Was there a reason to why we did call him that? Crazyface? Was that it!? Omg that's why we called him? Why? 'cause I called him that to you. That sucks clit, basically. Didn't--did we call him that more than his name? What was his name? How do I know proper? We really did pick up Crazyface, and left his Christian name in the dirt to die. We know you did. We know I did. Don't lie. There are other ways...
"Get out of there," and after she said that, he was going to fuck her again.
It was just really good. Pathetically bad, actually, but sarcastic text is, at times, difficult to read. It had been a relationship, a couple to few months in the making, made something else after two more people, ugh. It was a one-night stand in the magical, jungle heat of humid, flowing river. Convinced she belonged elsewhere in the country outside of base, Miss Cum Laude was home from visiting her little family of mostly women from where she stayed some 10 counties away, distant enough to make her spine believe with confidence she had went far for a payoff, and this was true to the extent of her efforts. It was nicer affording trips across a horizontal plane, as opposed to a set of stairs. If you look at it that way.
Men couldn't keep up with her. She was learning too fast. 27... 28, actually. Even she couldn't keep up. Either.
Time flew by so stupid fast that the thoughts caught up to her slower of how badly she missed hanging out with so-called friends, eating popcorn or holding controllers, and the disrespect and the lack of communication most of all, and talking about it the least... naturally. She wouldn't tempt fate with neglecting the past, but pushing past emotion into a solid state of what now? was a game of life with herself at this age that an out via degree could afford her.
There was nothing to do seemingly during a hiatus in financial mobility at her job; but being good at nothing ie. doing nothing was a good skill to have while laying low in a land of academics. Thoughtfully it crossed her mind of that morose winter semester because a storm had exempt, or thunder-struck, whimsically in hindsight, an interesting author from a lit course she was taking beginning-curriculum. She had been dreaming about smoking pot in the oak canopy beside the science building double doors. Looking into the adjacent classroom windows at college and seeing someone in there she liked. She dreamed at their collared shirts and the shine left in her eyes by the monogrammed jockeys on men's breast pockets. When she slept with a real person, she slept with nine random fantasies from a sunken lover's earth.
Once she put her tits out of the driver's side car window of her Toyota during a muddy outdoor concert. Possibly, she wasn't aware of how the weather normally was compared to dryer parts of her state. Maybe, the rain was a mirror of lust the year that followed the flub of all snowdays. You'd have to ask. Possibly, it was wet for all the right reasons. The man the student was to date looked like he was from Puddle of Mudd, no strings attached. He was pale like buttermilk or a breezeblock aside from a favorably white landscaping project. Cream anointed and mixed by hand, small, yellow blossoms with avocado-level insistence. Oil from a lonely Mediterranean gene or two spoke his smooth lips which reminded her of strawberry cake her teacher made with Fanta and served the whole class once. The day they met, condensation so pluming with bravery around them under a devilish drizzle, the sun overwatching jealously through layers and layers of heavy, clotted cloud. Breathing normally was a feat much alike respiring through thirty wet rolls of chiffon at the same time, duel lungfuls of marihuana smoke re-hosing you on the upswing. A cake of scratchy, resilient, lumpy, sopping fabric steaming above body temperature... suffocation, the loneliest number: 98 spelled out in green on the outside of a remote bank somewhere still downtown where everything seemed less ridiculous and yet physically dryer... and people kissing.
He did shots out of her belly button until they said goodbye, rolling her shirt down over her breasts, his hands with the dark fine knuckled hair pulling on her flesh babyishly. A toss up that was correct: he was by fact a year younger... but it was getting late to tell, really, or recall after this aforementioned "fact."His given name started with a Ch-, but it wasn't Christian; a joke between majors both times she mentioned this during a quiz on etymology with the TA and later sometime during a final she took in an elective course about Anti-Baptism. She sent him photographs on her phone of her face in the dorm restroom before pregaming coffee for her earliest classes. Her other face showed some time in the future the same way, via text message, dinging and rambling with alarm the numbers of graphic footage of her anus, post mention of "mandatory emergency sex discussion" that took place rather nonchalantly between them as a noble first, in spite of her active display of concern at the date. But it was imperative they get back to his loft before the RA clocked on duty that night, obviously, was the right and utmost imperative call here. The football game running late when the score couldn't be blamed for tensions being high was just one reason out of many (not orchestrated at all--true love... excuse--luck, that's all!) It just wasn't that close for it being overtime, and the ref was losing his mind before the last quarter was going to hell for the losing colors anyway... Downhill was on point way before the flag was passed to the lady for her to make way for own nurturing instinct that needed a baton to light the way to nurturing. Anyway. Whether the team won or not, hearts were wild. Only an on-the-spot breakup or getting... very randomly, at this point, but still possible... "ghosted" would save this asshole's virginity. Nothing did, save it anyhow. Or the inevitability of a home victory at 12-13. Before his very mother's gift to him faded from his first anal lover's memory, all letters mostly from his name, he felt a sickening pride that he be the first to fuck it, and he gave it a kiss.
The thought he would stay as sweet as brown sugar wasn't a question had a group sex situation not come up with him and who she was led to believe was his biological brother and his girlfriend after having excessively drank their weight on and off for days on the Tennessee River that Summer Break. The girlfriend needed to drink more water, but other than that, she was fine with eating her pussy until her boyfriend came. She remembered his hand, cocksweat all over it, pulling her face out of his girlfriend's ass so the drunk guy she was with could tell her, "open your mouth, open your mouth." She could see past the tears the head of the other guy's penis secrete heavily, furious and tasting better and sweeter and so plentifully... it was a surreal and very tangible memory, and she latched onto the pattern of this for a while. He pumped his cock so her mouth could sewer his cum...
"Swallow and let's see you fuck her pussy again with your face."
