Scrapboo

Sasha. Sasha of the exotic name and vanilla sex. Missionary position or doggy, if she was drunk. I remember when I tried to put her legs over my shoulders, she told me “That feels too vulnerable.” Yeah, that’s kind of the point, Sasha. I want you vulnerable. I want me vulnerable. I want us vulnerable to pleasure and pain and giving and taking. I want you vulnerable to feeling helpless under me. I want to be vulnerable in prostration before you, worshipping your pussy like a man taking communion.

If she’d heard me comparing eating her out (she wasn’t too vanilla for THAT, by the way) to a holy service, she would have gotten on her soapbox. That or one of her icy silences. She’d tilt her head back and bore those big, brown eyes into my skull like I’d just shit on her grandmother’s back.

Those eyes. God, Sasha of the bottomless eyes. Sasha of the perfect breasts and skier’s thighs. Why did she have to be so damn beautiful? I was always pulled back in by glimpses of her siren’s body. One look in the shower at water running across her hipbones, down to the funnel of her groin, clinging to the contours of her legs, and the previous night’s solid but predictable sex was forgotten. My attention was focused like a laser in my growing erection.

Laura always appreciated that, the spontaneous erection. She said it was like a surprise party. Laura was always surprised at how easily I’d spring to attention. Watching her eat ice cream, a white streak of butter pecan dripping down her small chin, I’d grow hard and she’d catch the heat in my eyes. Or watching her whisk batter for a cake. The short, powerful circles of her arm would send seismic shocks through her torso, her hips and ass jiggling, a hypnotist’s watch. Bless you, Laura, for baking in your panties and my shirt. Bless you.

Laura hungered. Laura lusted. I thought I knew what that word meant before Laura – lust. I was wrong. Lust was Laura. She would growl and scratch when we fucked, raking her nails down my arched back, her hips rising to meet each thrust, the soles of her feet and her upper back the only anchors for the bridge of her body. When she came, Laura cried out as if I was burning her; long, throaty yells that sometimes choked scarily in the back of her throat, her body straining itself mute with pleasure. It frightened me sometimes.

Sometimes, but certainly not that once in her office. We were just meeting for lunch. An hour and a half later, we hadn’t had a single bite of food. Well, unless you count the blood Laura had drawn from my shoulder. She met me in her conservative business suit, the picture of the good worker. The small Methodist college she worked for had a staid image and she did her best to play along. Were her co-workers blind? Anyone could see what smoldered behind her glasses, the delicious, obscene way her fingers trailed over things she found beautiful.

But they didn’t see. And they didn’t see us that day, on her couch. Laura’s hose were a messy knot on the floor, her dress hiked above her waist as she straddled me on her office couch. I’d barely had time to kick my shoes off before she had my pants around my knees, my cock in her hand and then inside her. She lifted above me and down, up and down, fingers laced behind my neck, her body gripping me in a soaking, velvet vise, and she snarled. Snarled! Have you ever heard tigers fucking on a nature documentary? I miss Laura.

I don’t miss Tina, despite her talents and appetites. Tina was crazy. Correction – Tina was shitbird insane. But dear god, Tina could fuck. She was wild in bed. Not animal wild, but frenetic and delirious. Positions changed like flipbook animations with Tina. Missionary, high-and-tight, doggy, her feet behind my ears, her on her stomach and me on top of her, our bodies touching at a hundred different places while I hooked my feet along her ankles and thrust deep from behind, her full ass cushioning each stroke.

But she liked one position best of all. We never had a name for it. The Snow Shovel? The Bobsled? Too silly. But Tina loved to lie on her back while I knelt between her thighs, upright, and entered her. I’d hold her hips, nice petite Tina, off the bed in my hands and pull her into me and me into her. Leaning back, the shaft of my cock would press insistently against her G-spot. In and her lips would curl inwards, the pressure on her inner wall short and ferocious, then out and her lips would hug me, opening again. I’d hold her hips in my hands and thrust with everything I had until there was no in and there was no out, only the constant, wet friction against her G-spot and my stomach tensed against the weight and against the pleasure, because this position made me come so fast. Hold on, hold on, hold on for Tina, hold on…..GOD! It wasn’t always perfect, but it often was and we could come together, waking the neighbors with her back arching so far I was afraid she’d snap in half.

I don’t miss Tina, but I miss parts of her. I miss parts of all of them. Parts of their bodies, parts of their words. I miss parts of when our bodies met and sometimes even our hearts. I miss that joining where each girl’s pussy took a different shape around my cock, those beautiful sculptures in flesh like a fingerprint, each one different, each one unique in some way. I miss their voices, husky with spent or rebuilding desire.

Will there ever be one I’ll miss completely? And that will be the irony, won’t it? I’ll miss all of her and then I’ll know, after she’s gone, that I do and that she is gone. Maybe she won’t go. They don’t always have to go, do they?