Tonight had led to this. We both knew we would be there, sitting side by side on his couch.
Our eyes had locked at the bar and after a charming smile I knew that I’d be there. He had hoped that I’d be there, if not me then somebody else. But our eyes had locked on each other, acquiring target.
He bought me a drink, introduced himself. I told him my name and I decided in that moment that I would take the handsome boy. It’s not often that I feel promiscuous and it’s rare that I feel determined to have it.
I leaned over to my friend and told her confidently, “I’m going to fuck that guy tonight.”
His intentions were clear. By being there and charming, his intentions were clear. Like going to a pizza shop and ordering pizza—it’s just going to happen. And I wasn’t going to fight it tonight. I was going to enjoy it tonight.
I let him make his moves, work his game. He bought all my drinks and I laughed at all his jokes. I stood close to him, touched his arm, kept my blue eyes on him the entire night.
He took me to the dance floor. Hip-hop blared from the speakers; we joined the mass of people vibrating in union, purring like a giant, horny behemoth. I touched him with intention and turned my back to him and grinded my ass to his groin. His hands held my hips. My knees started to burn but I continued. I could feel his pants tighten, he grew hard, and I relished it. I felt sexy. I turned around, placed my arms around his neck and let him kiss me.
We both knew it would lead up to this.
The end of the night was approaching. I stood close to him and he lit my cigarette. His friends were around, we were all drunk.
“So,” he said, he slurred, “want to come back to my place?”
I got in a taxi with the handsome boy and rode to his house, a two-story yellow Victorian-style house, like all the houses downtown. We sat on his couch. We moved to his bed.
Time stilled. We both waited for the other to make the first move, and then he kissed me. He was a good kisser and when his hands touched my body I felt electrified. I wanted this and I felt empowered by it. I kissed him with passion.
His hands slid over my jeans. He unzipped them and I paused to kick my skinny jeans off. I wanted this. I was wet. His fingers started rubbing and I let out a little moan. Then he continued rubbing… and continued rubbing… and then I realized that it wasn’t even in the right spot. I moved his hands and he continued rubbing, kissing my neck.
But he just kept rubbing, moving his hand like he was trying to rub out a stain, putting in that elbow grease. But it wasn’t doing anything. This guy obviously knew nothing about female stimulation.
Then he slid his finger in and went back and forth… and back and forth… and I could feel myself drying up.
But I wanted this. I wasn’t going to give up so easily. I moaned a little bit in attempt to inspire him. I moved my hips in circles to help him out. His solidary finger went a little deeper.
“Oh baby, you’re so sexy,” he breathed on me.
I reached out to touch his jeans, expectant…
And felt a tiny soft dick.
I unzipped his pants. He kicked them off. I grabbed him. I worked him. But nothing happened. It grew a little, but remained limp in my hand.
“He just needs a little loving,” he told me.
I got to my knees, kissed down his body and took him in my mouth. His little dick grew, and grew, and he moaned.
Now he was ready.
He grabbed a condom and led his dick inside me drily. He thrusted a few times.
I stared at the ceiling feeling nothing. I turned him over, got on top, and when I went to grab him he was soft again.
Tonight had led to this. Too many shots of Jameson had led to this.
My determination deflated like his dick had and I flopped myself over in his bed defeated, horny, and frustrated.
“Maybe in the morning.”
But I slipped out before he woke up.