Chemical Ecstasy

I always had a block with Gillians. Gillians. What can one say about the Gillians out there?

They've become somewhat predictable now. It took some years of trial and error before the understanding began to dawn. And that was like waking up from a long and sacrificial slumber.

I could attempt to sketch a picture to fit all the Gillians out there, but that would be neither fair nor accurate.

Yes they share so many similar characteristics, pre-occupations, motives. Yes they are a precious kind of smart, arrogant, bitchy. Yes, stuck up and opinionated. Yes, been there and done that. Yes nerdy. And yes, pretend seen the world all bright eyed and bushy-fuckin' tailed.

But really, each peachy little Gillian out there has something unique and special about her. And if you watch very carefully, letting her weave her web day after day, you may just observe the predator trapped in her own snare. And then my dear reader... well actually, let me rather tell you a story. A story about the Gillian I knew, the Gillian we all know.

I met her at a party. I was somewhat, shall we say, buzzed, and thus weighing my future in a maze of contemplation. I looked up and there she was - staring me down.

"You're all fucked up" she said, "wasting your life away with that shit - you got no drive, no purpose."

"Really, you don't like to get a buzz?"

"Don't need it" she snapped, "I get high by myself, whenever I want to."

"Really...?"

"Sure, like now, I'm flying, and all without that stuff!"

"Aahhh..."

I wasn't exactly smitten by the little minx, all 20 years of her dweebie little self, and showed no real interest. So I was surprised that she kept on talking with me. After the intial (and usual) put down so often experienced from the holier than thou's, I was content upon licking my wounds over a late night coffee at home. But an hour later, after yet further reprimands and psychological bitch slaps, I realized that she was still there, jabbering away, telling me how I shouldn't be jacking off so often, should be reading books rather, and 'contributing to society'.

Even though there was nothing I could have said to win over little miss perfect, and whatever I did was met with a subtle type of malice and scorn (you should live this way, you should wear these clothes, you should eat that food) and albeit that nothing I offered was acceptable - yet here she still was, chirp-chirp chirping away...with me.

I put it down to chemistry. It had to be chemistry. Why else would she still be sitting before me, sentient and real.

And more than that, to my astonishment, she began to show signs of attraction. She would swish her head when making a really 'big point'. I noticed her intermittently running her hand through her lovely auburn hair. And occasionally, she might bite her lip and offer a giggle.

I began to watch (more so than listen to) the pert little mouth, with the pearly white teeth and opinionated verbiage. I ignored the topics, the reasons, the emotions. I began to watch and observe. What was it about the pussy race that we wanted, desired, adored so much. You couldn't talk to them. You couldn't reason, or debate. They just wanted you to listen and say, "Mmm" or "Yes, do go on."

They just filled and filled and filled up every space, with the garbage they called rationality and thought.

I looked at her and stopped trying to find common ground in argument. I forgave her her weaknesses and abandoned any attempt to make sense of her monologue (which, by the way, she mistakenly took for a dialogue or conversation). I continued to listen to the sounds rather than interpret the words.

This proved to be most interesting. She had lovely sounds, a beautiful voice, trapped behind a flapping set of lips, completely drowning it out. It was even, sexy.

I responded to these revelations, to see how she would react; more interesting still. Here is a short cameo of one such interaction:

"So," she continued, "humans are of a higher vibration, um, frequency, intelligence, than animals. And that's why when we come back, it's always as a higher manifestation..."

I interjected, "But they need to fuck, like animals do."

She hesitated, and went on, "Advancing through reproduction is then only way that humans can progress, and so the nobility of procreation must be seen as a virtue and a necessity, as opposed to a brutal need. And the..."

I interjected again, "Does your cunt get really wet when you describe such a deeply held position?"

"...and the achievement of...what did you say?" she stumbled.

"Oh nothing, do go on."

"And the achievement of our highest potential, the very pinnacle of Maslow's hierarchy..."

Yet again I interjected, "But does your pussy get hot and aroused when you imagine your own self-actualization?"

"Oh stop it! You are terrible..."

And on it went, she waxing lyrical, me responding to whatever her literal words triggered in my now, sexually figurative mind.

This is indeed the way to Gillian's pussy. This, coupled with the good fortune of a chemical reaction designed it seemed, by the gods.

No matter how disinterested my attitude, no matter how disconcerting my views, how inappropriate and contradictory, she wasn't going away. She wasn't going anywhere. She even took it upon herself to make physical contact with me, fixing my hair, doing up my shirt button, straightening my look.

Now then, I was not then, nor am I now, some kind of psyche major. I don't possess more than a lingering interest in body language, social sciences or the like. But you'd have to be quite asleep to miss the signs she was sending me, even if she was doing so (possibly) unconsciously.

That was the point at which it all sank in, deep and slow and visceral. She would be, that very night, mine, all mine. It was the luck of the draw. It was destiny...chemistry!

I smiled. I knew something for once. Effortless clarity.

In the middle of yet another intellectual onslaught, I lent forward, moved my lips to her ear, and whilst imbibing the wonderful innocence of her freshly washed hair, I whispered slowly: "I'm going to suck your wet little pussy tonight and make you cum so that your face is all screwed up with the joys of passion. I know you've never really had a cock, but tonight's your night darling - tonight's the night your pussy becomes a cunt."

She fell silent. The chitter-chatter was all over. The party boomed. The carpet smelt of stale beer. The pretense of innocence that hung for so long in her words, sunk swiftly into the depraved reality of young adult hunger soon to be sated.

I looked her in the eye. She opened her lips to utter a word, and in that moment I lent in, placed my hand on her cheek, and guided my tongue deep into her mouth.

The wind whistled, the moon shone a pale and cold silver, and between us there was now only the thumping of a heartbeat. We walked to my dorm room in silence, hand in hand. With each step I felt the Gillian power dissipate into the thin winter air. My high began to wane, and I began to sense the energy building in my abdomen, my thighs, my cock.

When we got inside I started to kiss her again, deeply, running my hands all over her body. I removed her jacket. I rubbed her breasts through her blouse. I kneaded the palm of my hand into the trap between her thighs, and in a few moments, over her buttoned jeans. I felt a torrent of pressure burst from her chest. She was panting and writhing from an introductory orgasm.

I saw in her eyes, that even with her clothes on, Gillian was now naked. I moved, she acquiesced.

I shan't reveal all the details, but for this one, the final act: I was behind her, inside her. Her ass, lily-white, brown little virgin hole, so bravely defended heretofore, awaited. I wasn't going to pop that cherry. But I was intent on exposing a joy to her that might otherwise be blocked by her goodie two shoes mind.

I built her slowly, circular clitoral motions. I shafted rhythmically, thoroughly. At the crescent, I steadily placed my thumb on her virgin star, and, sensing her excitement, the thrill of yes or no, sunk it in, deep inside. As she felt herself invaded, she both resisted and reveled in it, trying to deny the idea whilst succumbing to the ecstasy. It was then that coated her internally, completing the zenith of our lovemaking.

We slept the night away, peacefully and in unison. In the morning, I rose early to meet the track team for our usual 5 miler. I kissed her rosy cheek and departed. When I retuned she was gone - she left a note, with a "call me" and a red lipsticked kiss, decorated with little hearts and a "Gillian" with the "i" dotted as a big round smiley face.

I never did call her.

There have been many Gillians since then, with many different names and faces. But the Gillian you tame is the one you always remember.