What the fuck is this, my diary?
November 10, 2011 § Leave a comment
Unless I’m reading straight up erotica- some pussy tingling fantasy story of what never really happens in the doctor’s office because if it did there’d be lawsuits- unless I’m sitting down to read some wonderfully cooked up plot involving the mall, a van, and a lot of begging, I really don’t like reading about personal sexual encounters between two people.
That’s probably why I’m not prone to being very good at cyber sex, and why I don’t ask my friends for any details at all about their most recent fucking unless something funny happened. Funny sex stories I can hack. But the moment you talk about the way he was touching your pussy or the way she wrapped her hand under herself and around your cock while she was on top, you’ve made me want to wretch.
For this reason I spare the graphic details of my own sex life most of the time. I have friends who live for the stories, wanting to know all the very dirty things I did the night before. And usually I disappoint with “It was good.” “It was bad.” or, if some really whacked out stuff happened, I’ll talk about that. “I was drunk out of my skull, and I don’t know why, but I kept sucking my thumb while he was fucking me.” “He kept humming classical tunes while he fucked me.” You know, the odd bits.
And yet. And yet, sitting here still smelling like dried spit from the vigorous blow job, still needing to wash my sheets, or at least dry them, because I got them too wet to dry on their own, I really really really want to brag up the sex I had last night. I want to give all the details, not just that when I took his belt off and pulled down his pants, I started to laugh at his Dr. Suess boxer shorts. I mean, there were funny things and unusual things, but mostly I have this urge to give an account of every single moment of the fuck fest that occurred here. Right here. In this room.
Anyway, I won’t. I don’t want to be disgusted with myself later when he doesn’t call.