A STORY FOR THE NEW YEAR

WHAT DOES THIS MEAN TO YOU?


Throughout my ‘career’, I have only observed receiving calls that fall into what I call ‘after hours’ range the same way that I observe the milling around when ‘last call’ is signaled at the club. Or the receiving of a ‘drunk dial’ from an ex-lover, that whoever is initiating contact as the person who in lieu of ‘fail’, decides to swallow their pride and make the ‘call of fail’ and humble themselves before a plan gone astray. For the New Year, I received such a call.


If you know me (and I think that you do!) the whole New Year’s alone is no big thing. It has been over ten years since I spent a New Year’s Eve really celebrating with someone that I was in love with, and just as important, was in love with me! Being that I am in a transitory state and even if that was not so, that there is no more significance to my being alone on New Year’s than it is on Tax Day, so that said, I was pretty cool. My 2011 had already been declared a successful campaign and the lack of a significant personal relationship was not a big deal for the brother. Until I got home from the gym late on New Year’s Eve from the gym and was into some of the homework I have been working through on my Christmas break from school.


An IM appeared almost the instant I signed into my AOL account. “You sleep?” read the message. Another ‘notorious’ thing I am known for is going to bed early. “There ain’t nothing good that happens past midnight,” a boxing trainer once told me in my teens. That is a concept that I have kept and expanded into the thinking that covers the ‘drunk dial’ and the ‘lizard crawl round-up’ that happens after last call at nightclubs and bars.


“Did you get my message?” was the next question after my simple and tersely typed (as if my emotional emphasis could be felt on the internet), “No.” Which was true, but just barely so. I was struggling to get through a College Algebra lesson before I went to sleep. Though it was still early in the evening, I had accomplished all that I had set out to do for my New Year’s, and since my local friend had already announced her plans, plans which did not include this brother, I was more than a little surprised by the conversation that followed.


She told me that her plans had fell through and that she was going to wash her hair and get back in touch with me. I shrugged my shoulders, “Whatever,” I thought. There was no reason to think that she would do so and I did not hold my breath but instead resumed my slog through my homework.


TWO AND A HALF HOURS LATER


A smurf is TIRED! With the school being closed and access to the Math Center being put off until school resumes, I am stuck on problems and unsure of what I am working through. AOL is still open and I get another IM, essentially asking if I was dressed and showered from my workout. Staring into my laptop’s display, my lips curl at the end, questioningly. “She must be kidding,” I think before I answer. This is a movie that I have seen before. “She told me she had plans long before and I never thought once about being a part of her celebration. It is a special one for her, because it isn’t only the New Year but her birthday and a personal milestone at that. I expected that he plans were going to be involved and full of ‘merriment and drinking’, and with my evening wear still back where I came here from, I accepted that I was not going to be invited out with her and her friend(s).


The ambiguity of our relationship left me nonplussed about being left out of her original plotting for her evening. We were better friends when we were just on-line friends than we have been since our relationship went from one on the internet to one that was a relationship IRL. And with the frequent ‘do over’s’ and reboots that we had gone through over the year (for the sake of discussion, fold in the actual three months prior to that ‘year’), had resulted in my stepping away from her formally in October. I had simply had enough and despite her acknowledging her behavior and admitting to loving me, I was ‘unsympathetic’. The three condoms that I had from the original twelve that I had in the box, to me at least, spoke volumes.


For the past five, six years, the ability to count the numbers of times that I have had sex has been downright humbling. The idea that I can keep track is to me, astonishing. The reason for the astonishment isn’t due to my proclivity for bedding women. I am astonished because the six years also covers time spent participating in relationships. That we are supposed to be in an intimate relationship and can’t find ourselves in bed more than 9 times in a calendar year is an indication of too many negative issues than I care to confirm. But rest assured, it was a primary factor in why I decided to raise the depth of my feelings towards her and put them in the shallow end of the pool.


Her awkward probing of what I was up to (as if she didn’t know by now) was to see if I was available to ‘fill in’ for whatever fell through. “Get your backpack ready with a change of clothes,” she instructed. “I will be over to come and pick you up in a few.” By now, I was finally ‘sleepy’ and I groggily put some stuff in an overnight bag. I also had a card for her big moment that I was going to put into the mail, but hadn’t. “Eh, I get to give it to her F2F,” I thought. Still trying to scramble and get my things together, the phones sounds to announce that it has received a text. “Ok,” I said grabbing my bag, “let’s do this.” And I was out the door.


Descending down in the elevator to the main floor, I finally reflected on what was actually taking place. What was bringing me suddenly out of my comfort zone and down into the ‘unknown but still predictable’ circumstance I was about to face? It was ‘the moment’. As I said, last night was a night of personal significance to her and when her plans fell apart, my instinct took over. The aching was not in my loins but in my heart and in my soul. I know disappointment, and that we still communicate is a testament to how I balance my personal feelings from my obligation to others in my life, despite the status of our relationship. She was hurting and I felt called to fill the emptiness that she was feeling.


Exiting the lift and heading towards the door to the glass doors separating the entrance to my building from the parking lot, I thought to myself, “Alright brother Mark, you go out that door and YOUR plans will catch a cramp!” I hoped to get along with my assignments, sleep well, go to the gym and pick up my ‘scripts from the chemist. That and watching the Lions game was all that I had or felt I needed to have on my first day of the year schedule.


But I opened the passenger door and sat down, energy coming from some unknown source and enthused to be in her company. “Did you want to take your bag off?” she asked. My overnight bag was strapped to my back and I excitedly said that it was alright and implored her to go off into the night.


SMALL TALK LEADS TO EVENTUAL SILENCE


Though I don’t know where she is driving to, I do know where she is going. By indication, I could figure she had a nice hotel room or whatever. I knew enough about her to recognize how she rolled, and now I could get a fix on her M.O., for future reference. I could now come up with a better profile on how she conducts her relationships, failing the forming of a general profile, recognizing her behavior in our relationship.


Arriving at the room, we take up position on the love seat and begin to watch with marginal interest the televised festivities. The ball that signifies the beginning of the first day of the year is met with our kissing each other, blandly, with passion being absent from our embrace.


Words. Words, words, words. Then fewer words in a drab monotone. A half-hearted offer to rub shoulders and a resigned declination of said offer. Getting up, she decides to change into her sleepwear, an oversized satin pajamas shirt, sans shorts or panties. I would then ask a question. “Where am I going to sleep?” I ask. This was an area of consternation in our first year together. Was our lack of interaction due to my passivity or was most of it due to her emotional unavailability? The question of being ‘the man’ in relationships had long since been solved in my life and if we weren’t getting along any better, I wasn’t going to claim any more responsibility for our lack of communication. “A smurf moved essentially cross-country and scaled all manner of obstacles to get here,” I had thought to myself when I decided to end what had become an unnecessary and difficult chase of her. There seemed no end to the manufacture of reasons for her to keep up her zone of unavailability, and I was not even the least bit empathetic towards her. But empathy is what had me in her studio hotel room, watching her drink margarita’s and sulk at the way her big night had turned out.


Asking her the question of whether or not there was a spot for me to lay my head seemed to spring her into action. “You are going to have to leave… you know you can sleep in the bed, why do you …” Her voice trailed. We been over that subject many times since I had arrived, and that was simply my story and I was sticking to it. “Dang,” I said aloud, “I forgot my pajamas.” This was not out of the ordinary, even when we operated on clearer, more defined terms. I sleep clothed and have forever, so my being somewhat flustered because I had left my sleepwear was not completely out rounds.


THE PRELIMINARIES ARE OVER… TIME FOR THE MAIN EVENT


The problem with tribbles is that they are trouble! Who starts the touching, the cuddling, along with the kissing and the ‘sweet nothings’ that is a part of the process? In my long and varied career, this had never been a problem. But for the first time in like, ever, I have no idea of how to get from ‘here’ to ‘there’. Affections like holding hands and cuddling close are not part of her sexual personae, which makes her unique among the people that I have been with. “Most men I know have told me that I think like a guy,” she told me once. I thought that mainly covered her appetite and willingness to ‘enter into hostilities’. What I did not know was that this covered her aloofness when it comes to affections. Even when she told me that she did not have to be reminded of all the affectations that make up the standard for relationships, the sweet nothings, the hand holding and occasional inappropriate goosing, that happens when you are in a ‘loveship’, I did not think that it went to the extent that it did with her. How was I, Monsieur Savoir Faire, expected to get from first base all the way home?


Understandably, this was another complication in our relationship. How was I supposed to indicate that I wanted to sleep with her if we don’t express our desires physically? No kissing, not a caress, then how??


So I have been without my trusted cues, cues that had led to the absconding with many a pair of panties on raids of all kinds, blitz attacks and deep covert action behind the lines. At this stage of my career, I prefer not to have to resort to subterfuge, less there is a great misunderstanding, whether it is to the level of commitment or the unintended consequence of risk ( a cat does not need jealous boyfriends, revanche-seeking family members, or a potential Alex Forest’s in his life!) involved in a relationship, I want to know what it is I am getting into. Or should I have said, “wanted”. Her ambiguity left me non-plussed and for me, uncertainty is a repudiation of desire and when it comes to relationship, I don’t want what I don’t know.


Lying next to her in bed, the first few minutes seemed to stretch into agonizing hours. Whether it is a matter of courage or of roles, I don’t have the level of comfort in pressing the moment. That we were in a hotel room, two people attracted to each other and desiring… what? “Fuck it,” I told myself. “Give what she brought you here for.”


Reaching across her chest, I start to un button and open her shirt, to reveal her light brown, 40 D breast, the contrast of her darker, honey brown areola, appearing perfectly round, and her nipples acting like a homing beacon for my mouth, I crawl over her and began to suckle gently on her nipples. With my hand travels down to her pussy, fat and warm with passion that had been building inside of her. My fingers find their way to her vaginal lips and start to rub and caress them as her pussy moistens. Still suckling on her nipples, I let my fingers enter her moist and warm cunt. A few minutes go by, with me sucking on both of her breasts before I begin kissing down her torso towards her waist. I position myself between her legs and I put my face full into her pussy, her juices covering my lips and my cheeks. Her moans serve to confirm that she is enjoying the sensation of my lips and tongue over her cunt.


Adjusting for access, I slide my hand underneath her buttocks and put her ass on a platform and I insert my tongue into her asshole, licking greedily back and forth between her pussy and asshole and making her twist and moan in ecstasy in reaction to my efforts. Preparing to mount and enter her, she puts her hand on my chest. “Wait a minute,” she says, pausing to get a condom. She hands it to me and I think to myself, “Well, there goes spunking her on her chest tonight,” which, along with spunking her throat, is a personal goal of mine.


HOW LONG DID IT LAST?


Long enough! Okay, believe it or don’t, hear is the deal. I am not a big fan of my own orgasm. One, men get enough trouble with being labeled as ‘selfish’ and ‘inconsiderate’ in the bedroom. In fact, that was how I got started going down, with the intention of making sure that ‘she got something’, if she didn’t get the ‘big O’. Also, there is a physical discomfort, not a pain, just an odd feeling that helps keep me from ejaculating. Weird, I know, but it is true!


When it comes to sex, as much as I like it that is all it is, a like. One of the things that I sort of don’t know what to do with is when a woman is going to ‘make me cum’. Shee-oot! I CAN’T DO THAT!! Maybe if I did the whole ‘self-love’ thing when I was young I’d be more ‘sensitive’ in that way, but I don’t know. Anywho…


Doze. Awaken and get after it. Doze. Rinse and repeat. Finally we drifted into a nap-like sleep. Reaching over, I again begin to manually stimulate her, her cunt dripping with juice and my mouth all over her breast, which she obligingly hold and squeezed for better access and because it does turn me on. She is so wet that I can slide a finger into her tight asshole, and her reaction is to moan and undulate as she accepted my digits into her. Then she said those magic words, “Do you want to fuck your ass?”


Along with some of her other sexual peccadilloes, the whole “Whose is it?” (you know, “Whose pussy is this!” and “Gimme my pussy!”) conversation is a non-starter with her. That is cool, because that, along with “the best” ( and “this or that is the best”, and “Who is the best”) talk is a little beyond me as well. Never trust the Chinese and never trust someone who tells you that you “the best”. But she does give me her ass, and I do tell her that her ass is the best. And it is. From the first time we were ever together, I told her that I wished that when we were together that I had explored it more than I did. She asked me why, as we would “return to our corners”, her to her home town and me to my “less than happy” home with the Mooks. I would tell her how good it felt in my hands and how much that I liked looking at it. Apparently my obsession-like attraction to her ass triggered something in her. She wanted to experience having a dick put in her asshole, and I ain’t new to fucking a woman in her ass.


She handed me a tube of lubricant and assumed the position, doggy-style on the bed. Getting everything ready, I insert my dick into her tight bung and begin to stroke her. And really, I love her ass, whether she is in her pants, or, face down and her ass in my face.


We start slow but build to where I am banging her and she is getting turned on more and more with each stroke. “I am about to cum Mark,” she sighs, “I am about to come!”
Now here is a difference between anal sex and vaginal intercourse. A lot of men think that when they are banging a woman’s pussy that upping the intensity will make her either come or more ready to. I disagree. When a woman is on the verge of orgasm from intercourse, it is the continued and steady pressure that brings her orgasm on, maybe a nipple bite or ass-slap. But when it comes to anal intercourse, something primal may be occurring. But THAT is when ‘banging the drum’ is a turn on and adds to the experience.


Hearing that she is about to release, I ratchet my intensity, smacking into her hard and the smacking resounding in our room. Finally, she releases, and I feel her muscles tense and relax. This brings me to orgasm and I cum inside of her. What I did not know was that I was condom-less, and had I known, then I would have REALLY fucked her ass. Hey, a smurf was tired, and it was all I could do to get into gear to get back into having sex.


AND WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?