Decisions Made At The Time

We're faced with decisions that are the right ones at the time, and only later do we wonder exactly why we made them. The passion of the moment, the circumstances and the details, some idealized or fool-hardy vision of how things will turn out.

All effects what we do, and more importantly, what we don't do.

There was this girl who came from a rich family that I had been messing with in my spare time. She had spare time to spare too and between the conferences and the family get-togethers most nights of the week I went out with her and saw movies, fucked her in the back seat, went to her house for lunch and met her mom and cousins, made dinner and drinks for her at my apartment and let her suck my cock on the couch as videos played ignored.

She got as wet when I was fingering her as I had ever encountered with anyone before. She loved to be licked and her pussy had a watery sea-salt taste of shampoo. This was a good thing. Never funky or smelly, her pussy juices were thick and viscous. I got so hard when I felt her up and my fingers came away dripping and warm.

This was down south. When I moved north I kept in touch, and didn't break it off, even as I met another girl, who would eventually become my wife. She wasn't from a rich family and she went to school rather than family functions on the weeknights. She was less experienced but willing to learn with me, and she let me fuck her in the car, would invite me over and we would fuck on the couch downstairs while her mother was upstairs. She'd come over and I'd make her dinner, and we'd end up balling on the living room floor under the Christmas tree.

She never sucked me off and she didn't get as wet as the other, but she made me hot because she had curves and a smile to die for and an ass that I could have crawled into and lived in for a week. I'm an ass man and I would caress that ass, kiss that ass, finger that ass and cum on that ass over and over. She loved the feel of the warm thick splash on her lower back, her ass sticking up for me that I would enter into (in her pussy, not the other). Sometimes we would look over at ourselves in the full-length mirror on the door to the bedroom.

The first woman, had she been in the same town as me, would have taken good care of me. She laughed at my jokes and paid for my drinks more often than I paid for hers. It was a casual and comfortable relationship, slowly moving towards something that was not to be when I moved. The second woman captured my sexual imagination and was more work to please, and I was able to make her cum.

It was the right decision at the time, and now as I remember that I didn't really make it so much as accept what was happening to my heart, that I gave up the financial comfort of one family's berth for the sexual storm cloud of a hell of an ass.

30 years ago

Cheryl Rixon, Penthouse pet in the late '70s. Her ass up in the air, 30 years ago.












That'll never go out of fashion.



The front isn't too bad either.

Wet and Tangled

There is a sexual and carnal sense in the neigh-borhood Laundromat. Even as it sits across from a strip mall, unattended and humming, and has dust bunnies and a dingy gray in every visible corner, there's a sterile and open promiscuity that festers there. It must have something to do with the fact that everyone is airing their dirty laundry in view of strangers, that your underwear hangs wet and sopping in your hand for the coed watching you across the paneled shelf above the washer rows. It's the smell of soap and a sterile and anonymous feeling of being in your t-shirt and last summer's shorts, probably not wearing any underwear under there, as you sit and vacantly watch the other people tumbling, dripping, hanging and spreading.

The laundromat is where you can get a cheap thrill watching her pull out her lace bras out of the dryer and untangling them. His jock strap peaks through the shorts he found at the bottom of his drawer. The people here live within one mile but you will never see them again. Some are older and may be homeless but most, at least here, are college age and talking on the phone as they fold. She isn't wearing a bra and her Go Team shirt is stretched at her neckline. I can look down her shirt and see her tits when she reaches for the last socks at the bottom of the laundry basket.

I sit with my partner and we talk. She isn't wearing any underwear under her sweatpants. There are 3 people on the other side of the middle row of washers, and when two of them leave she stands and pulls down her pants to show me her pussy. Behind her the wall-high window opens blindly to the street. Flashing in public, if only someone was looking in the right direction.

I'm hard. She waits for the girl over there to start folding her clothes, they're all white and are comprised of undershirts, towels and a sheet or two. I pull down my shorts and show her my married erect cock. The sun comes through and shines on my thighs. I'm open to the rest of the Laundromat and the white metal boxes that hum and tumble and beep. Coins drop and she snaps my picture with her cellphone.

I go to the dryer later and people give me sideways looks as I pull the series of women's underwear, camisoles, stockings and bras out and carefully and lovingly stack them in the open.

Authenticity

(Here.)

This wife of someone (I see a ring?) sits in front of a camera and takes off her pants and masturbates with that object in full view of the camera. She keeps her face out of frame for the most part and isn't interested in fancy lighting or camera angles.

She is alone. The web-camera does not move. She is simply filming this actual event, without baroque mediation or a sense of story-telling intervention. She appears to have an orgasm and then stops. Her legs and pussy open and visible to us, but her motivations we can only guess at. The truthful nakedness of it asks as many questions as it presents, without flourish.

Unencumbered with subtext, it's only a text to be enjoyed and evaluated at our own leisure and for our pleasure.

The Politics of Blowjob

You'd think that getting your dick sucked is just a blow-job. Loving the cock with the mouth. A simple gift from someone, a turn-on and empty-sex-headed exploration. But giving head can be a more complicated interpersonal relationship between two people.

It's a give and take kind of arrangement, in which the power is not specifically or exclusively with the man with the erection. The presumption that the cock is being jammed into the woman's throat in a patriarchal assertion of dominance is mitigated by the fact that the woman is ministrating all the attention, loving skill upon said erection in order to get a response. It can seems at first as a denial for whoever's doing the sucking. She is withdrawing from having cock (or fingers, or a tongue) in her own pussy, to take charge of that cock. She's (or he's) in a kneeling submission to the phallic aggression of your needy and impatient fuckhead. Such that the mouth, the woman, is forced to suck me off? The dick is the center of attention again.

The desired response, ultimately and spectactularly, would be an orgasm of cum squirting out of the slick erection, jerking and heaving into her mouth or over her receptive face. But the nuance of the entire process needs to be considered as well.

Sucking cock isn't solely for the final cum squirt. The woman is owning and putting a valuable body part into her teethed hungry mouth. She has the ability to coax, stroke, change flow or speed to ruin the sensual experience. Indeed her skill and ministrations of oral love - or her lack thereof - gives her the power to render the cock completely submissive. The cock in thrall, enclaved to the urge to enjoy the slower and more urgent focused attention.

Of lick, of moaning, of deep swallowing satisfaction.

At the expense of her pussy, and without your more complete carnal enjoyment of her soft curves or wet sliding ass crease, the sucked penis waits, perhaps patiently, perhaps for far longer than is bearable, for any final explosive conclusion. That may not come. And so, the process is the raison d'etre. The sucking and licking, stroking and slobbering becomes a drawn out and nuanced performance by the mouth and of the hands, the mind and the lusty heart of the sucker. Who honors and prays to your altar of cock.

The mouth engulfs the rod of love and loves it in a selfless and focused exploration of flesh into hole, hard into wet. Without distraction or a mutual masturbatory exploration, the mouth becomes a master of touches, licks, timing and pacing. Hair, sweat and breathing, of precum.

It's a narrative in which the journey can be as enjoyable and longer and without end. The cock is justified and obligated to let it happen. To not rush in or to rush out. To submit to the chore of head given to you. To resist grabbing yourself and jerking yourself onto her when you're close. To receive head is to submit to her process. She sucks it because she loves to feel it and wants to swallow the essence of your submissive mancock, dripping and growing in orgasmic anticipation.

She's in charge. Your submission is the power she has over you as she drinks of the firm wet fleshy enjoyment of her own withdrawal to being fucked in the mouth, the face, the full-frontal drinking. Sex as performance, as consumptive surrender to the moment.

Enthusiasm

This webcam video demonstrates a woman clearly into getting herself off. She has cream, toys, a mirror and determination.

Her ardor is hot. Very hot. She wants you to cum, watching her. She's not shy about whether or not this is a good idea. She's not considering the mediated post-modern ramifications of spectatorship, anonymity, narcissism by proxy, or the gaze as subject.

I'm posting this for one thing so I can find it myself whenever I want to cum to her rubbing her pussy and jamming that lotion bottle in so hornily.

St. Louis

I saw you walk out of that oyster bar

Across the empty parking lot into the dark night

In a purple haze of jeans and glasses

Stilling my heart and my hands

Under the arch that gazes blind down from above.

You caught my breath

Like a page that wouldn't turn, a print that wouldn't fix

A strap that wouldn't fall.

And as the endless last call sharpens my thirst

I drank and fell deeper into a drunken nighttime

And follow.

You relinquished your smile under the canopy glass-top

And the bed linen was like waxy candles

A sleepy sloppy daydream of no color or sound

Except the rumble of the freeway across the river

And then the bulldozer dawn gave hangover eyes to the blinded.

Red Head. Red Tail.

You Can Keep Your Pants On

Aesthetics of Mediation - On the Beach

While this sex bout seems to have been staged specifically to be filmed, it still seems to be happening on a public beach. Out in the true open - this is not an abandoned or private alcove, and you can see observers dozens of feet away half-way through the clip who are observing, taking notice of the fucking couple.

They are as surprised as the participants are carried away in their fucking, and therefore the actual and urgent horniness of their fucking is made real, deliciously tangible. While this isn't a strict amateur self-made clip, like my other "aesthetics" posts, it is not professional tattooed porn either.

It is real people really fucking each other, not the camera.

It's out of control, it is not an attempt to be a performance - except for each other. Which is the real spectacle we are getting off on.

Naked, Stoned and Anonymous

Connected and invisible.

Naked and anonymous.

Typing and cumming.