To put it bluntly, I like to fuck. I know what you're thinking: "Doesn't everyone?". But that isn't true. Everyone likes to climax, but not everyone truly enjoys fucking. To me, it's about much more than just getting off. Orgasms are great, but there is so much more to it than that. Really great sex is like a compelling novel: there's a beginning—an introduction. Tension is built up over time, and finally there's a point where everything comes together and you are totally taken in, and then there's a conclusion that leaves you satisfied, yet still craving more.
In the middle, there are a million small details. The beauty lies in those small moments. I like the subtle glances across the room, when our eyes meet and we realize that we're both thinking the same thing. I like slowly undressing my lover, eagerly anticipating what's to come. I like being so hard that I feel like I'll die if I don't get inside her soon. I like the feel of my hand, sliding along the damp silk of her panties, feeling her warmth. I like the moment our lips meet and we both feel that mark. I like feeling her hot hand wrap around my rock hard shaft, teasing me, tempting me. I love the feel of my hands on her breasts, her hips, her ass. I love the moment when my engorged head touches her outer folds, and then I penetrate her and our two bodies become one.
There are a million different ways to fuck, and I love them all. I can appreciate the beauty of being in a dark room, illuminated by a hundred candles. Our two bodies tied up in knots, writhing away beneath the sheets as we make slow, passionate love beneath the sheets for hours on end.
I like the intensity of being overwhelmed by lust, when you barely make it in the front door. Two bodies crushed against the wall, clothes tearing as we frantically try to get at one another—incapable of waiting one second more.
I like the thrill of slipping away in a dark alley or out of the way closet—lifting her skirt, pulling down my pants and struggling to keep quiet as we fuck, knowing at any moment that we could be discovered.
I like the freedom of a secluded cabin, with no one around for miles to hear us moan, and scream, and call out to one another as the windows rattle and the bed creaks as I invade her body furiously and her nails imbed themselves in my flesh.
I love to be on top. I love to be ridden. I love to fuck doggie-style. I love to be straddled. I like to be in charge, and I like to submit. I love to give head, get head, and sixty nine. I love it vanilla and I love it kinky. I like it morning, noon, and night. I love to be in her hand, mouth, pussy and ass. I love it in the bed, on the floor, in a chair, in the shower, in the car, on a table, on the balcony, on the beach and everywhere else. Like I said, there are literally a million ways to fuck, and I love them all. Why would anyone settle for just one way?
Some people enjoy a one night stand or a short, meaningless fling, but not me. Maybe you can have good sex with someone you barely know, but you can't have GREAT sex. It takes more than just two horny people to reach the greatest heights of passion. There has to be intimacy. There has to be trust. There has to be a true connection of mind, body and soul. It takes time and familiarity to reach that point.
I didn't always feel this way. Growing up, I was like any other guy. I was primarily concerned about myself. My own enjoyment was priority number one. Sure, I was willing to do the little things to make my partner happy. I made sure she was having a good time, but in the back of mind, the ultimate goal was always self-satisfaction. I made her happy, so she'd continue to do the same for me. It was about a year ago when everything started to change—when I started to realize that there can be so much more to sex and that I can find happiness just from bringing joy to another. It was about a year ago when I first met Michelle.
It was the dead of winter when we first met. All but her eyes were hidden underneath several layers of clothing, so I can honestly say that her intelligence was the first thing I noticed about her. We were both out walking our dogs around the apartment complex on a blustery December night, and a conversation started up when our dogs decided to greet one another with the traditional butt sniff. Right away I picked up on Michelle's wit and charm.
It wasn't until a few days later when our paths crossed once again that I learned she was beautiful. Our leashes got tangled once again, and after we managed to free the disgruntled dogs, she invited me over to her apartment for some hot cocoa. There seemed to be a natural rapport between us, so I accepted the offer.
Once we got in the front door, the dogs took off chasing one another around the small living room. As Michelle removed her scarf, stocking cap, and burly winter coat, I realized that she was stunningly pretty. She stood about five foot nine, with a body like Marilyn Monroe. Her long blonde hair came nearly to her waist. She was gorgeous, even dressed down in her baggie olive cargo pants and loose black sweater.
While Michelle busied herself in the kitchen, I took a look at the bookshelves in the corner of the room. I was surprised to see we had a very similar taste in movies, music, and novels. She told me to put in a CD, so I stuck one of the Beatles later albums in the stereo and took a seat on the couch. A few minutes later, she came in with the cocoa and some cookies. We sat chatting and listening to the music while the dogs played with each other in the center of the room. When the music stopped, we decided to pop in a movie. I ended up hanging out at her place until 2 in the morning.
As I walked home with my dog, I marveled at what a wonderful time we'd had together. I couldn't remember the last time I'd just hung out with such an intelligent, beautiful woman. I was still thinking about her an hour later when I finally laid down to bed. As I drifted off to sleep I decided that Michelle was out of my league. A woman like her would never be interested in an average guy like me, no matter how many things we had in common. My last conscious thought was that I would not ask her out and risk ruining would could be a great friendship.
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Keeping my relationship with Michelle strictly platonic turned out to be the best decision I could have made. I didn't feel obligated to try and impress her, or seduce her, or put on some façade. When we ran into each other, she got to see the real me without any of the normal smoke and mirrors I put out for other women. As a result, a friendship blossomed quickly between us.
At first, we'd just run into one another a few times a week when we were out walking the dogs. Occasionally I'd end up hanging out at her apartment. Eventually, we started making plans to hang out. We'd go to movies or dinner together on the weekends. Sometimes we'd just go out for a few drinks. We complimented one another perfectly and always had a great time. Even when we disagreed on something, the arguments were good-natured and nobody walked away angry.
In only a matter of month, she had become my closest friend. We talked everyday, either by email, in person, or on the phone. We got dinner together frequently. She became my confidante—when anything went wrong, she was the first person I turned to. If I had problems with work, or women, or just life in general, I'd ask her advice. We got to know everything about one another. I learned that she moved to the south because she felt her life had become stagnant. She'd only had one serious relationship, and after 6 years together she'd finally realized it wasn't working, so she left New York to get away and try life somewhere new.
By June, the two of us had become inseparable. Michelle hadn't dated anyone regularly since I met her, and I was having a bad string of luck, so we were spending most evenings together watching old movies like "Bonnie and Clyde" and "Chinatown". We were sitting in her apartment on the first day of summer when things changed between us forever.
It was a sweltering day. A violent storm had come through in the afternoon, knocking out the power for the entire apartment complex. I wasn't happy about the lack of air conditioning, but Michelle was having a much rougher time than I. She was sweating up a storm as she sat on the floor getting her ass kicked in Trivial Pursuit.
"I swear I'm going to melt," she groaned for the hundredth time.
"Oh...poor Princess Michelle," I teased. "Would you like an ice bath?" I took some ice out of my glass and dropped it down the back of her loose, black tank top.
She jumped at first, but then relaxed.
"Actually," she said, "that's not half bad."
"You're psychotic," I said, tossing another piece of ice in her direction. She caught it and started running it along her arms. She shivered as little goose bumps popped up along her biceps, but she was also smiling.
"Shit! That feels good," she groaned. "You should try it."
"No thanks," I responded. "Some of us can handle the heat."
"Whatever!" she said. "I'm not ashamed to admit I prefer the cold." She continued to run the ice up and down her arms until it had melted. "If you're not going to do yourself, will you do my back then?" she asked.
I agreed, and Michelle moved over and sat between my legs. She leaned forward and pulled her long, blonde hair up, exposing her neck. I took another piece of ice and placed it on her shoulder. She moaned like a porn star in response.
"Oh, that feels sooooooooo good!"
I suddenly felt a little awkward, but I didn't want her to know, so I continued with the ice. I slid it along her shoulder, and then down the back of her neck. She moaned again, then untucked her little black tank top from her red plaid skirt and lifted it a bit.
"Do me here," she said, pointing at her lower back.
