*Hey, if you're a new reader of my stories, I write about my own sexual experiences down to the last detail for my reader's enjoyment. I have recently been writing about my past experiences but thought I would write about my current, ongoing experience with you.
At the beginning of this year, I decided to take a hiatus from sex for the whole year. I've had a LOT of sexual experiences and I just wanted to take a break to write about them all and reflect on what I wanted from life (men/women I get myself involved with tend to become a distraction)
But ever since I made this decision, I have never had so many offers come my way! I have remained stalwart and ignored/ batted away them all. I was feeling quite proud of myself for my willpower. I managed to get nearly to the end of January before I came across the sexiest black man I have ever laid eyes on and my self-imposed sex ban went out of the window.
I'm still seeing this guy and we haven't had sex yet but I decided to write about what we have done and how we met. I'll keep you updated on our encounters, of which I anticipate there will be plenty more. If you love interracial sex then this will get your juices going!*
'Backseat black on white encounter'
I'd always hated how pale I was, whenever the sun came out I'd go lobster red and straight back to the whitest shade of white there could be. I went abroad regularly as a child and people would joke at school when I returned that I hadn't been on holiday at all. No tan means you're a liar when you're in primary school.
Bloody Irish genes, that's what I've always blamed it on. My dad's family were all Irish with red hair and freckles. The ginger gene skipped me, which I must say I am thankful for but I did get the pale skin and freckles, with a rather boring shade of mousy brown which I bleach the shit out of. So all in all, I was a solid 7 out of 10 with blonde hair and freckles I usually smothered over with makeup.
I don't know why but black men are drawn to me like a magnet. We all know the stereotype, that black men love a plus-size, pretty, white girl. Well, I'm about 5'4, slim and petite and not particularly pretty, I'm average at best. So yes, I call BS to this particular stereotype.
Thankfully, I love black men, so this works out pretty well for me. Well, I love all men but there's something about black skin that gets me snowy pussy sticky and dewy. I'm not talking about mixed guys, although I don't mind them, I'm talking about black men, particularly African men.
Even writing this is doing things to me.
The first time I met him, he was at the pool where I was having a swim trying to get fit. I'd had a bit of a shit time and had been comfort-eating. He was with a client (it appeared he was a care worker) and he was in his swimming trunks. Around 6'2 and broad-shouldered with a dad bod, he was around 40. He had this air about him, confident, almost arrogant, which was so sexy to me.
And oh my, he had a thick gold chain dangling on his neck, pressed against his black skin which glistened with water, it was insanely provocative to my pussy. The dick print was giving average size but kind of girthy, my favourite. His fro was natural, combed through nicely and he had these beautiful, big lips. Distracted, I started imagining what those lips could do to my rosy pink clit tucked in my shaven, ivory pussy.
I had to have him.
I lifted myself onto the poolside, my manicured toes swishing in the water, watching him from a distance. Before long, his gaze drifted over to me and he did a double take. Catching me staring, he grinned and averted his eyes back to his client who was in the pool. Twice more he glanced over to see if I was still sitting there, still looking, he was definitely interested. The adrenaline of a new chase, after a month of no physical contact and the excitement of male attention after a month of avoiding it pumped through my veins.
I'd bought myself a new swimsuit as the one I'd last used was far too small and revealing for my now almost forty-year-old body. This black, wet-look swimsuit complimented me well. It sucked my tummy in and the neckline plunged just enough to reveal my more than ample cleavage, my nipples cold and hard, jutting to attention against the wet, clinging fabric.
I loitered in the reception of the leisure centre like a stalker, waiting for him to walk past. I had already scoped the other possible exits and had figured out that he would have to walk past me to leave. Crazy, I know but when I want to fuck a guy, there are no lengths I will not go to. I didn't have to wait long, as he walked toward me with his client and a couple of others, who I guessed were his colleagues and their respective clients.
I must admit, I had no idea how I was going to get his number, despite having been sat there for ten minutes combing through my wet hair trying to figure it out. My legs took over in the end and I ended up just walking straight up to him and obstructing his path like a complete lunatic. My mouth didn't know what to do though and he just stared at me, looking somewhat amused.
'Can I help you?' He asked, smiling at me, quickly looking me up and down.
'I want you. Your number, that is, can I have it?' I fumbled, the words tumbling out of my mouth without any of the sexiness I had hoped that they'd carry.
He held up his hand to show me a gold band on his ring finger and I felt the heat flush to my face. Fuck. Why hadn't I clocked that? And why was I still standing there, completely immobilised in his presence, and how had I read the signs wrong? Why the fuck had he given me signals of being interested?
'Sorry.' He shrugged, with a smile and walked past me, his colleagues close behind, who were blatantly trying not to look at me.
What the fuck? Did I just get rejected?