on my way home
to my girlfriend
fresh hickey on my neck
she’s going to see it
it’s so over
okay here’s the plan. here’s what i’ll do: i’ll keep my collared shirt on, give her a hug, take a shower, change into a turtleneck, keep wearing these around her for the next couple days until it fades off. she’s blind, she won’t notice.
actually I should just shower immediately, i definitely smell like Dog. this girl i was with had a huge husky who would not leave us alone.
the husky actually continued to bark and whine and howl in the little studio apartment while i vigorously insanely fucked this girl who i just met today with no condom while we both screamed YES YES HOLY FUCKING SHIT YES OH MY GOD IT FEELS SO GOOD YES, like stupid animals.
she trusted me to pull out, i trusted her to be “clean” — we trusted each other.
i have no STDs, i do have a girlfriend, though. sorry. she let it slip at some point that she’s looking for a relationship but i don’t care. when i’m alone in a room with a girl who looks like you I’m thinking one thing: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK LETS FUCK I WANT TO FUCK YOU NOW
sadly it was some of the best sex i’ve ever had. we spent a good half-hour just wrestling on her bed, playing. trying to force each other down. i was usually on top of her of course but she was strong and adamant and rambunctious so it took all of my energy to keep her down—what a rush.
when we were finally ready to transition to sex, the bed was drenched in sweat. i was dripping; the conditions were not amenable to intercourse. i asked if i could use her shower. she let me. i did. soon after we’re cuddling and comfortable and i’m hard as a rock and ready to take it out on her.
she swallows my dick, i’m entranced, breathing thank you baby oh my god, wondering why she’s doing this for me, praying to god this girl isn’t just trying to make me cum so i leave her alone, hoping that this is just foreplay, and it is, i rip her pajama pants and panties off and fuck her with her shirt on. i almost forget about her huge soft perfect breasts until they’re dancing in motion.
it’s been so long since i’ve been so intimate with a girl with some meat on her bones. lugging her fertile body back and forth— pure bliss. i tried to pop a condom on, two of them, they felt terrible, dry, unnatural, so i had to ask…
Do You Trust Me
“do you trust me?” is what I said it once became apparent I won’t be able to stay hard in any condom. those things aren’t made for sensitive young men like me. i give her a stern look and sigh-ask: “are you clean?” she says something amounting to yes. she sheepishly asks if i am, clean, too, i say yes and I mean it.
I want to say I’ve been fucking the same girl for years—I know I’m clean, as much as I know anything—but I don’t say that, I just say “yes, I am.” And she says “okay, I trust you.” She really shouldn’t, given the circumstances. She has no idea. My girlfriend back home has no idea. Why am I doing this, I have no idea.
I’m taking her from behind. oh my god she feels perfect. i’m pulling her hair, she’s in a happy trance, we’re both screaming, the dog is finally dead silent, the pouring rain drowns it all out, it’s a cold Sunday evening in the pacific northwest and this random girl Jen and I are having the time of our lives here in this dark place tonight.
we’re struggling to contain words like i love you, i know it. this is sex i’ll be thinking about for a while and if i know women, she will too. i ask do you trust me to pull out. she says yes. it’s tough to not cum, i have to restrain myself, which always kind of neuters it, but it’s for the best, i want her to enjoy it too, so it will happen again.
pulling out is gay. huge thick ropes of cum erupt vertically. i’m practically crying at this point. she asks did you pull out in time? i say yes, but i can’t be sure. dripping all over her big fat thighs.
like a good soldier acting in long-formed habit, i immediately sprung to life for wet paper towels. i’m sure some guys just lay there drowning in cum—not me, i’m always covering my tracks.
The Less You Know The Better
Today my thighs are cooked, recently overworked from our sweaty adult play-date. My hamstrings burn, screaming in pain. Every step I take reminds me of you.
You’re sore too, I’m sure, so I’m quite smug imagining you might be having the same experience.
All day I fight the urge to text. The narcissistic urge to send you a picture of myself. The pathetic urge to ask you for the same. Fighting the urge to send you some words, any of the trillion words I’ve typed over the past three years, or the particularly ugly ones of the past three days, in some vain attempt to impress you, move you, make you understand.
The truth is, the less you know the better. I’m bad news. You can’t know my social media, you can’t know my work, you can’t know my friends, you can barely know my name. I’m dreading the moment you ask for some kind of verification that I’m a real person, some kind of proof.
I’m really hoping that you are just like me. But you’re not— I know you’re not, and I also know that hope is for losers without a plan.
I’m hoping that you, too, are in a relationship, cheating on your significant other with me, and it’s one of the most stupid exhilarating things you’ve ever done. I’m hoping you are just using me like I’m using you.
I’m hoping that you are here in uncharted territory with me. I’m hoping you are not looking for a long-term steady partner. I’m hoping that reading these words won’t give you The Ick, but I know they will. You’re more of a picture person anyways.
Please, no hickeys. That is all I ask. For… work, that’s all. It’s unprofessional. I hired somebody yesterday over Zoom. It is important that I remain at least somewhat visually legitimate.
I can’t be sporting big ass kiss bites on my neck. But believe me, I would love for you to leave big ass kiss bites all over my neck, my chest, everywhere— in fact I want your lips on my body right now at this very moment, and forever, actually— but please, no hickeys.
I can’t stop remembering this moment: "Do you trust me?" I’m nearly inside of you. You’re pinned down on your back. Face to face, moment of truth. I’m conflicted but life is short, fuck it. Do you trust me? I am a psychopath. If you can lie in a situation like that, what can’t you do?
You ask me frequently throughout our time together: do you usually do it like this? do you usually take breaks? do you usually sweat so much?
Hey, I’m not doing this every weekend. There is no usually. I have no plan.
And that’s the truth. I had a phase where I was using dating apps but that was years ago. You’re the first girl I’ve really been with, besides my girlfriend, in a long time. I’m a basically a virgin again. But I know what I want right now and you’re it.
I don’t usually tell her to try to pin me down. I don’t usually use the belt like that. You turn into a playful brat when you’re aroused and I fucking love it. A challenging little whore. God I’m killing myself just writing this. I was in the gym today, pacing, thinking about what I’m going to do to you tomorrow— it was the wrong day to wear grey sweatpants.
And I know you’re thinking it too. You’re preparing for that conference in the city, but I know every time you stand up and feel that lactic acid in your arms and legs, you remember what we did. What I did to you. How I looked at you. You remember “Do You Trust Me?” You were dead sober— you remember everything.
I was not sober. On the way to our date I stopped at a gas station and asked if they had “any of those little mini shooters with alcohol in ’em…” The words didn’t come out right. The nice old white couple behind the counter, clearly locals, seemed disturbed by my presence. Smelling the stench of the city, my urgency, they could tell that I was up to no good. They told me, “We ain’t got none of those here, sorry.” So, I bought a raspberry lemonade wine cooler, an alcoholic juice box, and sipped it cringing in the parking lot, wiping it off my clothes.
How could I just walk in there sober. Cool as a cucumber. My GF has friends who live in this town. I have friends in this town. I really shouldn’t be doing this. If I’m dead sober— that’s what I’m thinking, the whole time.
Instead I walk in with the confidence of a normal single fit young adult white man on an adventure with absolutely nothing to lose. Thank you, alcoholic juice box.
Order something gay from the barely legible menu and sit across from you at that tiny table for our Can I have Sex With You Interview. Usually on dates I position myself beside the subject so we can observe the place together, and eventually touch each other. That was not happening at this cafe. It was densely packed.
This would be a long face-to-face interview. Which actually turned out not to be so bad, because you do not mind talking about yourself, and I do not mind listening. I do not mind getting to know a new person, piecing you together, learning your speech patterns, following your eyes, imagining our bodies intertwined.
I don’t mind at all when you turn your head and I see your face from a new angle and I feel those gay little butterflies in my stomach like I used to,
and if you prompted me to say something at this moment I’d come up completely blank, head empty, perhaps even gooning to the sight of your face,
but thank god you just keep yapping, never stopping long enough to elicit the crucial information from me that would send us both home, very sad and alone.
The less you know the better.
Shinji is literally you