A redhead

Chair

I have a relationship with the kitchen chairs.

When I was younger, I rubbed myself for the first time one afternoon on a flowered vinyl kitchen chair in our dining room to my first orgasm.

I was beginning to rub against everything with my erections at that point. I wasn't even 11. I pulled my pants down and lay cock down on the seat of the chair - I put my feet up on another chair, and faced downward, holding my torso up with my arms, as I rubbed against the seat cushion.

The chair was on the linoleum floor outside the kitchen. I needed lubrication against the vinyl, so I peed onto myself, then leaned onto the chair, peed some more, and slowly rubbed my erection hard against the frictive yet lubricative surface.

And it pressed against me, the way I had pressed against the sink in elementary school when I leaned in to take a drink, and felt profound nervous and twingling synapses rush to my groin in unexpected but deep and good chocolate ice cream ways.

I'd felt spontaneous tightenings of my testes, sometimes but not always tied to erections, but clearly based deep behind my shaft, teasing me to keep going.

I rocked back and forth, and kept going without thinking that there might be a climactic moment to this feeling, until there was, a release of splashy and squirting cum that I had never seen before or heard about. It felt so complete and draining, and aggressively centered, yet I was worried that I had somehow broken some vessel or valve, and the white liquid was an emission akin to blood, from some unknown organ.

And yet the feeling wasn't of pain but of orgasmic release.

I was beginning to understand. I wasn't hurt - I would not be confessing to any doctor yet.

Soon I would learn how to do it with my hand instead of rubbing against vinyl.

Squirt

There's an amazing amount of sites on the web that devote themselves to pissing girls. They have footage, rather surprisingly, of women I haven't really seen before anywhere else.

In other words, they're amateurs, or maybe just specifically devoted to that one niche.

There's something fascinating on the surface in watching women pee. It's not something you see everyday. It's a "forbidden spectacle" that the internet has brought to us.

It bestows upon women the traditionally masculine trait to squirt like hell in a sexual manner. (And I guess "squirting"is peeing manipulated and under a different name. Fans of that are in denial.)

But I've never really gotten off on peeing. There's something dirty about it but I'd rather have the girl sucking cock. I don't fantasize being pissed on. Besides, I've already had that happen.

It was after a party, and Sheila had had way too much to drink - as had I. We'd been flirting the way drunk 20-somethings do, and we ended up in my bedroom upstairs. We didn't intend to fuck... just fuck around. I let her watch me pee into the toilet, with my half-erect penis, and we ended up on my bed.

We didn't get very far, and both fell asleep stone drunk. When I woke up 3 hours later in the dead of morning, she'd pissed the bed, and me.

At first I thought I'd done it, but I reached over to her and discovered her pants were soaking. I drunkingly felt her up, and the urine lubricating her pants and underwear was a definite turn-on. Especially since she was still dead to the world. I could do anything to her, and she'd never remember.

But I was too drunk to do more than a half-assed attempt at finger-fucking her. And her clothes were all pissy.

I fell asleep again soon after.

Penetration - A Love Story

I used to walk into an adult bookstore about once every 3 weeks. I'd risk it no more than that, risk being seen.

Sure, there are books there, but they're also full of pictures. And 95% of the store is dvds. Sex dvds.

The guy behind the counter looked over his glasses at me. He nodded like he knew who I was, but he didn't. He couldn't - I never gave him an opportunity to remember me, never even said a word to him. Not even when I was buying something. The purchases were transacted in grunts and nods and with halting credit-card handovers. He doesn't know what I like, or what I respond to. He doesn't have to. I don't know myself half the time.

It wasn't long after I was old enough before I went all the time to see these pictures on my own, with their images and their forbidden secrets. Adult movie theatres were the only place in the early '80s I could see naked women in motion. No video then. My dating life wasn't developed at the age of 17 - my success was all downtown, and the outskirts, where the shops and theatres lay as remnants of a more vibrant community that had long abandoned the city center. The theatres were all downtown in the rundown district, old palaces now empty of the gentrified crowds that filled the roadshows of "Camelot" or "The Sound of Music" years ago. The advent of video had emptied the downtown San Diego streets, where now hookers, drug takers and sailors stood out watching their own lives pass them by. You went into the large dark emporium, in public, but anonymous, looking up at the aging stained screen.

Surrounded by strangers. I never went with any friends. Who knew who went into these theatres and what those strangers were up to. Like it was ever in doubt. And you never encountered a more rapt and subdued collection of misfits. The danger of going out at night was reduced indoors.

All it cost was money. Oh the money. Everything's for sale now here. Anything you could think of - fetishes like girls that take it up the ass, or women that let guys come on their face to an excessive degree. Some guys go no doubt to the pissing section - there's a section. Whatever works for you.

For me the promise is told on the cover box. A combination of title and sample pictures to let me know the imagery, the girls, the aesthetic will be right, properly respectful to the subject matt

The promise of course that leads to the impulsive buy. The conveyance of the nasty life encapsulated therein. Of the fun the participants are having, that are on display for my ownership. Fun, with a camera present. The image offered. Here - surrounded by tits, pussies, out of context

But then it is its own reality. Movies with people who fuck. The neighbor talks to the mailman, they fuck, the husband at work, with secretary, they fuck. The new guy sees the female boss, she fucks him. All personal interactions related to fucking, to pulling open your pants, and sucking on the other person's genitals.

It's reduced to commonplace. Fucking as primary interaction between all adults in the play. People do this all the time. Will wifey find out? Taste the sweat and emissions of an asshole dripping with cum. They did this back in Roman times. The power of pussy, human and instinctual, the curve of a woman's ass has kept this species alive through the ages.

Sex is life. People are into it. It has to feel good. What drives us? Drives me into this store, filled with maybe a dozen other men right now.

It's not the middle of the night, it's not late in the evening. It's 3 p.m., just past lunch hour, before the time to go home, into cocktail hour with the boss. They all avoid eye contact with the others here. We stare intently at the color images on the cardboard covers in front of us, the girls airbrushed, posed, open. The customers are exposed here, as well, naked to the siren lust that has pulled them in, guilty by their presence, found out and defensive, caught, male...needy, horn. And semi-erect. We try to be as invisible and unobvious as possible, lost in a personal search for sexual epiphany, as we finger the pages, and turn over the boxes.

We're receptive through our eyes. Looking for imagery to get us off, to remind us of how it feels...how it must feel. To remind us of that woman we want to be fucking, that whore, that old cheerleader, that ex-wife or future wife. That neighbor, that cipher who comes in from next door...the woman - no, girl, with open legs, wet pussy lips, and a willing schedule and a good attitude. Penetrated.

We're all here to find something to capture our imagination. We need big tits, or maybe dark skin. Open bald pussies or cheerleader outfits. Cum shots to the face...or internal, dripping slowly out down their asscrack. What gets you off, reminds you of the hot feeling that is emotional, instinctual, that works. We take our handful of tokens and we wait in the hallway past the curtain for the booths, for more. For the films.

Three of us wait patiently outside the booths. Number 3 is out of order, and the other 7 have users inside. We see what's happening inside each - on little monitors that are feeds of what's showing. There are 50-word summaries printed on cards with a still posted outside in metal frames next to a LCD screen by each door.

Fuckfilms, handheld, shown inside in close-up. Too small to distinguish details. We can't quite see. They've gotten worse in the 20 years I've been watching. They used to have more art to them. Now they point at the most obvious place and film away, without edits. We wait in the hallway like lambs, quiet, ever patient, and in a way powerless. In spite of the testosterone here and all the men, this is not a macho environment. It's not an arena in which the strongest men negotiate, spar or bargain, in display of alpha-male territorialism. We're all here completely at the mercy of what we are here to consume. We've lost, acquiesced, and accept it - we welcome the mantle of defeat. We're whipped.

But we will get our payoff. Booth 4 shuts down; Don the store guy comes back, glancing at us as he passes with a certain amount of disdain. We back up and let him pass so he can investigate. No one's complaining. We stand in no judgment. You can't break it while sitting and watching. Waiting for the cum in my gaping asshole, the suck my dick, the fuck my pussy. Surrounded by sexualized women, images and products, the hyper-sexual response tempered by what stands out in a sea of exceptions. Our ability to be shocked has been sublimated, disregarded, and defused. The technical problem should stem from the front dvd playback deck.

There's no one here to say, "You like this shit?" "That's not natural." "You're sick." The girlfriends are at home. You're among friends. We get it. We all get it.


Check out the tits on that bitch.

The films barely narrate a story, a series of images in sequential order to relate a cascade of events. "Story" isn't right. The power of film is to depict a reality in realistic images. What's photographed has happened on the stage, and is manipulated by camera work and editing. The camera angles favor the women, not the man, showing her in long shots, positioning her centrally in the frame. The guy (often never showing his face) is secondary, with that big dick, that piece of meat intrusive and necessary, yet distracting and somewhat troublesome.

Sometimes the guy enters her with a little bit of sideways. The audience's stand-in for themselves, the transferred personal, in the pussy, as she poses. Spreads and stretches. For us, we identify with her, not him. She poses in positions open to reveal for the camera. And she looks at us, held up, in the room that never changes, in rhythmic movement. Beach house. Window. Couch. Linoleum floor. Tattoos.

She's playing herself. Reverse cowgirl. Does anyone fuck like this? It's a character note, revealing her enthusiasm. She kneels over his cock, facing backwards, legs spread and balanced on her high-heels. The pose is calculated to show a bald asshole and penetration. And the male body is out of the way as much as possible. She's doing it. Really doing it.

The search is never ending. For me it started with that girl in the trailer in the Academy theatre, jerking off while she talked on the phone. I'd actually seen something I had never seen before. What was that film called? The girls with light hair turned me on, the red pussy hair. It suggested a certain exotic wild archetype that was captured and conveyed, not from any personal remembrance.

It became as film - stories, fantasies as maids, doctors in lingerie, stewardesses, or secretaries, ordinary everyday people. Fairy tales, run of the mill, and they have pussies and sex lives too. Sex lives I could only dream of seeing. At the tender age of 19 I began to have true sexual relations. My fantasy turned to housewives...everyday people, students even - and other taboo transgressions. The hotness of being found out, of being with someone you shouldn't. Was it wrong? Was it possible? Was this a manifestation of almost fucking my girlfriend's best friend my first year in college? When I hadn't quite fucked her yet?

No. I think it was a manifestation of my best friend actually fucking my girlfriend, later, whom I had not fucked yet.

I'm still looking for that thrill - that intoxicating rush of seeing and being where I should not see and be. But the narratives could go only so far. The fantasies weren't very well created. We're here to see people fucking. It's done by amateurs.

Your neighbors made this film in their living room. It's not a stunt. True and unadorned - shocking by its unfamiliarity, yet deadpan in the depiction. All cut together and reproduced as objective product, in long takes. Unmediated, and therefore powerful in its guileless banality.

The actress looks at me. Sees me looking back at her. And she smiles, and implicates me in this act, unexpectedly, this unfakable sexy and dirty open workout.

She got me.

Three more pictures

Three more pictures of you, taken by yourself with your camera, pointing in the mirror.

You want to show me your sex.



You look so good, watching me watching you.



You admire yourself in a way you haven't before. Because you are aware of the act of looking.

This time at yourself.

And as you look upon yourself, you consider your exhibitionism.



I think - you think you like it.

On The Couch

Sex with my wife can get a bit routine. We go into the same positions, in the same order. At night, once the kids are asleep, we don't always have the energy, and the bed isn't firm enough to really go at it. Not without making a squeaking noise that makes us self-conscious.

I love my wife, and I love her pussy. I love eating it and fucking it. Her ass is really nice, especially when I'm looking at it from behind - as I enter her. But every so often I need to get into the mood, and when we end up fucking on the couch, it really works.

Usually we're downstairs watching a movie that isn't holding our interest, and we've been cute that day - either shopping together, or shared something at work at we appreciated. Our mood is good, we may have a glass of wine in us. And I start to kiss her, and grab her tits.



She likes it when I fondle her tits. They're sensitive, and one of her most responsive erogenous zones. She lays back and allows me to keep going.

Her clothes become undone.



Pretty soon, I'm eating her out, and she's spread-eagled out on the couch.

Because it's lower than our bed, I can stand next to it and enter her very easily, with no strain to my legs or arms, and it doesn't give - or squeak - like the bed upstairs. When I push her she pushes back.

Upstairs the kids are asleep (we hope!) and the shitty Netflix film continues as I fuck her in her hairy pussy.

Then I stop and turn her over.

She kneels over me, and raises that great round ass over my cock, and she sits down on my hard cock. I hold onto her asscheeks as she rocks up and down on my erect dick, rubbing herself forward and back, hands on the back rest.

I look down and see me pumping in and out, deep and high - and can smell the scent from her asshole as I spread her buttocks with my thumb.

Doing it on the couch reminds me of when I was still a teenager. I always cum hard when we're fucking on the couch. It reminds me of when we were first dating (I was in my 20s by this time), and we would fuck in the den of her house downstairs, while her mother was upstairs watching t.v.

We would bite our tongues as so not to let her hear us, and it was the most illicit and hot sex I'd had.

I'd cum in to her daughter while she was upstairs, watching Leno.



I wish we had more energy to stay up more nights.

Pulling Out

I've pulled out of the woman I've been fucking many times. I've actually developed a bit of a fetish about it. Cumming outside, onto her, and I can see my cum. And she can see it too. It's an excuse to make a bigger deal out of my orgasm -it's a finish that's public, messy, and definitive.

Many times it's been because I didn't want to ejaculate inside her, and thought by having the cum outside her, she wouldn't conceive. That strategy seemed to work for years, for both my wives. Lots of cum on pubic hair.

Other times, it's been a trace memory of the thousand porn scenes I've seen, in which the money shot has been shown - coming outside the pussy.

Which isn't the natural state of things. It feels better when it's inside.

But by pulling out, and cumming on that pussy, on that stomach, over those tits, you recreate the scene in your head playing from the video you saw last week. And the girl takes it. Opens her mouth, lays back and lets you cum all over her.

There's some level of humiliation in it...for her to be debased, and for you to have to jerk yourself off to get the rest of the last drops out.

"Cum on me, baby. Cum all over me."

Practically reaching the point of orgasm, then pulling out and pre-cumming on her pubic hair, outside, then slowly entering her again anyway, is a sexy forbidden thrill. I pump against my own jizm, into her pussy again and then cum for real, fully, into her hot sperm pussy.

Pictures of You

I wanted to know what you looked like naked. You wouldn't show me.

Not in person. Not until that night when we grappled in the car. We touched each other, and we almost fucked. But you wouldn't let me put my cock in you. Only touch your bush, your clit.

You pulled your pants down to your knees, and I buried my face in your crotch. I smelled and licked the warm smell of your pussy and asshole. The wet slurp and sweat.

We continued to date, but it wasn't about sex entirely. It was about being together. One day you sent me a love note with the words so explicit I knew you had been thinking about it. That you were interested. You were exposing your sexual side to me, in words and not in person. You wanted to show me, to capture my imagination. But not to simply present yourself to me. To surrender.

You knew you could get my cock hard when you touched me... kissed me and licked my ear. My neck. You sent me a picture of yourself, naked that you had taken yourself.



I poured over it. I analyzed every pore, every detail.



I analyzed every detail. The camera. The stuff on the floor. The placement of your legs. You were the author of this photo, there was the camera. You looked at yourself and took the picture, staring into the mirror, with the camera capturing what you had seen.

I told you I liked it. In fact that I had masturbated to it... but not cum. I saw you in the bathroom, as plain and as normal as you always were. Yet naked. Posed, but unaffected.

The second picture you spend more time posing yourself.



You stood in front of the mirror, exposing yourself. This was something more explicit and rarified and straight-ahead fuck than the first, although I don't think you quite realized it.

It emphasized your sexual attributes. You take a picture of yourself unposed, and it's a self-portrait, and whatever is captured is what it is. Your hair may not be correct, or the glare of the camera may obscure some important detail. There is a documentary/reality aspect to it that lends authenticity to the picture.

Even if you've taken off your clothes. If your hand is at your vagina. And the smile is a come-hither come-fuck-me look. You are an inadverent agent of your own depiction. To pose, to stick your ass in the air is to create meaning and text beyond the subtext.

You were no longer sending me a picture of yourself, potentially naked and pontentially available, you were actually offering yourself, visually and physically (by agency) to me. Your ass to the mirror, and to the camera, pointed at you and therefore at me.

Capturing my gaze as I look upon your and your sexual poise. Vulnerable and offering, not hiding. This was no casual self-portraiture. This was an invitation to gaze upon and engage your fucking wishes and fantasies.



In other words, you want it. You look upon yourself and move emotionally and physically beyond the mere regarding of your sexual body, your casual and seductive... enticing... nudity. You have pointed the creature at yourself which will encapsulate your soul, take grip upon the gaze that you let fall upon yourself and freeze it to be shown to me.

To confront me with my own gaze upon you - the camera looking right into my eyes that captures the image of you, naked and smiling, hand on hip, legs slightly open, hair on pussy and clitoris moist. Breasts hanging but nipples assertively erect.

Flash at the ready. Window open. Exhibitionism for yourself, a self-satisfied circle.

A Jungle

Yeah, at one point in my life, I fucked a black girl. I met Denise at college at the dorm at a party, and surprisingly, she came from only a couple of miles from where I lived. This created an instant common bond.

I never really was attracted to black women. They're usually curvier than white girls, which is a good thing, but their attitudes and cultural outlook seemed so foreign to me and my limited white-bread upbringing in the suburbs.

Denise wasn't so "black" that I couldn't talk to her, and her taste in movies was insatiable. We went on dates to the Crest to see any of the non-Hollywood stuff that snuck in between the summer or Christmas season (and not during finals weeks), and had a comfortable but pretty platonic relationship. Or so I thought.

I think Denise wanted to move it further before I did. We began going out after the films for ice cream or pizza, and she would want to sit with me and talk, not just about film, or school, but more personal stuff. Like where I was born, our brothers, stuff like that. Then we would go out with no movie as an excuse. She began to make it clear that she was interested in me physically, and I quickly began intrigued by the idea.

I hadn't had much experience with sex at this point only having been with 2 women before this. The idea of messing about with Denise, her black and somehow exotic and foreign body got me very hot and excited. I picked up whatever bait she dropped, and followed wherever she led.

We finally consumated our sexual curiosity for each other in her dorm room on the 3rd floor. It was a Monday night, about 11, and her roommate had gone out of town for the week. We began to kiss, and then fondle each other.

She let me open her jeans and feel her bush. It was thick, and her pubic hair was courser than mine - kinda like brillo. It was very sexy and got me even harder than I already was.

Denise opened my pants and jerked my erection. Lovingly. The pre-cum on my tip lubricated her small hands up and down the shaft.

I slipped my hand down her panties and between her labia and felt she was incredibly wet. Sopping, and sticky; almost like she'd spilled a smoothie into her cunt.

She pulled her pants down to her ankles and opened her hairy pussy, exposing her surprise pink buried in there. And I rubbed the wettest, ripest and most glistening pussy I ever encountered, then or since. I licked her clit, and got a teaspoon of her pre-cum on my mouth. She moaned softly.

She was so ready to be fucked.

I laid on top of her and entered her, sliding in with no resistance. She was dark and warm - humping her cunt was very "slurpy." My god.

My cock felt warmed and wet, and I had a vision of fucking the nubile natives. I began to pump her.

There was no friction - she was too wet. Just this wet tight creampie of pussy-kiss.

I became aware of her pussy hair rubbing my pubis just above my shaft, making wet squishie noises. I moved against her and within seconds I came, deep inside her. Seemingly without trying.

God I was horny.

She knew what had happened. She smiled.

She grabbed my back and hugged me close, to keep me inside her.

"How was it?" she asked.

"Too quick," I whispered.

She ran her hands over me, feeling me. "We can try again later."

We hung out, and listened to some music. We went downstairs 20 minutes later and got some food out of the machines, and went back upstairs.

Back in her room we fucked again. This time it was slow, and I enjoyed every thrust and her body against mine. My penis still got soaking wet, not only from her pussy fluid but by my sperm inside her from before.

Denise was very appreciative of me, and I tried to do her right, by getting her to cum herself. I diddled and licked her clit as best I knew how, but she never orgasmed. But she seemed to enjoy being with me all the same.

Although we remained friends after that, we didn't go on any other dates to ice cream, or even any movies. She politely declined, saying she was busy or had something else to do. But I never felt like she'd given me the brush off.

After college, when I went back home for a summer, I often thought I might see her back in our home town, and a couple of times I imagined I did, just out of the corner of my eye. And maybe restart the relationship.