Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

Lately what I’ve been in the mood for most often, when I’ve been in the mood, is hot, degrading sex. Desperate sex. Violent sex. Slap my face and make me scream sex. Hold me down and let me fight sex. Hurt me, and humiliate me; come on me and call me a dirty whore sex. The kind of sex where I want to plead and cry, “No! Stop.” The kind of sex where I mean it and don’t want my partner to care. The kind of sex that safewords were invented for.

–

I met him in a bar. I don’t meet men in bars. Hell, the vast majority of the time I don’t even drink alcohol. I was in the bar because it was dry and the world outside the windows was pouring water, sheets and buckets of it, all over my city.

Sudden storm. Flash Flood. Whatever you want to call it, I wasn’t prepared. I was soaked to the skin, dripping like a wet dog, and happy to have found this bar with its anachronistic fireplace burning strong in the middle of the day. I sat, huddled up on the hearth, dress clinging to my skin from shoulders to mid thighs, legs naked and feet bare where I had peeled off my sodden tights, drinking tea and reading my equally soggy book, when he approached.

“I like your bag.” he said.

I closed my eyes for a moment and prepared myself to fend off another loser. My “hentai inside” bag amuses the crap out of me, but it does tend to get me some unfortunate attention. I looked up expecting to see some slimy guy twice my age leering down at my boobs and saw…

Yum. A Dean Cain look alike holding two guitar cases and just as soaking wet as I was. His hair was all sodden curls and his shirt was plastered to what appeared to be an extremely nice chest.

“Thanks,” I responded smiling, “the various types of attention I get by carrying it amuse me to no end. Would you like to join me?”

“I would, thanks.” He put his guitar cases down, went over to the bar to get a glass of whiskey, and came back to sit on the hearth beside me.

As he sat, I started to move my feet to the floor to give him more room to sit, but he took my ankles in his hand and drew my legs out across his lap while watching my eyes to see if I’d protest.

“So,” he said, leaving one hand on my knee and picking up his drink with the other, “where did you get the bag?”

“A friend of mine works at a comic book store. When she saw it in the catalog, apparently it made her think of me and she gave it to me for my birthday.”

“What is it exactly about you that makes your friends think that you’d want to advertise an interest in tentacle sex?”

I looked him over again - handsome, a musician, polite - thought that he might not be the worst person to spend an afternoon with, moved his hand up so that it rested on my inner thigh, and answered, “experience.”

“Really?” his voice was deep and even, although his fingers clenched briefly on my thigh before relaxing to stroke my skin with his thumb. He continued to watch my face, “So what is it about tentacle porn that interests you so much… The aliens?”

“No.”

“The animation?”

“No.”

“The thought of being penetrated in every hole viciously and simultaneously while some monster uses you solely as a vehicle for his pleasure.”

My eyes flashed, “Something like that, yes.”

“So if I were to tell you to pack your bag, put on your shoes, and follow me home, you’d be…”

I folded the corner of the page in my book, “… starting to do so already.”

“Oh, good.”

To be continued…
–
I know have been a slacker sex blogger lately. Ironically, between the guy I’m seeing locally, my out-of-town girlfriend, and her hottie husband, I’ve actually been having a lot more sex… I just haven’t had the time or energy to write about it. Oh, and for the record:

1. I do have a hentai inside bag, but the propositions I get while holding it are never actually interesting.

2. I recently met just such a guitar playing Dean Cain look alike, but I was in such a rush to catch my bus I didn’t actually manage to hit on him. My priorities are totally fucked. Still, I did learn where he plays… Yum.