boys. Okay, what would they do? I run every conversation we’d ever had on such matters through my memory bank and come up with one thing. Jarrett would “knock one out.”
Ingenious —I’ll relieve my frustration and festering attraction any time I take a shower. Then I’ll be able to act somewhat normal in his presence and eliminate that bitchy voice in my head constantly screaming, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Yes, excellent idea. I’m well versed in hand-to-self combat; I got this. With a plan, I climb in the shower and get to work. My white blonde hair washed, all 5’3” of my body takes another three minutes, and then I’m ready to let my fingers do the walking.
Closing my eyes, I let my head fall forward, bracing one hand on the wall. With the warm water easing its way down my back, I relax more with each deep breath and begin to picture Cannon Blackwell in my mind. Tall, lean and sophisticatedly handsome, country club to my punk, male to my female. Teasingly, my hand slowly creeps its way down my quivering stomach, one finger hinting at what it wants. I bite down on my lip, keeping my gasps and moans as quiet as possible, that single digit now two, rubbing a circle with the perfect speed and pressure.
Is this how a man does it? Gently, knowing exactly what you like and need? Or do stronger, larger hands, with delicious callouses on their musical fingertips make it feel even better? Not a man, that man, the perfectionist, plays me like a melody dying to escape into sound, consuming my mind’s eye as I diddle my way to orgasm.
Breathless and disoriented, I sit down under the warm spray and pull my knees to my chest. Of course I feel better , but still somewhat lacking, shallow, as though I only skimmed the surface of a bubbling heat inside me. When I’d had sex before, it’d been more about healing, sharing pain with another person whom I could trust, hugs and light kisses turning into something else. What I feel right now is completely different, a wholly physical pull toward a man I find unrealistically attractive. I yearn to taste his lips, learn the speed of his tongue, the punishing brunt of his force. What would he smell like when he sweats against me? What illicit words would he grunt in my ear as we writhe against each other?
Lost again in my fantastical thoughts, the chilled water on my back startles me from a lust-filled fog and second round of pleasuring myself. I’ve never gone off twice, frustration and carpal tunnel always kicking in long before second fruition, but indeed it just happened, my hand again finding my center on its own, while I was dreaming awake.
Using the wall to help me stand, I step out, right under a vent. The cold air blowing down on my naked, wet, and highly sensitized skin motivates me to hurry through drying off and getting dressed. When I’ve brushed my teeth and run a brush through my hair, I take a deep, collective breath and open the bathroom door.
“Feel better?”
Dammit if I don’t twitch, startled. This guy is erasing everything I thought I knew about myself, rattling “nothing rattles Liz” into an embarrassing fawn. And the truth is, I knew it the minute I saw him, but welcomed it anyway. I confess, I wanna feel. Sue me .
“Much,” I finally answer him, climbing under the covers of my bed directly across from him. He’s lying on his side, looking at me, undoing all the good of the “relaxation technique” I’d performed on myself. In five seconds, I’m once again strung tight as a fiddle. “Well, um, good night,” I mutter, rolling to face away from him.
“I had a great time tonight,” he says softly. “Thanks for the chance.”
“Oh, you’re welcome, thank you for helping us out. And don’t worry about Rhett, he’ll come around.”
Maybe.
“Speaking of that, can we talk some?”
I turn back over to face him, despite my better judgment, grateful for the low, protective lighting. “Of course. What’s
Ingenious —I’ll relieve my frustration and festering attraction any time I take a shower. Then I’ll be able to act somewhat normal in his presence and eliminate that bitchy voice in my head constantly screaming, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Yes, excellent idea. I’m well versed in hand-to-self combat; I got this. With a plan, I climb in the shower and get to work. My white blonde hair washed, all 5’3” of my body takes another three minutes, and then I’m ready to let my fingers do the walking.
Closing my eyes, I let my head fall forward, bracing one hand on the wall. With the warm water easing its way down my back, I relax more with each deep breath and begin to picture Cannon Blackwell in my mind. Tall, lean and sophisticatedly handsome, country club to my punk, male to my female. Teasingly, my hand slowly creeps its way down my quivering stomach, one finger hinting at what it wants. I bite down on my lip, keeping my gasps and moans as quiet as possible, that single digit now two, rubbing a circle with the perfect speed and pressure.
Is this how a man does it? Gently, knowing exactly what you like and need? Or do stronger, larger hands, with delicious callouses on their musical fingertips make it feel even better? Not a man, that man, the perfectionist, plays me like a melody dying to escape into sound, consuming my mind’s eye as I diddle my way to orgasm.
Breathless and disoriented, I sit down under the warm spray and pull my knees to my chest. Of course I feel better , but still somewhat lacking, shallow, as though I only skimmed the surface of a bubbling heat inside me. When I’d had sex before, it’d been more about healing, sharing pain with another person whom I could trust, hugs and light kisses turning into something else. What I feel right now is completely different, a wholly physical pull toward a man I find unrealistically attractive. I yearn to taste his lips, learn the speed of his tongue, the punishing brunt of his force. What would he smell like when he sweats against me? What illicit words would he grunt in my ear as we writhe against each other?
Lost again in my fantastical thoughts, the chilled water on my back startles me from a lust-filled fog and second round of pleasuring myself. I’ve never gone off twice, frustration and carpal tunnel always kicking in long before second fruition, but indeed it just happened, my hand again finding my center on its own, while I was dreaming awake.
Using the wall to help me stand, I step out, right under a vent. The cold air blowing down on my naked, wet, and highly sensitized skin motivates me to hurry through drying off and getting dressed. When I’ve brushed my teeth and run a brush through my hair, I take a deep, collective breath and open the bathroom door.
“Feel better?”
Dammit if I don’t twitch, startled. This guy is erasing everything I thought I knew about myself, rattling “nothing rattles Liz” into an embarrassing fawn. And the truth is, I knew it the minute I saw him, but welcomed it anyway. I confess, I wanna feel. Sue me .
“Much,” I finally answer him, climbing under the covers of my bed directly across from him. He’s lying on his side, looking at me, undoing all the good of the “relaxation technique” I’d performed on myself. In five seconds, I’m once again strung tight as a fiddle. “Well, um, good night,” I mutter, rolling to face away from him.
“I had a great time tonight,” he says softly. “Thanks for the chance.”
“Oh, you’re welcome, thank you for helping us out. And don’t worry about Rhett, he’ll come around.”
Maybe.
“Speaking of that, can we talk some?”
I turn back over to face him, despite my better judgment, grateful for the low, protective lighting. “Of course. What’s
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