Girls of Summer

As summer fades into fall, I must say goodbye to the girls of summer. The girls who wear short skirts, who wear bikini tops around campus.

The girls who hide, barely, the best and most interesting attributes of their pornographic bodies under sheer and mere layers of cloth.

The fantasy of tan lines is that it makes visible and literal how close a bikini really is to the parts where sexiness turns to sex. The simple triangle of cloth that hides the glories of the ages.

The obsession with how little there is and how easy it is to pull it aside. That so little can hide so much. The thatch of pubic hair barely contained behind a strip of cloth.

Here's to the warm weather and the natural inclination of women to strip down as much as is socially acceptable, thinking they're relatively safe from the male gaze. That we don't imagine the dark wet hairy mysteries beyond the nylon.

That they don't know themselves their pussy and tits are as close as they are willing to make them.

Albumen Crease

Your milky words pierced the morning of my desire
Like the sword of a faint objection
Catching the light that surrounds a coming dark tornado
And the crotch of an errant branch
That catches on passers-by.

And my cock
You wrapped in your silken paragraphs
Inducing me to open my mouth and one true hand
And light my sin with the reflection only your skin could muster
Light and pale like a soft-spooned egg
Ready to be pressed and fucked.

My thin slick strings of cum drip like batter
Falling in a desperate gesture
And spurt deep from my Icarus soul
Ready to fall
On the other side of your screen door that opens by inches
Until you hear the promise
So I see you through bloody fingers you dare to throw
Your safety net out
Until gravity pulled you like the silt of a rainy afternoon
To pool at the edge of my secret.

The dark boundary of my lightening
Like vapor and electricity
Spark the ochre smoke rising off your skin
The polyester smell of your sex
Woven in a careful donation
My scissors can only partially cut.

Just continue to poke your needy deliverance
Like the fog on a glassy beach
That cools and blankets, then disappears
Beyond the sharp wet surface
Tangling with the mesquite tendrils
Of a smoldering fire pit that stays hot all night.

Your legs on the railing slowly uncross
Your kiss short but pregnant with abandon
Your albumen crease craving my potential
Until you pull off your panties
And your fingers slick and spread the hole you said you saved for me.

And so we drink and peel apples in liquid compromise
The remnants burning through a sky without stars
The dew of one last kiss
Hiding the kisses of your dare
The purely physical translation
That anointed your sheet-creased skin
Kept careful in the night of your secret airports
That is offered in panic
The wordless transit
Of your perfect handjob cunt
That lubricated like egg white
And the pleasure of temperature
A simple choreograph that haunts me still
By its animal geometry
That you brought to boil.

Your legs were an open flame that scorched the curtains
And walked me through all the rehearsed steps
I didn't get to practice
In the glow of another empty afternoon
Or laying on that soft beach of your milky night
Avoiding the muddy stain of regret.

I'll dance again through your smoke again
And feel the wicked surf
Kiss your thighs that invite me
So deep, and your eyes
And I separate your doubts like wet paper
Of an abandoned rulebook
A genetic promise that will break you
And me
To finally surrender in a sweat
And stolen breaths of ecstasy
Our limbs outlined damp in the cotton
Reborn in the ancient sun
As we fall intact and entwined
And no detours or waxy threads that twist
To lock or circle round or bring me to my feet
And you to your senses.

Liittle Yellow Pill

This one took a while to write, because I wanted to get it right.

Yes, I'm aging. And my responses, as celebrated and sometimes unexpected as they are on this blog, are, lets-face-it-charlie, beginning to wane.

I don't get as hard as quickly as I used to. I don't stay hard as long as I used to. The things that used to work for me don't always work so good anymore.

I emphatically deny that it's I'm watching too much porn. I'm not thinking of the perfect shaved bimbo when I'm in my wife and can't get it up. Quite the opposite, I'm looking for the real and the true. And my continued consumption of virtual sexual expressions, of sloppy and realistic scenarios of the shimmer of human condition wrapped up in personal lust, the surprise of the unconventional (don't get me wrong, not too unconventional) all keep me fresh.

Keep the sparks burning and my mind open. Sex is in the imagination and I exercise that muscle often, which enhances my sex life, personal and shared.

But I've been married for going on two decades. The thrill of the new has been replaced by the long-lasting depth of experience. But I also know, possibly too well, the signals of a not-quite engaged partner, of the 1000 distractions, of the availability and attraction of postponement. Especially when I'll have another chance tomorrow. Or next week. Or next month.

Maybe she'll blow me next time. Maybe we'll finally have the kids out of the house and we can fuck on the couch for the first time in 3 years. Maybe I won't be so worried about work tomorrow. Sorry baby, this has never happened before. It's not you, it's me.

Having never had any issue with erectile dysfunction, but finding myself increasingly "uninspired," I finally began to click on those "Satisfy her tonight" spam emails we all get.

There's a known handful of ways to stay hard and stay hard longer. All for about $2 - $4 a dose, from Canada, in plain unmarked wrapping. Viagra is the biggest name, good for 4 - 6 hours, while Cialis is nick-named the "weekender" because it can last as long as 36 hours. Now that's a party.

I was apprehensive about the warnings: possible headache, back pain, loss of vision, a painful erection that lasts for more than 4 hours. (That hasn't happened since high school.) But I wanted to fuck my wife. I'm never sure when I'm going to get lucky, or when something set up at 10:00 a.m doesn't get knocked down until 10 that night, so I went for the Cialis.

I got a 10-pack, at the highest per-pill rate ($2.99 per pill). I could have ordered a 500-pill bottle for only .99c per, but I'm not sure I have that many weekends left. I was willing to risk the $30 to see if it would even arrive. And they did.

The weekend came. I took one after dinner, but nothing ended up happening that night, and I wanted to test the response. After the lights went out I gave myself an erection that felt normal, and I didn't feel any back pain or other side effect.

In the morning I had an erection, which is usual, but it didn't go away after I peed. It felt good, hard, sturdy. It was pretty obvious in my pajamas and when I hugged my wife, she knew it was time.

Friends, I have had times when I got soft in the middle of love-making when things didn't feel quite right, or I got bored with the position, or we heard a footstep outside the bedroom door. It's age, mostly--I've plowed my share of furrows, and I know that the current time isn't going to be the last one, so part of it is also having less at stake, less to prove.

This time I lost no hardness and was ready to go, without any foreplay. (Which doesn't mean I didn't engage in some oral foreplay anyway. Having me be raging hard while licking her definitely turned on my wife.)

We went at it for awhile, and then stopped to change position, chat a moment, adjust the curtians, you know the drill. At that point I would have gotten soft and we'd continue again after restarting, but I didn't loose my erection the whole time.

Fuck, there I was, a little amazed I wasn't giving myself away or forcing the issue, feeling like the hard young stud I always enjoyed being, at least until the last couple years.

She noticed. I didn't need to make a point of it, but I was still hard as Hercules. My cock was still wet and ready to slide in when she was ready. And, I didn't tell I'd ordered the Cialis. She had been very supportive of me the times I would start fucking then lose my wood and we'd have to continue with other methods... or postpone until tomorrow. She didn't give me any shit about not being able to sustain - that was my job to beat myself up.

And we fucked some more. And the erection did not let me down. And I knew I didn't have to hurry, friends. It wasn't going to betray me at the slightest stray thought or break in rhythm.

And I went slower. And enjoyed being inside her, rocking that pussy and feeling her, more than I had in months and months. Because that cock was not going to go soft and even as I precum-ed and took off the edge, the edge remained sharp and on point.

I finally got rid of my erection when I came. The orgasm was neither better nor worse than any other, but it was preceded by 30 minutes of on-and-off fucking and no fear I had to get the position just right, or rush to finish, or reveal that I was tiring before she was (which didn't happen for the first 15 years of our marriage).

That night I tried to get another erection, with the help of some tumblr videos and I got hard again and that mother fucker stayed up, slowly softening over a half an hour while I continued with my evening. The next morning, I had a half-erect cock all day at work.

The slight headache I attribute to that third beer I drank that night.

This is not advice and I am not a doctor. But that was the best $3.00 I ever spent.

So, there's 52 weekends in a year, so that big bottle would last for about a decade. The next few years are starting to look pretty fucking good.

I'm Looking Through My Old Pictures

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The Continuing Story of Whitney Wisconsin

4/22/2016: I wrote this way back in May of last year, and the story has had some developments. First, all of the links below to various Ms. WW's tumblers are no longer active, but she's currently going strong on twitter (dodging haters and fans) as well as, waitforit, FB under her (reported) real name, Lynn Lew, still soliciting and also announcing she's married to that guy.

* *  * *  * *

Some thoughts on the ongoing fame and possible disappearance of the internet girl known as Whitney Wisconsin.

Who is she? She's a self-proclaimed 18-year-old who started posting naked pictures of herself on Tumblr and Reddit about 2 months ago. She's gotten over 100,000 followers and is planning a website (whitneywisconsin.me, still not up) where her activities will be based and presumably monetized.

She's a relatively cute attention whore with a strong exhibitionist streak, and who is also a slow-motion train wreck, making public mistake after public mistake, and has become a corner of the internet's favorite spectator sport.

She posts that she sells her panties and her cum ($50 a throw) as well as custom videos and skype sessions, hey a girl's gotta make a living. And selling panties and vids is a noble and long-standing profession and not unheard of. (Not sure she should be posting that on tumblr though.)

But there's something untoward about her of late. There is a suspicion, starting with her sudden disappearance in April for 2 weeks, and then an announced website that was supposed to open 4 weeks ago and still hasn't, that is making people circle around her more like vultures than strip-club clients.

Presumably this website, "whitneywisconsin.me", will be the home where she'll host all her videos, even the taboo stuff (public and dogplay seem to be part of her interests) and can't be shut down, like she apparently was on vid.me (all vids disappeared along with her account with no explanation). For some reason she hasn't been deactivated yet on tumblr, which, for example, the fine pornocandy.tumblr.com (much less edgy) was. Whitney's recent Facebook page also disappeared for a few days as it had suspicious activity (she said it was too many new friends requests).

She came back from her 3-week absence saying she got in legal trouble - oops, she can't spell abscence. She explained in other all-thumbs posts (shouldn't drink and text) she was charged with misdemeanors relating to her two videos in which she had unknowing bystanders smell her fingers in public places after she'd been playing with herself (all video'd, and you can find them). I'm guessing this was charges of public indecency, with the actual evidence supplied by her. She also mentioned that friends or family had suspicions she was "prostituting herself" which she said was something she "would never do."

So she's back, posting as much as ever, asking for other women to join her on her site ("contact me with your pix"), worrying about some legal bills (hint hint) and if you support her with her website you'll get the goods soon. Not to worry.

But we increasingly have the smell of the underlying disaster waiting to happen. First, she is openly dismissive of her privacy - her masturbation vids are wildly popular (1000s of hits, and they show up on other sites soon, sometimes even with her name attached (and she's not bad at them either)).  She recently is defending her use of her face and pussy on line (word to the effect of "it doesn't matter, it's only pussy") and thinks what she's doing isn't prostitution and that she's not a porn star.

She's asking for money for sexual favors. She's selling her own cum in vials, and doing sexual custom videos. She is known online as a sexual performer. She may be thinking, since Ron Jeremy isn't around she hasn't crossed some invisible line. A horse is a horse.

And in her text posts, she uses broken txt lol english without punctuation.

Which really makes her come across as a dummy. A pretty dummy, one who's got an exhibitionist streak and again, there's nothing wrong with that, but a couple balconies short of an opera. What if she were as articulate as Nina Hartley, for example, when proselytizing healthy sex, instead of not being able to put 5 words together correctly?

It would be a very different vibe. But her spelling and logical blunders, getting into (apparent) trouble with the law, and also claiming to have done a knotting video (with a dog) and posting a still that may or not not be from it, is not the way to keep the sexy good times gravy train going.

There's such a thing as too much attention.

Other questions are starting to rise up - the aforementioned site that has not come up and the beginnings of rumblings on other blogs and tumblr posts which are accusing her of not fulfilling those video and panties requests. "Hey, where's my soiled panties? I need them and paid good money for them."

Rather than just a clue-less teenager with a healthy sex drive, is she actually a scammer? << This fellow, on r/drama, seems to think so.

She thinks she has control of her public persona - she can delete any post on her own tumblr and had disappeared from a couple sites. She can reblog anything she wants and ignore the rest.  Any complains of course are not answered. Her plight of needing money is gently addressed - apparently as to not appear to be begging or soliciting. Check.

And she's asking for more girls for her site but they have to be willing to skype, and have naked pix on their own blogs. "Is there anyone out there besides me that's a real person?" she asks.

She obviously isn't doing her homework. The best feature of tumblr is the amount of real girls posting amateur pussy pix. I'm beginning to smell pimping.

Now that the question is raised, we don't really have proof she's sending cum and videos. She's "filmed" and posted herself at least once dropping a package in the mailbox (thin proof, that), yet there seems to be no testimonials, no "thanks for the panties" her followers are sending her which she should reblog. Which suspicious minds can only decide means, they were never received.

It's possible she's charging $50 for videos (because men are suckers for sex and almost would rather pay for it than get it for free) and then simply ignores the requests. Someone with 100k follows might get a fair amount of $ and feel safe from being reported because after all, who would go to the police saying they paid $50 for soiled panties and damn it, they were cheated.

Her disappearance for 2 weeks and the subsequent excuse of legal troubles (which no one has been able to verify, see below) was her biggest mistake to now. It got people curious - the videos were down from vid.me (the account was deleted completely, which is what many places do when they don't like what you're doing on their site) and there was no more activity on tumblr.

Our ride was over, boys. Her mom found out. Or she got religion or sober. Fun while it lasted, eh?

When she returned, she began to repost old items and delete others, for example one in which she was masturbating to what appeared to be a bestiality clip in the b.g., another absolute no-no on the internet. And by the time she announced her legal problems, the question of who she was and what exact trouble she was in, tied to the unfulfilled but seductive promise that everything worth knowing can be found on the internet, heated up.

She doesn't know the rules of the internet. If you post anything on any social network, you will be found out. She stopped posting on reddit (her apparent ground zero was "girls gone wild" posts there). But Facebook knows who you are, even if they don't reveal it at the earliest opportunity. You shouldn't "like" yourself or link your porn account to your real account, by friends, likes or any other shared parameters. She also posted a picture of her Google wallet account (she found out that Paypal doesn't take "porn" money early on and had to figure out how to take our money), bragging. But as any forensic scientist knows, knowing what your computer screen looks like gives dozens of hints of where you are and what you do online, inadvertently offering many more leads for the lurkers and stalkers. And by that time, a couple people have found out her real name and location by looking at her friends on Facebook.

Her name is Amy Lew and she lives in Ladysmith, WI. Someone posted shots (update: links near bottom) of her pages. From there they figured out who her boyfriend (fiancé according to some accounts) who must have been the one taking all those videos, and got that blow-job (not a neighbor after all). She's also using or has used the names "Lynn Lew" and "Lynn Fortress." Maybe to protect her identity, but why do I know these pseudonyms? I'm no expert and even I know.

No legal trouble similar to her claimed "arrest" has been posted on the public arrest or legal websites, which begs the question - was that 2-week silence something completely different? Like perhaps, I'm guessing here, she disappeared with a couple grand and took a vacation to think this through?

Then she changed her mind, she came back and decided to claim she got in legal trouble (and got sympathy), to mount a bigger scam (a website) and take more of our wank money before disappearing?

All this didn't occur to me until I began running into "scam" claims. A boyfriend (fiancé?) who is actually filming her, a rush of attention and money... then a gap in which she disappears (cold feet?) then returns with bigger plans to rope in more people ("One last sting, baby!") and open two Facebook pages (Public Figure as well as Entertainer - pick your favorite.) to spread the word.

This is more than a amateur porn person trying to make a killing (or a living). Sure, she's actually pissing herself and jerking off and licking her dildo on tumblr (how is this still an active account?). The goods are there, and I've jerked off to her, but with the incoherent, politically naïve responses to dumb questions asked by anons (why even answer? Don't feed the trolls!) and overly bold announcements (and no follow through) she's bound to fall apart.

This can't end well, people. I predict that one day, she will suddenly disappear.

This could really all be a premeditated scam. The site would be set up to take your $9.99 a month with the promise of future private and "exclusive" clips. (Nothing tempts like taboos.) Having her act or appear much naive than she really is could be part of the play. But it's taking too long to get up - a strategic error for the scam to work. Because now the kinks are beginning to show (in a manner of speaking) and people are claiming they never got their custom videos of her jerking off whispering their name. The cards are getting wobbly at the bottom.

The attention on her is increasingly critical.  And it's not just us wankers.

At least one tumblr user, "trulydominate", is overly vitriolic when someone claims Whitney ripped them off. I'm half-convinced trulydominate is a ringer, intending to shout down the naysayers.

And to sell those items on the internet (across state lines) evokes the wire fraud and mail act, the internet treated similarly to a public utility that can not be used for commercial larceny, a federal offense.

This does not mean you will pay a fine. It's jail. Whether you're selling carburetors or panties.

If she's really involved in a get-rich-quick scheme, she's getting in over her head, and making rookie mistakes (she is after all, only 18). It's too late to fade away now.

She's a high school porn star on the internet who thinks she's not doing porn and that she can disappear from the internet.

She'll disappear in a way - either she'll cut the cord herself, saying "enough," or the law will come knocking one last time. I don't think we'll know the actual end to this story when it ends. Abruptly. But we can guess. 

She'll disappear in 10 minutes, or she disappeared 10 minutes ago. It may take 10 months but suddenly she won't be there. 

Some will think she went to the Bahamas. Others will find out she got arrested (and that can be found on the internet too, when it happens). But I can't imagine the law enforcement officers aren't quietly and rigorously monitoring her right now, even if it's not a scam and really just honest teenage horniness, waiting for that next obvious "indecent" or otherwise actionable offense, which she will also supply the video evidence for.

They won't fine her. They won't warn her. They don't want her to come back bragging she beat the rap again. 

They want her to be completely gone. And they'll do it once, and right.

And then, all we'll have is the copies of all those masturbation videos she made, on every tube site there is.

Marie Ekorre's Assets

40 years ago I found an issue of Penthouse in my father's drawer and there was a Swedish actress on the cover - and inside, uncovered. Named Marie Ekorre, she was smallish, almost boylike hips.

And as was happening at the time, the magazine was showing pubic hair more and more at that time. Certainly more than I had been used to in the Playboys I'd seen previously.

Her bush - and those of the women in the magazine, were dark, photographed straight on but with enough shadow and airbrushing to keep the mystery of the area tantalizing and a source of bottomless fascination to such a young male such as myself. I poured (figuratively and literally) over the photographs of Marie. I wonder if my dad every missed that issue. If he dared to ask - are you jerking off to my jerk-off material?

Marie Ekore had tan lines. The top of her thighs were flat soft expanses that only framed the pleasure she would offer you if you were to get close enough. She never smiled in the photos. And it was that ass that obsessed me.

She was the second woman I fell in love with in a magazine (see my write-up on Cheryl Rixon here (redhead, a little heavy and matronly, got it)). Marie Ekorre had that exotic look, pearls draped around her shoulders as her ass rested on that plush white-fur rug. I learned how to jerk off while looking at her pictures and came to her a dozen times.

I have been looking for an ass that perfect since.

Hot Words

I've been writing erotica for the last couple years.

No, not this stuff. This blog is more autobiographical. A diary. Perhaps it has made me more comfortable writing about sex, in a more fictionalized form.

I've always been a writer. The essay assignments and long-form answers never bothered me. I have written screenplays (with very little traction), short stories (a little more traction there), and a handful of novels. I may tell you what name you can find them under some time.

I also know that the word can be more powerful than the image. In part because the word hides its transgressive power in mere black and white. It must be received and processed to make clear how sharp they are.

Photos and videos are simple. They're out there for everyone, to be seen and don't need the actual processing to make people offended. Shocked. Or excited.

My main topic (my main topic?) is sex. How we negotiate it among each other and among ourselves. I like to introduce sexual situations into dramatic situations. When we become vulnerable, when we become naked, we reveal the most about ourselves.

That's good writing.

I've never written actual pornography - you know the kind. In which impossible housewives fuck impossible pizza guys. That kind of writing is not about people. It's about types. It's choreography rather than insightful.

In my humble opinion.

But when I add sex. When I have a guy suck off his best friend while "trading" his wife, I introduce not only a troublesome, possibly revealing plot twist. I also use rude pornographic imagery that prevents it from being seen in the best magazines.

I could write the wank material. I could be less literary and try to write erotic romances (a big field right now) and happily-ever-after fantasies.

But I'd rather have my characters, as complicated and not quite perfect as I like them to be, to find themselves fucking each other. For the right reasons, and more often for the wrong ones.

I love to jerk off to those porn-star naked women but I much more often love to jerk off to real people who have decided to make themselves vulnerable, naked and are showing me their truest, most complicated selves online. I get so hot knowing they have a backstory. Secrets.  A reason, maybe even they don't know.

When I write I get more excited when I figure out how real people are acting, in their otherwise boring course of the day.

The End Is Nigh

Dear Blogger User,

We're writing to tell you about an upcoming change to the Blogger Content Policy that may affect your account.

In the coming weeks, we'll no longer allow blogs that contain sexually explicit or graphic nude images or video. We'll still allow nudity presented in artistic, educational, documentary, or scientific contexts, or where there are other substantial benefits to the public from not taking action on the content.

The new policy will go into effect on the 23rd of March 2015. After this policy goes into effect, Google will restrict access to any blog identified as being in violation of our revised policy. No content will be deleted, but only blog authors and those with whom they have expressly shared the blog will be able to see the content we've made private.

Our records indicate that your account may be affected by this policy change. Please refrain from creating new content that would violate this policy. Also, we ask that you make any necessary changes to your existing blog to comply as soon as possible, so that you won't experience any interruptions in service. You may also choose to create an archive of your content via Google Takeout (https://www.google.com/settings/takeout/custom/blogger).

For more information, please read here (https://support.google.com/blogger?p=policy_update).

Sincerely,
The Blogger Team

(c) 2015 Google Inc. 1600 Amphitheatre Parkway, Mountain View, CA 94043

* * *

I will, at least, have a back-up of the 6 1/2 years of material. If you see this before the 23rd, ask for an invite so you can still get in here.

Ryan

Skin In The Game

I waited in the lobby to meet her. Without guilt and without remorse.

My wife wasn't fucking me anymore anyway.

I was not looking for revenge. Her faded love for me had nothing to do with how big his dick was compared to mine, no compulsion for me to even the score. No comparisons between the gifts he bought for her she had to hide, and the gifts I bought that she wore for a week after mother's day or valentines then left in the bottom of the closet.

I wasn't jealous of her having gotten fucked by a stranger to me. She was no longer mine. He wasn't competition, he was a life event.

I had to get on with my life. I asked her to meet me simply because she wasn't my wife. I had no hold on her and she wanted none. She was only a receptacle for my lust. She knew I wouldn't call her in the morning.  I didn't know her last name. All I knew was I'd fuck her and forget about her.

My wife would never ask. I couldn't tell anyone because my hurt and my loss of my wife was secret, out of my control. I wondered if by finding this strange woman willing to meet me at the hotel I could repair myself. My ego. I was desirable too. I didn't have to wait forever for her to want me again.

While you left me then to go fuck your old friend, I didn't leave you to fuck her, now. Here.

When she finally came in we talked about getting a drink first but I saw in her eyes she wanted to see if this was going to work before spending too much time. So instead we went right upstairs to my room.  She looked out the window and asked if I could kiss her and she grabbed my cock and we fucked and the entire time I was thinking of how I looked as if someone were watching across the room, rather than how it was feeling. Now. Here.

I made her come with my mouth. She told me I was great and we should get together again. I watched her go an hour and a half later, barely a heartbeat and I was already forgetting the details as I checked out later.

I don't know why that woman who was not my wife let me fuck her, or what she got out of it. Or if she'd really do it again. I don't know if I would ever do it again. If I even liked it, still wanted it, if it made me feel better or shitty.

If I would remember the encounter with affection or regret.

One thing I sensed, how my wife might have felt the first moment she let her old friend slide his cock inside her even though she was married.  Like the thin paper sleeve on the toilet seat in some hotel room. To ensure it's ready for use.  But once slipped off can't be replaced without becoming wrinkled.

You're My Porn

You don't want to know what I jerk off to, do you, baby?

Does it matter? When I'm fucking you it's completely different than watching porn. Porn is, like you know, fake.

Sure, I get hard watching porn. I jerk off and I cum to it.  But I get hard when I'm with you too. I cum as well. But I'm not thinking of something that can't ever happen (Camille Crimson or Mae Victoria (yeah, Mae Victoria)) ain't going to enter into my bedroom anytime ever. Never place their mouth on me.

I'm thinking of you.

This blog more than anything has made me extra aware of how and what I get hard for. Masturbating is really a personal interior moment, I'm getting in touch with my own sexuality and really sensitive to my own responses to my touch, the liquids, my hand, the sounds, what I'm watching and my (not so) secret fantasies.

The girls I'm looking at (or the guys) are not really here. It's only an illusion.

These anonymous performers are only suggestions for a state of mind, demonstrating sexual abandon and yeah, I get into the "mood" ...and my cock gets hard all right. The more I stroke it the better it feels and my mind gets addled, drunk on dopamine I guess, a self-feeding cycle.

If I don't keep a hand on the edge, I shoot.

But when I'm with you it's like the opposite response; I'm reading your responses. I love the interaction between us; I was never into the fuck-somebody-who-isn't-into-it or isn't even moving.
I love when you move under me, I love when you change position, kiss back, I love when you "try this with my hand here." Knowing I'm getting a response gets me hard, suddenly I have a hard-on and I want to fuck you. Not myself.

Only you say "Try to make it last as long as you can."

I'm not looking at porn to make myself hard. And looking at porn won't make me hard for you.

It isn't what I want (some bimbo getting fucked in the ass). I want to sit across from you. Smell you. Feel your lips. I know there's tension; part of me is still scared to death. Sometimes you won't even take off your camisole. I know you're insecure and all, but when I see you say fuck it - see your commitment - that you're all in, that you're vulnerable, that rewrites the moment.

No script, no mediation, no play-acting. It's funny that even with your pants off, you can still not be entirely "vulnerable".

The test still takes place the whole time. What if I cum too fast? What if I don't cum at all? What if she goes psycho on me? Is this going to "work" - I mean work here in person and the parting is sweet with kisses and a hug or will the phone ring? Will the thoughts crashing through me, still, excite or hinder?

I can't hit pause.

So fuck the problems that might occur, can we do this honest, intense, dirty, hot as fuck, terrible messy, and beautiful thing?

And survive. To know the vulnerability is "okay." That I share with you and get inside your head, you inside mine, inside your body, let you put your mouth on me, let go.  Hell, after a year and years, there's still more foreplay to do.

Foreplay is a question. To know that we fit, to know I love the way you taste, to know you were comfortable with me between your legs, sorry about the errant hair, we can drink together, laugh, sit naked, not be alone for a moment.

Those videos don't make me hard in the same way; they don't stroke me back.

You're my porn.