To Do or Not To Do....or What to Do?

Was just kissed. Don't know what to make of it. Should I go for it, or...not?


That's the basic dilemma.


Alcohol is fuzzing my thought process up.


And he's one of my closest friends.


And this will not turn into a relationship anyhow.


Fuck.

What do I do?

Farewell, dry spell.

The events of the last twenty-four hours have been insane; almost too much to come to terms with. That dry spell I was worried about? Well, it's been broken. And how!

I've known for a while now that I'm bi-curious. The Ex almost had me convinced that I was bisexual (and that that was a bad thing) way back when, the time I licked my best friend's fingers and enjoyed it. Guys have this tendency to get really insecure about bisexual women - and I'm not surprised. The irony is that the girl I spent last night with had recently been broken up with because (amongst other things) the boyfriend couldn't deal with her bisexuality. Today's his birthday, incidentally, so we had to go watch him cutting a cake at midnight. She and I were crazy drunk from the party earlier.

She propositioned; I confessed indecision; she pressed; I remained undecided; she initiated it with a kiss; I didn't resist.

She was really, really fucking good at what she did, making me beg, whine and moan to be touched some more every time she stopped. I'd like to believe that I didn't do so badly myself, but the darkness coupled with my slight hesitation didn't allow me to be as daring as I would have liked to be. But she seemed to like whatever it was that I did manage to do. And I think I surprised her (pleasantly) by bringing out the ropes and toys and lube and using them as I did. It'd been so long since I had indulged in play that it felt really good to go through the motions, make the whispers, elicit moans, punish and bestow as I pleased.

It was fun. It was sexy. It was erotic. It was drunken. It was my first time with another girl. It was great. Fucking. (ha.) Great.

And to remind myself of it, I have a deep, dark red bruise on my neck where she marked me with her mouth.

Sketch: Food Play

Hands tied behind back, made to kneel, mouth open.

Cold, sweet mango juice slowly poured into mouth; told to hold it there till required, to keep the mouth open, no swallowing, no gagging. 

Touch plays down body, focuses on the sides, shoulders, neck, ears and arms. Slowly, like a flame being fanned, skin begins to radiate heat as arousal grows. 

Soft kisses brush the underside of jaw, trail down throat; slow licks lazily travel across trembling membranes of skin. 

Tongue slowly snakes into mouth; flicks at juice - just a taste. 

Lips clamp onto lips, and the juice is sucked out in a rush, tongue finding tongue, warmth replacing cold sweetness. Juice is passed back and forth, dripping from the corners of lips, down to the chin, along the jaw. It is licked at, tongue swirling, making patterns across skin, leaving a faint stickiness. 

When all the juice has been tasted, shared, swallowed, cold-warm mouth moves down and engulfs a breast, sucking on the nipple and massaging the flesh. Wet sucking fills the air. Cold-warm mouth moves to other breast, repeats.

Soft gasps. 

Hand reaches up and covers mouth, thumb reaching inside and hooking into warm, wet insides of cheek, grazing gums 'tween teeth and lips. 

Shivers.

Moans around thumb; eyes roll into back of head, eyelids flutter closed with a sigh. 

Surrender. 

Goosebumps travel across flesh in waves, are massaged away by hands, mouth, hair. Touch brushes collarbone lightly, a buzzing starts in the head. Stickiness is sought out by tongue, devoured by mouth, replaced with bruises. 

Sudden heat as molten chocolate is poured over collarbone, breasts, shoulders. Back arches, legs spread wider. The heat burns, trickling, then flowing down between breasts, over navel, tangling with pubic hair, stopping just short of outer lips.

Slow, languid licks spread, then wipe molten brown from collarbone, shoulders, navel. Breasts are toyed with, topped with cool whipped cream, savoured. Time draws into a thin, fine line stretching to infinity. 

Soft sighs.

Without warning, pushed onto back, hands still tied underneath, stickiness all over now. Legs spread wide, lips in and out on display.

Involuntary shiver.

Wait.

Breath.

Silence.

Raw, animalistic gasp of disbelief as molten chocolate is poured onto the lips, the clit, burning its way through throbbing heat and strands of wetness, fine pale lines in a stream of dark brown. Uncontrollable shaking as tongue laps at lips and clit, drinking the chocolate in. Heat meets warmth meets wetness meets lust meets orgasm.

Screams. 

Tears leak from eyelids; shaking stops, breathing regains pace. 

Tongue gently laps at fluids, licking, cleaning. 

Mouth moves up body, dealing with stray droplets of chocolate, juice, sweat. 

Hands reach around to untie wrists. 

Lips move to lips, share a kiss.

Eyes meet.

Racing Against the Clock

I can't stand the thought of going a year without sex. It scares me. A dry year would be...just...awful. I'd feel insecure, unattractive, unhappy. I do like sex. I do want it. So I'm not too happy that I haven't had any in so fucking long.

I last had sex on around about the 18th of April last year. Today's the 8th of February. I have just over two months to go out there and get some before I sink into depression and then proceed to turn up drunk at The Ex's birthday or something.

I'll admit, I like fucking, even if I'm not as big a fan of it as some other people I know. That might have a great deal to do with my inability to orgasm except under very specific circumstances (count so far: one orgasm over at least fifty-odd fucks). But then again, after much thought, I've come to the conclusion that though The Ex was really awesome and considerate in bed, we were still very young and inexperienced. He was my first, and I was his, so that makes it a given that it couldn't have been the best sex ever (though I didn't have anything to compare it with, really). I really enjoyed sex with him, and have, as a result of the generally good experiences I had with him, developed a healthy appreciation and appetite for sex. But I can't say that I always loved the sex. Not coming kinda does that to you. And when he stopped coming, the fucking suddenly didn't seem all that enjoyable - what's the point of exerting yourself so much if neither of you are getting anywhere? Sure, I like (no, wait; I love) the joyous sensation of being filled up oh-so-slowly; that glorious friction; that irresistible feeling of smoothness sliding into you. Sure. But the next step, the next level -  it just wasn't there after a while. I don't remember climbing that mountain with him more than that one time. (I'm happy to report that he went over it many, many times with me. Lost count of how many times. Heh.) I just think the passion went out of the sex after a while, and then we were just fucking each other for the heck of it. Because it felt good. Or something. 

But back to thoughts for the future. I believe that there's better (waaay better) sex waiting out there for me. And I want to go out there and get it. And I really want to go out there and get it before I hit that ominous one-year mark. I'll just go kill myself or drink myself into stupefaction if I have a dry year to deal with. Also, then, I'll get super-desperate, and try to fuck anyone and anything just to get rid of the stigma. Good decision-making is sure to go down the drain at that point, and I'm not particularly inclined to be in that position. Especially because then I'll become that desperate drunk whore. Nu-uh. That is not going to be me. I'm gonna go out there and get laid with class. Heh.

I'm racing against the clock here now. I really hope this month in Delhi will get me where I want to go. Fingers well and truly crossed.