Friday, August 16, 2013

On Letting Him Come Over To My Place

Chivas and condoms: After

It was like fucking Manuel Ferrara. Not that I've fucked Manuel Ferrara but I've watched enough of his movies and have been left exhausted by own French Manu in the past to get a pretty good idea what it'd be like.

While I was on top of my Italiano-Portoghese boy toy he held onto my breasts like handlebars. And the eye contact was the most intense I've had in a long time. I was afraid to blink! When he felt my body close around him he pulled me down on top of him and I was on the receiving end of those forceful upward thrusts I'm a sucker for. MS MR sang Bones while we boned.

I'd recently moved and things were no where near as clean and orderly as I'd like them. Nothing had truly found its place yet. Including myself. Gone are the days of hosting in my two-bedroom apartment. He was free that afternoon and I was free to fuck but my initial response was to pass.

How could I let him see where I live in the state it was in? I was sure we'd get another chance to hook up so I was willing to make Kitty wait another day before experiencing what my mouth already had. He wasn't willing to wait. He didn't care how messy my place was; I'd be there so that's what was important. The logic of man. I love it.

And it was a case of my getting used to my new circumstances that I hadn't settled into yet. This was the first time in a long time I had any reason to change my sheets for a visitor. This visitor came packaged like one of my fantasies: European, total eye candy, sensual, worldly, educated, witty, available and totally attracted to me. Would he still be attracted to me after coming over? The tiny OCD part of me was still on and I did what little tidying I could before I gave myself a talking to: There's no where else to put these things. He's coming here for you, not for your room. Make sure the wipes are within reach.

I let go of my pride and let him come over that afternoon. I teased that he was making a house call since he was still in his scrubs. My nipples, his favorite part of my body, were saluting him before we even made it back upstairs to the apartment.

He opened the bottle of Chivas he bought and took a swig. He offered it to me but I declined. "Just keep it here for next time," he said handing it to me. There'd be a next time? Today hadn't even happened, how was he so sure he'd back? Hush! Or what if things were still the same the next time he came over? He'd judge me on my lack of progress, I'm sure of it. Hush!

I placed his bottle next to the moonshine and brandy I was hoarding while he got undressed. He climbed onto my bed. His comfort in my space was miles past my own. I took my clothes off and he studied me, his hands behind his head, with an accented, "Perfect."

I let him see me and my mess in all it's splendor.

I've hooked up in my fair share of less-than-standard bedrooms, living rooms and bathrooms and I didn't dwell on them at the time. I was focused on the guy, not the environment. I was being way too hard on myself. I also wasn't giving him enough credit; there was an assumption that he'd judge based on what he saw. I'm grateful he didn't allow me to use "my room is a mess" as an excuse. I'm not sure how long I would've held out anyway; the sexual charge between us is way too strong. The mid-afternoon sun and stroller pushing nannies hadn't stopped us before.

We treated my bedroom like a hotel room that afternoon. Did it all and left it there for "someone else" to clean up. The room was new to me, he was new to me and that flavored the situation with an illicit sweetness.

The next time he was in my bedroom, I invited him, practically demanded that he come over. During a break, he filled the silence with "I had a room like this back in 2000." My scrubs-wearing boy toy was once in a situation like I'm in? And here I was afraid to show him... me. Between all the huffing and puffing, the laughing and talking, the biting and humping it felt right for him to be there, his energy fit in my living space, and I enjoyed making a mess of my bedroom.

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  1. Love, love. That crazy voice in your head sounds so familiar! And yes. Half the time, men aren't paying attn to the things we're driving ourselves crazy over.

    1. Yes, we're driving ourselves crazy over a clean house and they're going crazy over us. Ha!


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