Dancing with Ian

Note: for those of you reading this for its erotic value, be warned--it's at least as much psychology. It's all mind-fuck baby, yeah.

*****

Likely as not my life is only about one-third lived, but there are times, a lot of them lately, that I feel so old. My body used to be beautiful--strong and lithe enough to do some meaningful squirming on the dance floor. It's been battered now, shows scars of birthing children, effects of years of mental torture by my chosen mate, and corresponding years and beyond of the resulting eating disorder. By the time I quit puking about everything, I didn't know how to quit eating. I still don't. Food was really my only creature comfort, for a long time; that and memories of my other former companion, sex, which is of course out of the question now. If men really do think with their penises, since when did penises grow eyes? But that's another story.

By the time I was 21 I'd already acquired as many lovers as I'd ever have, minus one. I was rather proud of my record at the time, before I'd really had it pounded into me that men prefer virgins. Even though I'd been brought up being told "nice girls don't," I always figured nice girls were boring and what a man really wanted was someone to could fuck his brains out. That's certainly what I wanted. That, and someone who could fuck with my brain. Not in the way that people mess with each other these days, out of spite or boredom. I wanted to connect.

It's too damn bad I wasn't born a lesbian. I've had a few women friends with whom there an honest meeting of the minds. As for the men, I seemed to gravitate to ones who KNEW they were better than me. There was one who wouldn't touch me with anything except his foot, although he did tie me up once (for an art project). One married me for the opportunity to prove his superiority to himself. Then there was Ian, who was never that way. Maybe I can be with him again, in words, like those in the song that we danced to so many times, right here, right now.

It was during the summer, not surprising because it seems my sap runs the highest in summer. We were both 21. Young and dumb and full of cum, as the saying goes, thinking we'd arrived because we could drink legally in public. He was still in college; me, a drop-out. Met him at work, too, another no-no...but who cared? I'd half-assedly been eying him and chatting him up for a few weeks when I, always the aggressor, invited him to what we all considered neutral ground--girls' night out. As in, one guy and six chicks at the local heavy-metal watering hole. You can't say he wasn't brave. Maybe he was flattered, or looking for an opportunity to prove himself. After all, would anyone as obviously intelligent, well-mannered, soft-spoken, and to be honest, rather androgynous as he be straight? Nobody at work could figure it out. Unlikely, but I had to find out for myself.

Whatever the case, talking to him a few times proved that we thought similarly. He was perceptive and sensitive. And nice, another rarity. He wrote; I wrote. To make a long story short, he was. Straight, I mean. I think. I still don't know for sure. In a way, it always felt unfinished. The problem was, I thought we were perfect together, but I was too scared to tell him. With good reason.

Basically, ignoring all of "the rules" about (not) being a player before that term was ever coined, I was shackled mentally and soon to be more tangibly to someone else, who was looking for surcease of his own pain. Naively, I thought I could help this second man, but rather I became his bane. It brought out the worst in us. I was going down. In flames. I saw it coming like a fist to the jaw, but couldn't remove myself. Instead, every couple of days I disappeared down the road to Ian's place, to escape for a few hours at a time. In the calm before the storm, Ian and I danced around our issues and sought each other on a plane altogether removed from reality. So for maybe a total of two, two-and-a-half months: Idyllic, sweet, sexual-par-non, and then gone. It became a piece of personal memorobilia that nagged at me for years.

I've sneaked bits of it into my work over the years. Once I got caught blatantly writing about it which provoked my by-then husband to have a fling in a fit of rage. Later, I'd use the memories to get me through endless days of being a stay-at-home mom....

So are we writing psychology or erotica here? I don't know; a little of both? It has to be to do anything for your mind, not to mention your not-so-cerebral parts. And he did. So let me tell you the short story of how we got together, before we really had to think about what we were doing. Cue the music, probably "Enter Sandman" by Metallica. Is this romantic? Hell, no. I thought I was after hot sex. The rest was subconscious at the time. I'll have another double screwdriver--gasoline with a splash of sour rinds in that joint--and le's (sic) dance.

That particular night, Ian's black shoulder-length hair hung down in his face, not clubbed back like at work, and he hadn't shaven. 'So, the cherub gets dirty,' I thought. I was wearing my old stand-by, a black silk tank dress hiked up as far as I dared, black ankle boots, and a smear of black kohl around my eyes. He had on a tee-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and black denim bib overalls (z. cavaricci, very 'in' at the time) with one strap deliberately left undone. He didn't fit in with the Levi's-and-leather crowd, this new-waver. I didn't give a shit--that would make it more interesting. Six women surrounded him and he danced with us all, one at a time. The regulars at the bar knew me as a hot dancer . I made Ian watch me, too, with whoever asked. It was all very laid-back but with an edge, buying rounds, bitching about work, drinking stories, the usual. Another of my favorites got played, probably "Hard to Handle" or "What I Like About You" --something with a fast beat--and off we went again, down to the main floor. Even his dancing was unique. He kept his head down and his feet moving in some kind of internal abbreviated fly-boy groove.

Unable to help it, I was analyzing what he'd be like in bed; you can always tell by how a person dances. This one would be delicate, painstaking in his technique, and incredibly imaginative. After a few minutes he started sneaking looks at me from under his heavily fringed lids. I pretended not to notice, concentrating on my presentation. My moves combined force with fluid. No one knew if I was doing aerobics or about to break into a strip tease. My long blond hair made a good accessory to toss around too, or to head-bang with and I used it my advantage.

The next song was a semi-slow number, "Sweet Emotion." Grabbing his arm, something real intelligent was said like, "How 'bout it, huh?" He weighed the possibilities in his mind as "Yes No Yes No Wanna Better not I don't know" ran across his face, then smiling he stepped up to me. He wasn't that tall, not particularly built, and there was that ongoing question as to his orientation, but he felt and smelled like "man" to me. By the end of the song we had wordlessly determined it was mutual, the way humans do with their eyes and gestures. Or maybe it was the dirty dancing. With hands around each other waists, hips pushed together, I straddled his leg and we circled our bodies around each other's toward the floor, and back up. Just like in that fucking movie, you know which one I mean. We seemed to have each other's rhythm memorized immediately. By then I was half drunk, in a euphoric, flying kind of way. Just seeing Ian think it over and come on to me in the same way was enough to get me wasted. After a while I let him get back to making his rounds at our table, but we both knew it was pretense from then on. The rest of the evening till last call went much the same, the other girls and I taking turns dancing with him and making conversation, there in the smoke with the colored gel-spots fairy-dusting the vibe and the suggestive laughter.

Several hours later, as the sky started to lighten, the vodka had worn off. I'd spent the whole time sitting on Ian's kitchen floor, picking his brain. Let's not forget I wanted to find something more, besides various body parts. Ok, fine. It was all foreplay, and Ian played very well. Almost too well. I was starting to wonder what was wrong. The gay thing he'd laughingly denied; apparently it wasn't the first time the suggestion had been made.

I couldn't stop staring; this man-child of cutting wit and guarded demeanor had me so jazzed and turned on, maybe through no fault of his own. While dancing, I'd felt enough of his compact body against my own that I knew I wanted more of it. The proverbial anticipation was killing me, but I gave it time, threw more words between us, all the time getting wet imagining his midnight blue eyes and his cock piercing me. Finally some kind of impasse was reached where all that needed to be said was said; there remained nothing verbal.

Shifting to my knees, I pinned him with my own emerald-and-turquoise eyes, watching his face as I crawled across the eight feet of floor between us. He didn't move, except for his expression again. This time his guard dropped enough for me to see the animal creeping out from under the civilized effigy of "Ian, theatre arts/creative-writing major." Holy shit, he was as hot for it as me. But the drawn-out pace of the evening had caught us; it was not going to be over in five minutes. I reached him, face first so to speak, and we touched lips, brushed, flicked, tasted. The sharp, tangy taste of gin and tonic was still on his tongue as he pulled me astride his lap and tickled my bare arms and legs slowly. I buried both hands in that thick black hair, yanked his head back and took tiny licks and bites along the tendons in his neck up to his ears. He gave as good as he got. My whole body broke out in gooseflesh as he sucked on my earlobes, feathering his breath all over the wetness his tongue left in it's wake. His hands had found the black silk panties under my skirt and teased my ass through them till I was squirming and breathing like I'd just run miles. Our bodies fit together perfectly, same proportions and degree of slenderness, even fully clothed. That in itself lent to the ambiance. So did the way he'd flash his smile appreciatively, then get all serious in the next second as he touched a new part of me or I of him.

I needed skin, unhooked his one errant suspender and pulled his shirt over his head, then shucked my crumpled dress. In those days I got by without a bra; my hard pink nipples demanded his attention immediately. Ian's skilled fingers stroked, outlined, cupped my aching little breasts, flicking and pulling at the tips. I ground my pubic bone against his straining cock and explored the play of the flat hard muscles of his arms and back. I also worked open the three buttons on each side of his waist and reached around lower to squeeze his tight round butt, at which point he caught my eyes again, wordlessly.

He was still trying to keep a hold on himself, as I was, but more for his sake and curiosity than anything. Leaning forward, letting my breasts nudge at his chest hair, I went back to just kissing him. He was better at all of this than anyone his age had a right to be; I badly wanted the rest of what he had. I pulled my attentions into my eyes, kept them open as he did, running my fingers through his hair and up and down his spine.

His arms tightened around me again, this time leaning, till he had laid me out on my back. Half covering me, he hooked one leg over one of mine and pulled it to the side. His hand dove down the front of my drenched underwear, one finger finding my clit, whose over-excited nerve endings screamed in appreciation. Another slid into my cream, to the knuckle, and I began to grind, pushing my hips up to meet Ian's hand. His other arm, which he was propped up on, cradled my head.

Our eyes were wide open; it seemed important to observe every nuance of this. I licked my palm generously, snaking my hand through his remaining clothes to his groin. He was throbbing hard already; his erection seemed to jump into my fist. I jacked him slowly, following some exquisite rhythm I'd never known existed, which he was leading with his fingers in my hot box. Rather than rolling back in his head, his eyes stayed locked on mine, darkening to almost black. His eyelids half-masted. His smoldering expression started me moaning and involuntarily tightening both my grip on his cock and on my pussy muscles. He bucked two or three times into my hand, then froze, hissed in his breath, and, bending down, fiercely sucked on my neck. I had to have him on me, the weight, the pressure. Extricating myself from my underwear, I started to shove his clothes off. Then we had to laugh--he still had shoes on. The minute it took for him to get naked and roll on one ribbed, lubricated condom was damn near endless.

"Where was I?" he murmured as I pulled him down. Ian teased me, kissing me gently, the head of his cock sliding into my slot. He poised above me, motionless, while I responded to his mouth. Everything intertwined, our tongues, our fingers, our legs. Liking as always the idea of being restrained, I let him hold my hands down over my head. My legs wrapped tighter around his waist. He looked down at me, achingly, asked "Ready?" wordlessly. Yes.

Ian plunged, rammed me full of his thick cock. I yelped. His rock-hard tool stretched me wide and it nearly hurt. Deliciously. With his semi-long hair hanging down around our faces, Ian plowed into me roughly, the ferocity such a contrast from his usual considerate self. Fucking made him aggressive, heated. Something he kept locked up most of the time was out of its cage. His restraint dropped away as we egged each other on in an erotic staring contest. While he was pretty quiet, just breathing heavily, I moaned, sighed and whispered nasty compliments.

Sweat dripped off his forehead and the end of his nose. The salt drops rained down on me. Everything in me was rising; I was dying to get off and come all over him and told him so. I wanted to feel him come, too, to watch him do it, to release himself into me. He gradually lengthened his strokes and tightened his grip on my shoulders.

As for me, my impending orgasm was dizzying and steadying at the same time. I gave instinct free rein and let my lower body twist and arch and rub it's clit on him. It almost caught me unawares-- one second climbing, the next falling. My insides clenched, iron then water, while a hot tide spread from my clit to my core and roared up through my belly to now over-sensitive nipples. I growled and snarled and mewed. Ian studied me; he couldn't seem to decide if this was silly or sexy, but after his penis got a ride like that, it was demonstrating it's own mind. He pushed for his own cum, literally. I opened my legs wide, wanting him further inside. He banged hard against my cervix, shoving his ribbed meat in and out of me so forcefully I knew I was going to cum again. Soon. But him first. His pupils dilated so far I couldn't see the irises, and they glazed over as Ian finally let go, gasped twice, and unloaded what must have been a healthy measure of semen. His cock spasmed and twitched powerfully half a dozen times. It jumped inside me as he ground deeper into my pussy. I went over the top again, more quietly this time, squeezing my eyelids shut, seeing little dancing sparks. He released his hold and rested full-length on top of me as we caught our breath, kissing and touching each other lightly.

The connection between us felt stronger. The idea of having to go back to just talking seemed strange. Ian looked down at me and remarked, "You have beautiful orgasms." For the time being, that was a good enough place to start.