Your mouth on my cock, all I could think of was that scene at the beginning of Rocky Horror when the stream of motorcycles passes Brad and Janet on the dark country road in the storm.
As I lay back in the seat in your car, it was dark, drizzling, on the desolate corner. We had gotten in to avoid the gaze of a somewhat apologetic (but also leering) dog-walker moments earlier. You had driven just a few blocks down, to a still more desolate corner. Your tongue was tickling the underside of my cock, my jeans and boxers down around my waist. We had met two hours earlier.
When the second van passed, we both chuckled. You were a bit more concerned than I. The third vehicle to pass was a full-on Fung Wah bus. “Shit,” you said, lifting and turning your head to look at me. “Now there’s gonna be a busload of passengers coming around the corner in a few minutes.”
“Um, I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m pretty sure this is where the bus is parking for the night. In any event, they sure wouldn’t let a busload of passengers from Washington off here.”
And with that, you lowered her head once again. Moments later, I asked for permission to cum in your mouth. “O.k.,” you said. And I did.
But I’m ahead of myself….
I sat in the bar, a divey, neighborhood place – not my neighborhood, not my bar, but not yours either – waiting for you. We hadn’t yet met. We had exchanged e-mails on OKC – on my “vanilla” profile, which doesn’t link to this blog. But I had pointed you to the blog, and so you had been here.
You still wanted to (o.k., maybe you really wanted to) go out with me after checking out the blog.
[You read this blog. There’s something a bit – awkward – for me about meeting a person who has been to the blog. You may have read every single post (hard to imagine, but it has happened). Or you may have read just a couple of posts. And depending on how much/what you have read, you may know a whole lot about me. Or not very much at all.
In the world of work, it’s safe to presume that someone I’m meeting with has Googled me and knows everything there is to be known publicly about me. Not so in the world of blogging/dating.]
So anyway, in you walked. I’m sitting in the back, up a few steps, amid a taxidermic display of a wolf poised to eat some owls. You walk up the steps to me – “HI!” I say, and pull you toward me, kissing you hello on your cheek, but pulling your body toward me hard. To communicate my immediate interest. You look hot – not tiny, as I had imagined, but delicious, sexy. You have brown hair, bright eyes, clear skin. You’re wearing cords and a black blouse, just a bit flouncy, but I can’t quite make out your breasts’ size or shape.
We engage in small talk. I learn about your work. About your relationships, past and present. About the action you’ve seen recently (a lot).
You apologize – “I want to step outside for a cigarette.” Have you read that I quit? Is this something you know? Do you know that though I quit, I still love second-hand smoke? “I’ll come with you,” I say. And as soon as we’re out the door, I press you up against the glass and kiss you, hard, one hand on your hip, the other on your neck, both pulling you toward me.
“You taste good,” I say. “I like kissing you. Now light your cigarette, so I can taste the smoke, too.”
You light your cigarette and take a few drags before I kiss you again. “Yum,” I say.
More chit chat, more kissing, then back in the bar. We finish our drinks, and leave. I walk you to your car. “How are you getting home?” you ask.
“I’ll either take the bus or you’ll drive me,” I say.
“I’ll drive you,” you say, and open the passenger door for me to climb in….