while he was rubber hunting.
You’d think I feel dirty for what happened, but the thing is- I don’t remember it. It’s as if part of my mind blocked out all bad memories to spare me from a life of regret.
I remember that his entire body was smooth. Almost like he didn’t have the ability to grow body hair. And his hands, oh his hands were awful. They would have beautiful on a woman, but not this dude. His dainty little fingers made my hands look like they were pulled straight from a caveman. He didn’t know how to cuddle, kiss or hug. In the morning I gave him a hug goodbye and he almost fell over, like a limp piece of asparagus.
He called to make sure I made it home safe. I never called back.
Oh my god. I have baby fever. I’m only 22 and single, well single-ish. Maybe it’s from researching mommy blogs for my internship or the fact that I’m utterly alone out here. But at this very moment in life I want nothing more than to move home and marry my exboyfriend (kinda current bf?) and have a baby.
I want to get excited about vacuum cleaners and baby giggles.
I want to have hot pregnant sex in the shower, on the floor and at the office.
I almost lost it today. In a city where no one cares who you are or what you’re “trying” to do it’s hard to keep your chin up.
As I sat on my orange B-train seat, my thighs smeared all over the orange plastic I stared into the distance, which really wasn’t too distant because my train is always Mexi-packed. My eyes became fixated on the 12-year-old’s jeans pressed against my face. I could feel the failure swelling in my eyes and wondered if the strangers on the train knew what misery I was in. Then it became clear: The Virgin Mary’s face was embedded into the denim staring me in the face.
Am I crazy or did the Virgin Mary really manifest in this boy’s pants to tell me not to give up, to keep fighting and to stick it out in New York?
I’m not creepy; I’m just not New York.
I came to this city in search of a career. I got here to discover I was slightly overweight, sported the hair follicles of a Mediterranean woman and I ‘m working as an unpaid intern at a company that has no intention of hiring me.
I left an ex-boyfriend (my college sweetheart) and a fling with a schoolmate worthy of a romance novel on its own. I traded in two lovers for bed bugs and a chance to be a “writer” in the big city.
I have to make this work. I am currently seeking adventures and opportunities, please apply below.