I knew that Salinger wanted me to take the sexual lead more often; to be more creative, more aggressive. But I also knew that when I was he would usually pull back; mixed signals that infuriated me. I would get turned on, get inspired, try to execute that inspiration on Salinger; only to have him pull back on me, leaving me feeling rejected and downright shitty. Eventually, after much observation, I had an epiphany: Men needed to be treated like woman.
This realization came after we got carried away on the famous Vienna Ferris wheel. We were both as turned on as jackrabbits on heat after having just explored one of those very European railway station adult shops. So when we found ourselves alone at dusk half way up the Vienna skyline in one of the little gondolas of the Ferris wheel we could not help ourselves. A single touch quickly lead to our hands reaching for each other, then a hot embrace as I moved to straddle Salinger's lap on the padded bench seat and leant forward to thrust my tongue inside him.
The wheel's halting journey ensured we had some time as those cabins reaching the ground where slowly emptied and filled; time to really get each other going. So when his hands began to move up under my blouse I felt my breasts craving his touch. Looking over Salinger's shoulder I noticed that the city lights now coming on where reflecting off the windows of the cabins in front of and behind us in such a way as to make it almost impossible to see inside the darker cabins.
Perfect
, I thought, as I reached down and pulled my tight top above my breasts then lent forward to place first one then the other of my aching nipples between his hungry lips. From that position it was only natural that his hands found their way around my buttocks and up under my skirt; only natural that my knickers get dropped, that his fingers slid up into me, that his cock came out, and that my craving wet pussy pull me down to be filled by it.
Oh, but that always felt so good; the first rush of being filled. Then the feeling of wetness growing in his lap while I rubbed myself down onto him as we rose ever higher over the rooftops of Vienna to meet again the setting sun that turned the sky to fire all around us.
It was when we had almost reached the apex of our journey, the point where we would draw level with the gondola ahead of us, the point that Salinger whispered, 'We are being watched.'
I spun my head around to see a couple staring slightly down at us from behind their pain of glass - now close enough and level enough that the reflection of the lights no longer rendered us invisible. She was opened mouthed and frozen in disbelief. I immediately moved to pull out and cover up, but Salinger held me tight.
'Wait,' he said, as he began to move again inside me, small movements of his hips. 'They're enjoying it.'
The wheel stopped again, the gondolas rocking us on their hinges.
'Look,' said Salinger.
I turned around slowly again. The guy's arm was wrapped around her waist, but with his hand pressed down over her mound and his fingers moving in small circles. Her open mouth now only partially shocked. I smiled at them, then turned back to Salinger to renew my pleasure at working Salinger's cock inside me; our heightened arousal leaving no doubt that we both possessed an exhibitionist streak.
Looking forward again over Salinger's shoulder I checked the other gondola following us. It was still slightly below us, and from the three sets of feet I could see that the occupants were all focused on the view out the far side. But would they turn around to look the other way once they got on top?
Shit
, I thought, while deep within me my sex organs convulsed in pleasure at the same thought.
Behind me Salinger's hands were working my ass, slowly rising up. I felt the air's coolth caress the fluids leaking from my snatch and then cool further up as my skirt was pushed ever higher, exposing us fully to our audience.
One of Salinger's hands suddenly left my cheek, lowering my skirt.
'Oh no, you don't!' he said.
'What?' I asked, as his hand returned.
'Oh, not you. The dude was just raising his phone to take a photo. But he's put it away.'
'We could have been famous,' I laughed.
'Not on my bucket list,' said Salinger. 'But this certainly is ...' as he flipped my skirt all the way onto my back and gave my rump a good slap.
With the little interruption now over we could get back to taking the pleasure we all craved, and we did so with gusto. Salinger devouring each of my breasts in turn while rhythmically pulling my ass hard against him with both hands while I worked his erection with my pussy like a fighter pilot working his joystick in a dogfight.
I glanced around to see that our budding paparazzi had lifted the front of his lady's little black dress enough to slip his hand deep inside her red lace panties - cute. Her pleasure obvious in the way she had interlaced her fingers of her left hand with those of his other hand that was busy kneading her breasts. Her right hand was pushed palm out hard against the glass in front of her. Her beautiful face slightly blurred by the ring of condensation pulsing amoeba like on the glass only inches in front of her with her every breath.
He was pushing hard against her. I imagined her pleasure of feeling his hard cock rubbing between her buttock cheeks.
Will she take it out?
I hoped, as I felt Salinger's rhythm begin to break.
He was getting close. I loved feeling him loose control, feeling his suffering agony. His orgasms usually so intense that he would desperately try to grab me tight to prevent my further movement; his pleasure too much to bare. I, of course, would fight him every inch, try to grind him even harder, especially when, like now, he had not yet made me cum.
But there it was, his final shudder, that warm gush of his million little sperm cells rocket-launched deep inside me. God that felt good! Not only the sex, or the conquest, or the power that I had over him, or any man, in that moment, but something primal in my womb wanting every one of those little frantic flapping fuckers sucked high up into me. A feeling that reached its peak during my ovulation, to the point that I felt a little sadness for every drop that leaked out. At other times I could give myself the pleasure of kneeling over his face and watch his mixture of pleasure and revulsion as his own creamy-white pussy-warmed sperm dripped out of me onto his face, onto his tight clenched lips. But not during ovulation, no way, then every drop was mine!
Though not today. Today I could enjoy the feeling of his sperm and my pussy juice cool as they leaked passed my swollen petals down onto his already shrinking dick. We really were giving our audience a good show! But not being done yet and still as horny as hell I lifted my hips up to offer my craving pussy to Salinger's face, praying he had it in him, knowing it would not take much of his expert tongue to finish me off.
But then the carriage jerked and we began to move again. And in that instance the Sex God to whom I had offered my lotus offering was gone, replaced by a mere mortal man of shame and fear and guilt. He began to cover me up, to look guiltily over his shoulder.
'Don't stop!' I cried. 'Don't worry, I'll warn you if the others turn around.'
He did try a few more feeble licks, I'll give him that, but it was no use, his energy was gone. The moment I paused he squirmed to get out from under me, while trying to simultaneously wipe his face, smooth my skirt over my rump and pull his own pants back up. Actions that suddenly just made me feel really shitty, rejected, used.
The sad feelings did not last long. Salinger is a sweetheart and by the time the wheel had moved us halfway down the other side we were sitting demurely in each other's arms on a still dry part of the bench, holding hands, watching the night time persona of old Vienna come to life around us. We even laughed at the fickle nature of human desire; as Salinger said: 'Us men like to bitch about woman being "hormonal", but Christ, have we not looked at ourselves? When I am horny,' he continued, 'I have the courage of a despot in his harem. I can service you any place and anytime. But the moment my balls are emptied a switch is flicked and I suddenly feel shocked at the position I find myself in. The contrast is so powerful; it is like we are possessed. I do not even know that person, that Casanova.'
'Are you regretting it?' I said, suddenly feeling a little hurt again.
'No!' He said. 'Not at all. Not now, a few minutes later with my pants back on. Now my ego gladly claims ownership of that moment and feels proud. But in those few moments directly after exploding, when, back home in the safety of our bed I would be floating half asleep in post-coital bliss, when my dick has switched off and is passing control back to my head, then my mind, my normal timid mind, looks at what has been done it its name, the carnal carnage that has been wrought, and shudders in horror as it frantically kicks into damage control.'
'So men really do think with their dicks?'
'Oh, leading up to that moment, God yes! I totally get how preachers caught with an altar boy or two under their robes would claim that they had been possessed. It really feels like that.'
'So, would you rather we don't get naughty on Ferris Wheels?' I asked.
'Not at all! Bring on the Ferris Wheels. As I said, firstly it does not take long before our ego then kicks in and gladly claims that moment to make me feel proud of it, and then, short of chopping my nuts off, we can always count on my hormones to quickly start flowing again.'
'For your little devil to possess you again?' I said, laughing.
'Or you!' he replied, placing his hand over my mound.
It was then, while thinking back over past lovers, that I had my Eureka moment: I realized that they were all the same; raging bulls when their testosterone was flowing - when they had "balls" - and pussies the moment their nuts disengaged and the testosterone stopped. This was never more obvious than during their post-ejaculation slump, but could be in effect at any time. Come on to men when they are "hot" and you can literally grab them by the balls; do the same when they are not, and you will be reeling from the rejection for a week! Exactly like woman.
And their balls could be such grouchy little beasts when asleep and guarded by that timid, logical mind of theirs,
I thought, chuckling to myself.
The question was how could we get through to that little dick brain when we needed it; without facing cataclysmic rejection; and not just by waiting around for the damn thing to finally wake up? Did our sex lives really depend on the chance random coming together of our respective horniness cycles, and at times that did not also clash with our overscheduled lives?
The problem haunted me. I now thought about it constantly; bitched about it to all my friends. It was while doing so to Brad and a small gaggle of his gay entourage that he handed me the answer on a platter. 'Oh deary,' he said in his excruciatingly strong and masculine Australian accent, 'You said it yourself; we're all pussies. Even the toughest heterosexual jock is, without his dick, a timid little princess screaming to be swept off his feet.'
