Great Heights

In the spring of my junior year of college, I decided to start hooking up again. 

At this point, my only experience with a “hookup” was poorly-executed car sex in the parking lot of my dorm with a classmate the night before a biopsychology exam. He was older, taller, ate experimental dining hall mac-n-cheese with me, was good at explaining synaptic vesicles (a key theme in our second exam), but our one-night-stand was awkward. The memory of it still makes me cringe, and looking back, it might have been the cause for my 3 year “vow” of celibacy. 

Finally, I was horny enough to brave the awkwardness for the chance of something spontaneous and hot. Happily, the resurgence of my sex drive coincided with a week in which I planned to do quite a bit of socializing: my 21st birthday. 

The night before I turned 21, I went out just before midnight with two of my friends. Before I was “of age,” any urges I felt to party or imbibe had to be satisfied with either a frat party or house show. Frat parties provided free beer, but a near-constant stream of people tongue wrestling next to me while I tried to enjoy my lukewarm Natural Light. House shows cost me money, but I could dance to live ska bands and occasionally come across unopened cartons of cigarettes; the beer was no better, unfortunately, and I’d had had enough of folks sloshing cups of wine (that I’m convinced was actually vinegar) on my shoes. 

So now, at 20 years and 364.5 days of age, I was frothing at the mouth in anticipation of entering a bar or club. 

My friends came to my apartment and we got down to business: Namely, sipping Coke Zero mixed with questionable vodka from tiny mason jars, and getting our outfits on. We squeezed into my bathroom, taking turns using my full-length mirror to put finishing touches on our “evening looks.” I particularly love watching my friends apply mascara, so I was having the time of my life. That night, I had the distinct honor of debuting my best friend’s new shirt, so I respectfully wore my best bra. 

Around 11pm, we went out for dessert, and I had my “first sip of alcohol” at the stroke of midnight. We moved on to a carnival-themed bar, and the first thing I saw when I walked in (carnival items aside), was an excruciatingly familiar face. 

He was seated in a booth with a group of friends, but he stood out—he looked like a giant, despite being tucked into the corner. We made instant eye contact, and I immediately felt as though there were only two of us in the entire bar. Not in a “the rest of the world disappeared and the background noise dimmed when we made eye contact,” way, but in more of a “I feel on display” way. I truly felt as though I knew him. The lingering male gaze is not something I seek very often, but when this familiar stranger undressed me with his eyes, I was not opposed (read: I was thrilled). 

My (friend’s) shirt, gray and cut out almost entirely in the front, felt as though it was wrapping itself tighter onto me; my corset-like lace bra, previously only pleasantly tight, suddenly felt a little constricting. He took in every inch of me, from my braided hair down to my gold buckle belt. Unfortunately, he lingered a bit too long at my belt and I broke the gaze in a panic, thinking I left my pants unzipped. My pants were not unzipped, as it turns out, but I was relieved the moment broke. Any more of that intense eye contact, and I would have combusted. I turned to my friend who was (very sweetly, I might add) buying me a birthday drink, and told her we had to move downstairs ASAP so I could figure out who I had seen. 

On our way down, I went through a list of men I knew from my classes: 

“Not Nick from personality theory….. I think I’d sit with him more often if he was this intimidating to look at.”

“No, definitely not Jack from jazz band...I’m friends with him… I’d know...” 

My friends and I went through my list of recent matches on all my dating apps, but no one fit the bill of the man in the corner of the booth upstairs.

A few sips (and several conversation swipe-throughs) later, I remembered. It was Max, from Tinder (and also Bumble; I love matching with folks on multiple dating platforms). We had messaged him a few times on both apps, but never made solid plans. I did have his phone number... The blowjob shot (a potent mix of Bailey’s, Kahlua, amaretto; whipped cream on top for the joke) coursing through my veins gave me the courage to text him: “Did I just see you upstairs in a booth?” 

Five minutes went by, and I was absolutely panicking. My blowjob shot was wasting away, the whipped cream melting off, condensation on the glass regrettably resembling the sweat on my skin.

“What if it wasn’t him? What if he thinks I’m ugly IRL? What if he ignores me because I ghosted him?” 

My phone buzzed: “That’s me! You just came in, right? Where are you now? I want to say hi.” 

Relieved, and also scared shitless, in an extreme butterflies kinda way, I told my friends what was going on, and politely asked them to move as far away from me as possible. They obliged (though not as far away as I would have liked), and I sat in the little booth and waited for Max to come down. True to his Bumble profile, he was an absolute giant— towering above everyone else under 6’7. 

I’ll admit it! I love tall men. I had been ghosted a few months prior by a guy I had considered ditching celibacy for; he was the tallest guy I had ever “known,” (6’6!) and after getting shunned by him, I felt some bizarre urge to find an even taller guy. Max most definitely fit the height bill, but I had yet to see if we were compatible otherwise. 

I waved at him (but I should have given him a description of myself: “I’m in the gray top that’s mostly boob”), and he walked over to my table. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my friends watching intently. 

He sat down in the booth right next to me. Given our height difference, I saw mostly chest—specifically, a very filled-out blue flannel. I peered a little closer, hoping that little hint of chest hair I saw peeking through the top button wasn’t a figment of my overworked and horny imagination. And it wasn’t! 

I’d like to emphasize that he sat right next to me—thigh-touch and all.  This might’ve been an artifact of loud, bar-like environments, where it’s easier to sit as close as humanly possible to one another, lest you get caught yelling your words during a break in the music. But, I was delighted. It had been too long since I had “felt the touch of a man,” and the air around us was charged. I was focused on every visible aspect of our size difference: my knees reached the middle of his thighs, he had to extend and cross his legs under the table, while my feet barely brushed the floor. I’ll get to his hands later... 

We talked a bit, mostly about ourselves: He works at a tech startup, we went to the same college. He wasn’t significantly older, but we had had no overlap in college. It felt oddly like speed dating, or maybe the conversation you have before you meet up: “Where are you from?”, “What are your hobbies?” Blessedly, we did not discuss “what we were seeking on dating apps” – nor did our conversation actually feel stilted (despite my friends making quite a scene, ogling at us a few tables away).

Finally, Max and I broached the subject of our previous Tinder and Bumble conversations. 

He asked, gently, “Why didn’t we ever meet up before?” 

I laughed, “I didn’t know what we would do. But that’s not a problem now, I don’t think.” 

I made a “stars aligning joke,” which he took as a sign to get even cozier in our booth. I thought we had achieved maximum snugness already, but I was wrong! His hand slowly inched up my thigh, at, really, an agonizing pace. He had grabbed my knee at some point, and stroked his hand upwards – gently and slowly, petting my thighs. 

When we hit a lull in our conversation and the touch became overwhelming, I stood slightly to reach for my drink I had set at the other end of the table. I was a little too nervous to do a performance (i.e., bend and snap with less snap), but my attempt to “politely” grab my drink backfired when I sat down wrong. “Wrong,” meaning I landed squarely in his lap. 

Panicked, I tried to get up as quickly and gracefully as possible. I was even too embarrassed to turn around to apologize—I kept muttering, “God, I’m so sorry, that’s my bad, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.” 

Almost immediately, he latched his hands onto my hips and gripped them, holding them in place. He dragged me back down from my alarmed half-standing perch, right back onto his delightfully warm lap. 

I imagine my mouth was agape, my eyes unblinking. God knows what my friends saw. Max leaned forward and gently whispered to me, “Don’t move, I want you on my lap.”

I’m not ashamed to admit that hearing this (and feeling his hard-on) turned me on. I am, however, ashamed to admit how much these things turned me on. Pretty sure a dam burst in my panties. 

We continued our conversation, though things felt a lot more sexual. Some moments when I spoke, he ran his index finger up and down the column of my neck, around my ear. I’ll admit I have absolutely no recollection of anything I said, or any responses he might have had for me. All my sense leaked out of my ears every time his hand neared my throat. His hands felt absolutely dangerous; though they weren’t abrasive or overly-calloused, they were too big to instill anything but alarmed arousal in me.  

Don’t even get me started on the “tucking a strand of loose hair behind my ear” thing. It sounds trite and you would think it would actually feel cliché in a real-life application, but apparently I’m the softest of the soft: every time Max tucked my hair behind my ear, I forgot an important detail about myself.

Now that we were so physically close to one another, Max took to whispering everything into my ear. I was on edge. His hands, when they weren’t gently sweeping up my back or across my neck, anchored my hips onto his lap. Even when I squirmed, probably on purpose to grind for some tasteful friction, he kept his hands on me, pinning me. I was losing my mind at the sensations: Occasional, feathery touches across my upper body, contrasted with his steely hold across my waist. I couldn’t decide which sensation I wanted more of. I leaned into his soft grazes, while also squirming tirelessly on his lap to feel him place more pressure on my hips. 

As good as this abbreviated lap dance was, I realized I had to get back to my friends before they thought I fully abandoned them to masturbate on a semi-stranger’s shorts. I turned around and faced Max: “Brief intermission?” 

Max nodded his understanding, and I told him I’d text him my address. As we stood, I sent him the text and we waved each other off. 

~~~

Later that night, I texted Max to tell him I was alone and he was quickly on his way.  

I went downstairs to find him sitting on a step near my apartment’s front gate. As he stood, I remembered how great our height difference was and started breathing heavily— we were about to do a lot more than sitting and whispering and petting each other.

We walked up to my apartment, and the second I closed my door, he pulled me against him. I was grateful for his making the first move – and pleasantly surprised by the bubblegum he had been chewing. Kissing him was a delight. His lips were so, so, so, soft, and his cheeks and chin were covered with dark brown stubble. He was a polite kisser; not gentle, per se, but not intrusive with his tongue (read: no tonsil hockey). We licked at each other’s lips, nibbled. And, like I expected, when he scraped his chin against my neck while kissing his way down to my chest – my knees wobbled. I felt him laugh, and he directed us to my bed. 

He sat down on the edge of it, and lifted me so that I straddled his lap, and wrapped my legs around his back and waist. I gently rocked back and forth, up and down, delighting in his frustrated sounds. He wanted a firmer touch, for me to truly grind on him – I did, too, but I loved the torture so much. 

I slid slowly off his lap, relishing the friction (almost just humped his thigh on my way down and called it a night), and landed on my knees on the carpet. His hands instantly went to my head and he threaded his ridiculously large fingers through my hair. Not a single inch of my scalp felt untouched. I reached for the button and zipper on his jeans, and looked up for permission. He gave me sort of a strained nod, and a rough “Please.” 

I unbuttoned, unzipped, and pulled his cock out of his pants. I gripped him gently in my palm, and lightly stroked up and down his length. Again, a frustrated groan emanated from the bed: I refused to give him the firm touch he wanted. I leaned forward as he pushed his pants and boxers to the floor, and slowly licked from the base of his cock to the tip. I lingered there and swirled my tongue around, gently dipping into the slit and lapping up the escaping precum. Max tightened his grasp on my hair, restlessly twisting his fingers in the strands. 

I continued my gentle licking motions, up and down, up and down—steering clear of actually sucking. I wanted to see how long Max could handle it. 

Not that long, it turns out. Max wanted to fuck my face. Far be it from me to deny a man for too long! I wrapped my lips tightly around the tip of his cock: I wanted to be in control, at first. I sank down, slowly, my tongue rubbing the underside, my lips stroking his length. That feeling when you get to the base of someone’s dick? And the sound that they make? Either when they see it, or when they feel it? Unmatched.

(I may have been celibate for quite some time, but I was still ace at dick-sucking). 

His dick pressed against the back of my throat, and I accommodated him by swallowing. The discomfort I was feeling was strong, but I didn’t want to stop. I had to see things through. 

Max took control. He retreated, and pushed firmly back into my mouth. His pace turned relentless, but again, still polite. He didn’t wildly shove his cock in and out, or tear up my mouth with his movements. He was rough, but civilized. He took his pleasure, but also made sure I was enjoying what he was doing. 

He asked me where he could come, and I eagerly pointed to my mouth. If sucking dick is in my top three favorite sexual acts, swallowing cum is probably in my top two. There’s something so gross, so hot, so “satisfying some of my baser urges” about swallowing someone’s cum. As he finished in my mouth, I drank every drop—though part of me wanted some to dribble out of the corner of my mouth, or down my chin, so that I’d have to wipe it up and lick it off my finger.

Both of us winded, he laid back onto my bed, and I sank onto the ground. Max scooted over and patted the spot next to him on the bed. I stood, then laid down next to him, very focused on how a quarter of his body didn’t even fit on my bed. 

He shifted a bit to face me, and we had that moment of post-blowjob intimacy. He stroked my cheeks with his giant, scary fingers, and, much to my awful delight, pet my hair and my neck again. Again, all rational thought escaped me, and I was eager to feel more of his hands all across my body. 

I pressed his leg between mine and splayed my hand across his shoulders. We kissed again, his scratchy face stinging my lips even more so this time. They were so sore from sucking his dick, his kisses felt punishing, burning my mouth with every slight bite. I’d recently figured out how effective pain was in turning me on, so I simply never wanted to stop his kisses. 

Without breaking our kiss, Max slid his hand between my thighs. I was feeling particularly upset that he had quit stroking my hair, but I quickly lost my train of thought when he pressed his palm against my pussy.

Still wearing my jeans and panties, I felt a desperate urge to push my clothing and his hand as high and tight towards my center as possible and squeeze out an orgasm that way. Max batted my hands away, and gently set them to my sides, determined to return my teasing.

He grasped my belt buckle, unclasped it, and tossed it to the side; he unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans, slid a finger under the band of my panties, and slowly pushed everything down my hips. The way my pants scraped my hips on their way down was excruciating. Once my clothes reached my knees, I’d had enough. 

“Please, do something.” 

Max took one of his hands and blessedly slid his fingers through my wet pussy. His touch felt so fucking incredible at first, but soon became unbearably light. I squirmed under him, wriggling my hips in a way I thought might entice him to actually finger-fuck me. 

I’m a fan of rubbing my pussy, yes (and getting it rubbed by others), but nothing feels as good as that initial moment of fingers getting shoved inside me. I can’t get enough of that first rough thrust. The unbearable fullness.

I guess Max simply read my mind because next thing I knew, he pushed his fingers so quickly and so deeply into me, my eyes rolled back into my head. I literally could not comprehend how two fingers, sitting unmoving, inside me, could feel so good. He didn’t even need to curl them, or spread them, that initial thrust had me so far gone. Max then asked me what I wanted— “Should I rub your clit, or finger you harder?” I gave a barely coherent request for “harder...more fingers.”

Making sounds during sex is hard enough for me, but when faced with a question I need to answer? Agonizing. 

Max’s fingers were ruthless. The size of them and my seeing how they barely fit inside me, made them that much easier to slide in. I was a slippery mess, oozing onto my thighs, slicking both his hands, as he held my legs open with his free hand. 

Release doesn’t come particularly easily to me, but I have my highest success rate angled slightly upright full of someone’s fingers.

I came viciously, gripping his wrist between my hands, forgetting his gentle demand that I leave them by my sides; I freed my thighs from his tight grip, and squeezed his hands between them.

The pressure of his three fingers pushed all the way inside me hurt deeply, making my release even more powerful. 

Now, both of us again tired and out of breath, Max reached up and wrapped his unnecessarily long limbs all around me, and we lazed for a bit, cuddled together. I was unsure if he wanted to sleep over, but my uncertainty disappeared when I came back from cleaning up in the bathroom: Max beckoned me back into bed, whispering, “Let’s go to sleep.” 

We fell asleep together, and the next morning, as he left my apartment, he gave me an excruciatingly tender forehead kiss.