“Don’t put anything in your vagina for a week,” my gynecologist tells me, after a routine but invasive procedure.
Two days later, I’m heading over to Jake’s for the first time, toting an overnight bag. The plan is to go to dinner, but we’ve yet to break bread together, and I have a feeling dinner is going to come much later, if at all. I perch on his couch in the icy, air-conditioned apartment, nervous. I try to relax but feel something preventing me—I realize it’s the lighting. Sterile, overhead lighting. I look around frantically for a lamp, but can’t locate one. I ask if we can get some mood lighting going. Jake starts to tell me about how there used to be dimmers on the light switches, but the landlord recently replaced the lights. I stand and flip around a few switches, then return to the couch.
I was afraid seeing his place might force me to take him more seriously. I had a premonition his apartment would be well appointed, that it would surprise me, reveal something about him that I’d underestimated or written off too soon. We’d only been on a few dates, only had sex once. The sex was good and Jake was good on paper; gentlemanly, good at texting, eager to please, with a big dick. But it seemed like there were many more reasons not to like him: he wasn’t political, he wasn’t artistic, he was incredibly square, privileged, and sheltered. So I’m part relieved, part disappointed to find he lives in a windowless bro pad with terrible art.
He pours us glasses of wine, and sits down next to me on the couch. I stretch my legs out over him; I like how he feels under me. I start to chatter about my day, worthless anecdotes. He starts to stroke my inner calf, then his hand reaches up higher, to my inner thigh. His other hand sits protectively around my ankle. With the lights down and Jake’s hands on me, I finally feel relaxed. I sink into his couch, which I should note, is nice, at least. His hand finds my crotch. His fingers, clumsy but eager, start to rub me. I like that we’re getting straight to the point.
Then I remember I can’t have anything inside me. The knowledge of my future edging heightens every sensation. Jake strokes the lips of my vagina through my jeans and my eyes roll back in my head. Jake finds the entrance between my shorts and panties and strokes me some more. I let out a moan. My lips are electric, I feel wetness gathering in my underwear. I tense up as his fingers begin to reach around the cotton of my panties. I let him brush against my wetness with his fingers for a moment, then squeeze my legs shut, denying him without explanation.
He stands up, bends over the couch, and lifts me like a baby, then carries me to his bed, like I’m his new wife. Before he flips off the switch, the too-bright lights reveal plastic drawers, messy shelves littered with receipts and cough drops. I wonder if his mother cleaned his room for him growing up.
He deposits me on the bed, takes my shirt off, swiftly unfastens my bra (I know he’s proud of this because last time he struggled) and while sucking my nipples, reaches his hand to unbutton my shorts. I brush his hand away and rip them off myself, beginning an all-night game he hasn’t signed up for.
He hovers over me, and I hastily unbutton his shirt. His chest and stomach are incredibly hairy. I love it. His pecs are round and firm, his shoulders bulge under my small hands. In the dark of his room, he looks a lot like my ex who I found very attractive. I see him when I look at Jake.
After taking a few moments to stroke and explore his furry chest, I reach for his pants and unbutton and unzip. Perfect. We’re both down to underwear now. I grab for his hard cock and am delighted all over again by the thickness of it. I’ve forgotten about the bad decor.
Jake takes charge and begins to lower himself to my panties, attempting to move them to the side to lick my cunt. I tell him quickly, breathlessly, “Nothing inside me tonight.” He pauses, looks confused, but doesn’t say anything. He continues to move his mouth to me. Tongues are fine, I suppose.
He starts to lick me. The problem I have with getting head is that I’m usually too impatient to really enjoy it. But tonight, since I can’t get fucked, I try to focus on the sensations of his tongue, flicking and searching for my clit. Soon though, I can’t take it anymore, I want him too badly, so I push him away with my feet, and tell him to show me how he makes himself cum. He kneels over me, starts to jerk himself, and closes his eyes with focus.
“I like how your face looks,” I tell him, my legs spread open, pussy throbbing, my tits in my hands, my fingers flicking at my nipples. “I want you to cum on my tits,” I tell him.
He continues to stroke himself, then asks if I’ll give him “a blow job.”
“Yes, baby,” I say, wondering if he likes that I’m calling him baby. I don’t really know him. I don’t really know myself right now. It’s like he’s everyone I’ve ever loved and also every dumb dude I’ve ever hated. I’m riding a renewed sex drive that’s finally emerged after months of hibernation following a series of trauma, and if I happen to be using him for sex, I honestly don’t think he’d mind.
He inches close to me, dips forward, and I take him in my mouth eagerly even though he barely fits. It’s hard to get him wet when he’s taking up so much space but I like feeling powerless in this position for a bit. I let him push himself in toward the back of my throat, and then put a hand on his stomach to signal he should lie down for better access. I crawl on top of him, leaning down to lick the length of his cock before sucking in slow full motions. I feel his cock pulsing inside my mouth and decide I don’t want him to cum yet.
Now that his cock is wet, I position my pussy over him to tease my clit. After several long, slow gyrations, I get too excited and start humping him in frustration. I eventually fall off him and lie on my stomach, whining and moaning simultaneously. It’s pure blissful torture not having him.
I begin to wonder what would happen if I let him in me just once?
Jake rises up and straddles my thighs, resting his hands on my ass. We’re still like this for a moment, both trying to cool down. I wonder if Jake is thinking about baseball? Probably golf. He has mentioned playing golf on the weekends several times.
The cool down is unsuccessful. I want him so bad, I reach behind me and grab his dick, placing the head at the entrance to my ass, willing to have something in me somewhere, anywhere, even though we’ve already discussed it— I’ve declared his cock to be way too big to get into my ass.
He plays with my ass using his cock. Naturally it begins to slide to my pussy. I’m desperate for him to be inside of me. My forehead is making a dent in the mattress, hands fisting the sheets, ass in the air, and he’s kneeling behind me, rubbing his cock back and forth up and down my pussy. I’m so wet that he’s gliding on me, like we used a handful of lube, but really it’s just me, producing a thick wetness, so horny for him. Along his way up and down, his cock catches in my hole, and I gasp at the tease. It reminds me of the way I used to grind when I was a virgin in high school. Sometimes, it slipped in, and those moments, a sharp pain and an incredible fullness, were both scary and amazing.
Now we both feel tortured—I’m more turned on than I’ve been in a long time, but I know it has to end at some point. He tells me he’s close, and I tell him again to cum on my tits. We awkwardly negotiate a turn over with him still hovering over me, and he starts to jerk himself off again.
He looks sexy, and I like watching the tension build in his face, but I also want to see the cum fly out of him. I can’t decide where to focus my attention and he’s getting really close. I settle on watching his face, excited to witness his expressions, so I’m surprised when a spurt of his cum hits me on the cheek. He cums more and more, all over my breasts, and I can feel his hot semen running down my face to my neck and into my hair. I like it. I like existing in this foreign, arctic bedroom. I feel anonymous, I don’t care how my hair looks; it’s only about fucking and it’s incredibly freeing.
Jake is panting above me. I can’t tell if it’s in deep pleasure or exhaustion. I watch him and giggle, feeling soft toward him. He looks down at me. “Can I get you something to clean up?” He asks me. “Yes,” I reply. “A wet towelette, please.” I say this as a joke, but he returns a minute later with a package of makeup cleansing cloths. It is, in its essence, a fancy, wet towelette. As he carefully wipes his cum off my tits, cheek, and neck, the scent of soothing chamomile and lavender washes over me.
“Did some girl leave those here?” I ask.
“My ex left them, actually.”
“Oh my god…” I exclaim. “Imagine if she knew you were using her makeup cleansing cloths to wipe your cum off another woman,” I say. “That’s terrible,” I continue, imagining my left behind belongings serving another woman sexually. For some reason I see this as the ultimate disrespect.
“We don’t talk anymore,” Jake says.
“Yeah, but still,” I stutter. “It’s just like...nothing matters. People are cyclical. Replaceable.” I state this more as a fact I’m coming around to accept than a realization. My vacation in the arctic room is coming to an end. My brain is no longer fogged by desire.
Jake doesn’t notice, instead asks if I’m hungry. There’s a good pizza place nearby. Yes, I am deeply hungry from all the rolling around. I glance in the mirror at my matted hair after dressing and shrug. It’s fine for now.