Sex on the beach

Sorry, it's not that fruity drink that was popular in late 1990s. Nor are we talking the sand-in-your-inward- parts variety. Instead, this is one 27-year-old's tale of moving to the beach from the city to trade in her old-model men for brand-spanking new ones ... with a few stragglers.

Location: Virginia, United States

I'm really a good girl, trying not to (as) bad (any longer).

Monday, December 27, 2004

Morning f**k

Did I have sex last night? No, actually it was this morning. I should remember it better. I would had I not been half asleep and, oh yeah, if it were any good.

It was with the Liberian guy. (That sounds like I'm being racist, doesn't it? Now I know how white people feel when they have to refer to somebody as, God forbid, "black." Gasp! Let's call him Rod.)

So, yeah, I had sex at sunrise with Rod. I can't really put my finger on why, but it was below average. For one, I was attacked Mandingo-style in my sleep after lying in wait for sleeplessly most of the night. Somewhere before the downstroke struck, I remember thinking, "Hey, wait a minute! You were supposed to go for the tang earlier. I'm like, sleeping, now. Back away from my ass! I'm not ready!"

He hit the necessary buttons to turn on the faucet, but the sink stayed cold. He sucked both nipples really hard -- apparently it had been long enough ago that I could take the brutality and still be turned on by it -- and he made a grab at every fleshy part of my body. Ordinarily, the passion behind that would have turned me on. Perhaps it didn't because everything moved way too fast. As I was getting into what I thought would be foreplay, he jumped off of me, ran downstairs presumably to get condoms and returned in the pounce position. Thankfully, rather than plowing right on in -- as his immediate donning of the rubber suggested -- he remembered to check the pilot light in the furnace. He did some type of provocative thing with his tongue to my navel ring and then started poking around with his finger. It was uneventful until he realized, yes, Virginia there is a clit and I got caught up. I guess that what gave him the green light for insertion. I sure as hell hadn't said anything.

That's when he does his standard of turning me over on my stomach. I wonder whether that's some kind of Liberian thing to have sex like that. Or it could be what little-dick guys do so we don't notice the disparity. (It works.) Nevertheless, Rod with the sideways Gonzo dick pokes around until he manages to slide in.

I'd been craving him since our breakdown in communcation a few weeks ago. After all, the first three times were the bomb. At this point, I was bracing myself for extended pleasure. Dumb me.

He moaned, I moaned. He moved, I moved a little bit to keep the gun from going off. Then, I started matching his rhythm. Then, he leaned down to suck on my shoulder. I love when he does that, so I moaned some more. A talker since I was 15, I figured I'd spice it up by screaming his name. "Rod! I missed you." (OK, not so much; I missed the sex, but this train was moving a little slow, so I made it more emotional albeit dramatic. What's said during sex is null and void anyway, so whatever.) Then -- oh, within about 10 minutes -- it happened.

Steady even strokes took on Prince's "Let's Go Crazy" pace, and there's only one man I know who can keep that up for a long period of time, and Rod ain't him. I tried to jump aboard the ship before it hit land. Close but no cigar. He plopped down on me, and I knew fantasy voyage was o-ver. The sumamabitch didn't even break a sweat. Like the sun shining through his blinds, one thing was clear to me: this was his morning f**k.

From me, it was also his last. But of course, the sex was only a small part of that ...

(Next post: The Gonzo Show)