Jilling Off

He was so nervous. Conversations online were nothing like this. There had been several whiskeys at home beforehand so that in this bar now he could order a beer and pretend that this was normal, that this was every day. The conversations online – reading for a long time, dropping in the occasional comment here and there had led on to dialogs, then to stories and chats, and now to this. This bar, this everyday place, and the faintest whisper of stepping outside of what he had always thought his sexual identity was.

The man was easy to spot. He’d thought enough about him in their sessions of storytelling online, after all. So when the man walked up, and introductions were had, hands held each other a second too long in the handshake, that wasn’t too strange. Conversation was initially about the weather, because all conversations are always about the weather, and then how the days were, generic conversations about work because of course they were strictly on first name basis only, and there was a gleam in the man’s eye about their online story-telling, but he wasn’t going to bring it up first, because this was a whole new world to him. So he finished his pint and ordered another. The man’s eyes on him were so intense, the feet kicking against the bar stool the same size as his own, the sneakers were similar. Their arms emerging from t-shirts and stretching across the bar clutching pint glasses were almost identical, chunky wristwatches similarly rendered almost useless by shiny cellphones carefully removed from pockets every so often in a comforting ritual.

Conversation was heavy with things unsaid, and he was used to this with one girl, and was used to the knees ‘accidently’ knocking under the bar and then purposefully resting on each other, it had been a long time since that girl and he had parted ways so that he could instead focus on his girlfriend, the other girl fading into the background even while she acted out as much as she could to stand out. But the man was new to him, and the pressure was all too much, trying to decide if it was chemistry and anticipation, or if he was creeped out by the situation, or if it was a little from Column A and a little from Column B, so he excused himself and headed to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, and looked himself in the eye in the mirror. “Figure out what you want,” he said to himself, and the bathroom door opened. The man came in, locking the door behind him. “I know what you want,” he said, “and I’m going to give it to you”.

He was pushed against the toilet wall, a body so similar to his own pressed against him, a similar mouth on his, hard and soft and wet. Skin was so much rougher than he was used to, but the sensation of stubble wasn’t at all unwelcome, the texture new and surprising, but savoury. He felt his wrists being pinned in a strong grip, his arms raised above his head and pushed into a wall by a force stronger than his own, but these were only half thoughts as he closed his eyes and submitted to the rough kiss. As the man’s cock grew harder and pressed into his leg, he felt his own stirring, so foreign against such a hard body, though the intensity of the man’s pressure against him was a reassuring reminder that he wasn’t in control of the situation and he was happy to submit to whatever came next.

for whatever reason, we went to fist-bump tonight, and as your hand hit mine, I felt the impact of chunky metal. “I”m sorry about the ring,” you said, and I looked at you, and looked at the ring and all it symbolises and laughed and laughed and laughed. You had the grace to laugh as well, and to say “in all non-ironic forms as well, I’m sorry about the ring”. That was really sweet.

Has it been a year? How can it have been a year when it still seems like yesterday? I remember everything, of course I do even though the first time we tried to blame it on the alcohol, on the zombies, of course. I remember knees up against each other, under the table, and I remember them from months before that occasion which I thought was a fluke in the system, because yes, I had those thoughts for you but there was no way that you could ever feel the same. And yet, that night, it was there. It wasn’t just knees under the table, or the flirting in our conversation. It was our hands locking in the street as we stumbled from bar to bar, and yes, that could have been that we were drunk, that we were stumbly, but it felt like more than that, and so in the taxi on the way home, when we were far more cuddled up than we should have been, and our hands were still inexpicitly intwined, our eyes met, our heads tipped, our mouths moved together – and we stopped. We paused before we kissed, and we both shook our heads, and we both went “umm, nah” and we sent each other text messages blaming it on the zombie cocktails, shaking it off, saying it wasn’t even a thing at all and we didn’t even need to worry about it.

And then the next day we were both home hungover and you asked me if I wanted to come over and hang out, all casual like, and apologised if that sounded weird because you didn’t mean it to be.. I was too hungover to leave the house so you showed up at mine carrying kebabs and coffee. Of course by that stage you knew that I drank lattes because all we did every day was try and find any excuse to meet up together. We called it boredom at work but it was of course and oh so stupidly an attraction to each other that drew us multiple times a day to that tiny little cafe. But this, this was different.I was deliberatey still in my pyjamas, the thought of dressing up for you terrified me as much as the idea that you could even return the palest fraction of my feelings for you. And yet, you were there, you were so close. It was ridiculous. I made small talk about how drunk we were, trying to skip over the subtext, and yet when I tried to show you some pictures on my laptop, I intended to hand the computer over to you but you came and sat on the couch right next to me, thighs up against mine again, and you were totally in my space, in my world and all I could hear and smell and taste and touch was your presence right there against me and I was totally thrown.

That was the Friday. Or the Thursday? On the Saturday, you were at my house again, and that is a whole new story again.

After the last time, you’re more than willing to let me tie you to my bed, and you haven’t yet realised how mean I want to play today.

I waste no time getting down to business, unbuttoning your fly quickly, and pulling your jeans and underwear down around your knees, partly to imobilise you more, but you don’t know that yet. Your cock is as always waiting for me, especially after the time apart, standing to my attention. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail this time so it can’t fall in my face as I start to bathe your cock with my tongue, licking up and down and around the shaft until every inch of it is glistening with my spit. I open my mouth wide and slowly, ever so slowly slide my lips around it, relaxing my throat so I can take you in as far as possible. You groan appreciatively, and that is why I haven’t gagged you today – I have to be able to pick up every signal from you.

With one hand still wrapped around your cock, I unhook my bra and lean forward so my breasts are hanging down over your lap. I use my hands to bring them together, so that I am titfucking you, your slippery cock sliding in between my warm flesh. I could lose focus here if I’m not careful, I could succumb to the sensation, and the pleasure in your face, climb onto your cock and fuck you silly right now. But that’s what not what I’ve got planned.

“I want you to come on my tits,” I beg you, looking up at you as I circle my nipples with my fingers, “so you’ve got to let me know when you’re just about to come”. You gasp out an “okay” as I take your cock in my mouth again, tongue swirling, teasing your foreskin down. “Oh fuck!” you moan, and I know how close you are, but instead of untying you and offering up my chest, I scuttle to the end of the bed. “Oh no you don’t,” I laugh, “these are for me”.

I grab my breasts hard, the way I like to be touched, and slide my hand down to my wet cunt, laughing. Your face is a mixture of arousal and angst, and it’s beautiful to behold. “It turns out that I’m the one who’s going to have the orgasm, not you,” I say, breathily, as my fingers flick around my clit, and sure enough, very quickly I come, shaking and giggling as the pleasure sweeps over me.

“I feel a bit gipped!” you complain, but I can tell that you’re retracting that complaint as I wrap my lips around your cock again. I watch your eyes roll back in your head as I speed up my pace, and see your hands straining against the scarves that bind you. Again, I am concentrating hard on giving you amazing head, but I am timing it too, and when I think you’re just about to come, I sit back again.

“Fuck, COME ON!” you protest, but no, again, this time I reach for my vibrator, and turn it on full, rubbing it against myself. “You should be grateful I let you watch,” I say, as all my muscles tense, and I ride the wave of the orgasm, your eyes never leaving me. “I could keep this up all day, by the way” I say, as soon as I’ve got my breath back.

But this time, when I lean forward to attend to your poor hard cock, you must have managed to escape your bonds, because you grab my hands and spin me over, pushing my face into the mattress. “Who’s on top now, bitch?” you laugh, as you use one hand to pin my hands to the foot of the bed, and the other to spread my legs. Your hand tickles across my labia, and I squirm at your touch gleefully, but then you stop. I hear the sound of a drawer being opened, and the crackle of a condom packet.

Seconds later you’re plunging into me, hard. “Is this what you wanted?” you demand, panting hard. Your body is slamming into mine, pushing me deeper and deeper into the mattress. I push back up against you, and you release my hands, pulling me to my knees. Your breath is hot against my ear as you kiss my neck, and then sink your teeth into me. I moan in pleasure, and you increase your thrust, pulling my hair as your other hand comes around tto grab my breast. We’ve never fucked this violent before, but I love it. I try to move my hand to my clit,but you push it away. “No more for you,” you say, “not until I’ve had mine”. Your cock is so deep inside me right now, I can’t think of anything else but you. And then you come, I feel it inside, the contained explosion, how stiff your hold body is, and then how it slumps against me, and the noise, the grunt you make. Somehow you have the energy to move your hand around and my clit only needs the tiniest bit of stimulation before I buck back against you, and we topple over together, well and truly spent. As we move to hold each other, and before the tender kisses can start, I whisper in your ear “I still win, 3-1, sucker!”.

Recently, Giant wrote that he was surprised that I have tendencies towards being dominated. I can get where he’s coming from – outwardly I’m a bossy, in control woman (I do PR for a living) but seriously, if you’re ordering minions, printers, caterers and stupid clients around all day, don’t you think that you’d want to come home and be able to switch off totally too?

That is of course the superficial level of domination/sublimation, but unfortunately anything to do with sex has to go deeper. I like to think that I am amongst strong feminist women, so the idea that I want to be dominated and degraded does really not sit well with me as a feminist. I know there’s a difference between fantasy and reality though, and this is where I’m especially grateful to Dan Savage for explaining it so clearly:

Like many fetishes, his cuckold thing is most likely a subconscious erotic response to a sexually charged fear. While most of us learn to live with and occasionally conquer our fears without eroticizing them, a number of us respond to sexual fears or traumas by incorporating them into our erotic imaginations. Think of women—hip, together, progressive, feminist women—who act out rape fantasies; think of the homos—hip, together, out homos—who dress up like soldiers, cops, firemen and other stereotypically violent homophobic types.

So women fear rape, yet some develop a fetish for it. Gay men fear violent homophobes, yet some dress up like violent homophobes. And what do many straight men fear? Being cheated on, of course, and dealing with that particular brand of sexual humiliation.

So yeah, I think if I was imagining people grabbing me the way they did when I was 12, if I was fantasizing about leather jerkins and tattoos on bare chests,then that would be really troublesome. If I want someone to pull my hair, call me a dirty slut and maybe spank me a little, I’m okay with that.