Che Uomo Italiano

Remember this guy?
So, I’d decided to not worry about him, and indeed, use his potential stalkerness to my advantage. Now that daylight savings time is over, and it is dark by 5pm, I can tell him I am working late and he keeps an eye out. The office is spooky after dark – tinted glass walls and fluorescent lights put me in the klieg lights for anonymous passers-by. I can’t see out, but anyone can see in. (Sometimes I fantasize about masturbating on the conference table in front of the window, but that is a story for another day.)

Earlier, the chef helped me unload my car of numerous office-bound boxes. It was difficult to not notice his calves, dark and muscular, poking out from the bottom of his shorts. From there, it is only a short anatomical stroll to his forearms and hands, strong and defined, baker’s hands. I feel my heart jump and my kitty twitch. I notice dimples, and dark eyes sparkling from beneath hooded lids. Quite mischievous. Another sharp twinge rips through my bits and I take in a quick breath. I notice that he is staring at my tits, set off today by my form-fitting deep red tee. He notices me notice and jumps a little, looks startled. He waves vaguely toward them, looking away and blushing. “The boxes got you a little dirty.”

I glance down and sure enough, there is a straight line of dust making a perfect line connecting my nipples, which are protruding, apparently to bask in his gaze. My turn to blush now, I begin brushing at the offending equator, trying to remove the mark. I thank him for the help and say I’m working late. “I’ll be in later for a Coke or something.” He smiles, nods, returns to his kitchen to work his cavernous ovens that billow forth hot, mouth-watering aromas all day long.

Later I call to order some takeaway. “Are you ok? Is everything all right?” He wants to save me, I think. I tell him I’m fine, order, disconnect. When I go to pick up, the restaurant is empty. My dinner isn’t quite finished, so I accept a glass of wine. While talking, he tells me he is separated from his wife of 30 years. I had not yet mastered walking at the time of his wedding.

He offers to show me around the restaurant and makes a joke that he is hiring. He shows me the prep area and the walk-ins. He shows me the ovens and the storage area. Then we are in the office, sparsely furnished, with little more than a desk, a couch, and a television. He has nervously chattered the whole tour. Now, in this room, there is an awkward silence.

By now, I’ve found myself charmed by this man, endearing in his nervous jumpiness, oddly hot. I thank him for the tour with a hug and a quick kiss. I feel him tense, but he doesn’t pull away. Emboldened by stale wine, I kiss him again, longer this time. His arms gingerly move around me as I pull him to me. I wonder for a split second if I am making a mistake. Maybe he doesn't want this. If that is true, though, his body betrays him because I can feel his stiffness against my belly as I press against him. My nipples perk up immediately in response and I decide that if he thinks this is a bad idea, he is certainly old enough to speak up about it. I lead him over to the couch and kneel on it before him, stroking his chest. He does not complain.

I kiss his neck, nuzzle into it while breathing deeply. He smells of oregano and man. I taste him and delight in the mix of garlic, herbs, and sweat. My hands run down the front of him; his shorts are bulging. I want in.

I look up at him and notice his emotions as they play out in his eyes. There is anxiety. There is fear. There is lust. I undo him and tenderly bring forth his cock. When he is out, it is my turn to be surprised. He is not very long, but his shaft is enormously thick. I think about it stretching the walls of my steaming cunt and my eyes dilate as my pussy involuntarily spasms and my rosebud slams shut.

I lick my lips and take him into my mouth. I wish there was a mirror. I’d love to see how that big prick distends my cheeks, stretches my lips as I do my best to stuff my face as full of him as I can. I look up at him again, and almost laugh.
He is wide-eyed and startled. He looks confused. Confused as in, “there is a hot little ragazza attached by her face to my dick and I’m not sure what to do about that.” The look makes me mirthful. Then it occurs to me that it is possible I am the first woman outside of his wife to suck his cock in 30 years. That idea sets my Naughty-O-Meter ™ spinning uncontrollably. I decide to put him out of his misery.

I stand up quickly and undress. I throw my tee and jeans on the desk followed by my bra and panties. When all that is left is me standing before the chef in nothing but my t-strap heels, I try to explain things as clearly as I can. “I want you. I’ll do anything you want.”

It takes a few seconds for this to register. As it does, I watch his face melt from its fear-induced paralysis into an expression of what appears to be resolve. First, he wants me to finish sucking him off, because he wants another go and knows he won’t last much longer at this point.

I motion for him to sit on the couch and get on my knees before him. I run my hands up his legs and over his shorts until I reach his still-hard cock. Despite myself I moan slightly, in admiration of its brutish girth, and slowly take it back into my mouth. The chef, more relaxed now, moans slightly, trembles as I flick my tongue back and forth across his head and then make long laps up his length, breathing deeply in the scent of his musk as I go.

I run my tongue in circles around his tip, and then take him deeply into my mouth, stifling my gag reflex. I feel both his hands grabbing my hair as he reflexively thrusts his hips up into my face. He is sitting ramrod straight and I grunt as he crams my face full of his cock, and begins pumping spasmodically up into me while simultaneously pushing me down by the shoulders.

From the sides, I work at his shorts until I can reach his balls, and I can feel the rumblings of oncoming climax gaining ground as I massage him. I taste his salty harbinger and I release him from my mouth. I sit up, shoulders back and tits up to work him with my hands until he begins pumping his hot thick cream onto my chest and belly, alternately gasping for air and moaning as he comes for me. I continue stroking him until he shudders no more and sinks back into the couch, dazed and spent.

More time has passed than I thought. It is late, and I have to head for home, although in this moment all I want to do is impale myself on that enormous shaft of his and get fucked until I am silly. It is too late for that this evening, though, so tingly hot with frustrated sex yet resigned, I clean myself up a bit in the restroom instead. I'll finger myself until I climax in the car on the way home this time. I collect myself, my clothing, and my dinner, and take my leave with the promise that there will be a Round Two very soon.

As I leave, I catch sight of him in my rearview mirror, standing in the shadows where I was parked, immobile, watching. Always watching.

Mary, Full of Grace

I found some pictures from a photo shoot I did a couple of years ago. I don’t remember what it was for and I don’t know whatever came of the pictures. I must have been drinking that day. My memory of the shoot itself is blurry. Interestingly, I remember a guy had set up his massage table on the deck of the house where we were shooting; he was a student and was hoping for some hours toward his license.

I’m studying myself in the pictures. I’m done up in black velvet and turquoise jewelry with lots of silver and a flowy long skirt – the quintessential (and stereotypical) Southwestern “look.” I’m thankful my hair is not up in the Hopi-style cabbage buns. I don't wear the Princess Leia look very well, a notable exception being the look she had as Jabba the Hutt’s slave…

I wonder what I was thinking. I am smiling, but I can see that the smile is forced, put on for show; it is stretched into more of a grimace. In those pictures where I imagine I was directed to look pensive, I look fearful, wary. Not of the photographer, but of life.

I’m glad that these days are not those. I don’t know what ever happened to those photos, or if they were ever published. I don't even recall whether or not I got paid. If whoever was calling the shots had any sense, though, they went into File 13, unless the accompanying story was about a broken girl.

Picky

I get bored sometimes. So I look at personals, because you know those people are also bored - ridiculously so.

When I am really bored, and feel like torturing myself in such a way that mere bamboo spikes shoved beneath my fingernails just won't get the job done, I look at Craig's List because often there are pictures and I am morbidly looking for someone I know.

Is it wrong to pick and choose using solely the following two criteria:
1) The ability to spell, utilize grammar, and sense of irony all appear to be intact (okay, yes, technically that is three criteria already - I said 'riting, not 'rithmetic).
2) Would he look good when I look down at him looking up at me while he eats my pussy?

More Facets

I've added links to Future Perfect, Nerve, and The Sartorialist to the sidebar.
Just a few more of my layers.

Miguel

Miguel was a regular customer at the pool hall. He and his friend would come in a few times per week. If there was no table in my section, they would sit in my bar section and wait until an open table came up. Sometimes they would bring women - it was interesting to see the progression of their romantic lives as an outside observer.

I learned that he was a hairstylist, so I started seeing him professionally. I loved the head massages he gave as part of the cut. I'm picky about my hair and he always made it look good, cowlicks and all. Needless to say, his hair was always immaculate. Miguel was gorgeous - great smile, happy eyes, kind face, soft hands. The kind of guy a girl dreams about when she dreams of getting good and lucky.

After a while, he stopped bringing women to the pool hall, and his friend David began bringing the same woman every time. He would stay behind to talk to me after David left. We would flirt in the parking lot, hold hands, blush, sneak the occasional kiss. We acted like 12 year-olds, someone else, not ourselves. When he came to my work, I spent as much time near him as I could.

Almost immediately after I got out of the most recent bad relationship, he asked me out on a real date. Despite my heavy attraction and deepening feelings for him, I was still feeling lost, a little bit bereft, confused. I was getting high more and I was ashamed of that - I didn't want him to know I was using. I turned him down, begging off for some me time to think about my next steps.

He was hurt; I noticed a barely perceptible slump in his shoulders as I answered. He said he understood and said he'd be happy to wait some, to give me some time. I felt relief and gratitude. I knew I'd feel like myself again soon and looked forward to getting closer to him.

A week passed - I was sad to not see him, but I figured he was earnestly trying to give me some space. Then, David came to see me at work, looking so grieved as to be in physical pain. Miguel was dead. There was an accident. He had been drinking more lately. He had died alone on the highway to his home in the middle of nowhere. He was cold when he was found.

My breath was sucked from me then, like I was sucker-punched in the solar plexus. When I think of it now, I still have a hard time breathing and great heavings of grief still well deep within my core. Sometimes I wail, sob, bemoan the unfairness of it. The unfairness that ripped that beautiful life from this world such that his death, alone and cold, in no may mirrored his life - secure in the warmth of the love that surrounded him. Hundreds attended his service.

I mourn the loss of the opportunity I gave up, wonder about how things might have been different, torture myself with the idea that maybe he wouldn't be dead now if I had been there then. I berate myself, kick myself in the ass for a while.

I try not to think about it too much, but every November he comes to me with the crisp smells of fall and fires burning. I can still smell his hair. It is the anniversary of his death. In life, I didn't know enough about us to know if I loved him. In death, and as my time here has passed, I know that I did and still do.

Rest in Peace, dear Miguel - words can't express how much you are missed.

Crabcakes

I flew out to Boston to drive back to California with Candace after she graduated from law school. We decided to take the scenic route: down through New York to D.C. then make our way West through the Smokies, down through N'Awlins and back up through Texas. We weren't in a hurry.

We ended up in Baltimore the first night, tired from a day of driving. Neither of us had been there before, except passing through, and now we were looking for a lead on a place to stay. We ended up at a restaurant on the waterfront, eating crabcakes, drinking beer, lying to the barman. When Candace and I went out together, we always invented an alter-ego to play for the evening. Most often, we are from out of the country, as in, “Oh, I’d love to go out with you sometime, but I’m flying back home to [insert name of country here] tomorrow morning. I’m so sorry!”

Fresh from finding out that my man produced porn as a side gig (and worn out from wondering when I'd be able to see myself on the Net, panting and moaning during one of our marathon sessions courtesy of a hidden camera), I thought that sounded like an interesting persona to experiment with. Candace usually sticks to the British designer character; it's the only accent she can muster with a reasonable level of consistency. The novelty of a cute porn producer and her high-fashion gal-pal caused a surge in free alcohol procurement at the bar, with corresponding increases in our levels of intoxication (not to mention rapidly-diminishing judgment).

Before we knew it, we found ourselves at the Hooters next door, with large burly doormen sniffing around, trying to do to us those things they are paid to prevent customers from doing to the girls in those awful shorts. There were no more crabcakes, but there surely was more alcohol. We still had no place to stay.

Some time later, hours in drunk time, we found ourselves in the apartment of the original barman. There were a dozen of us (unless I was seeing double) - a motley crew of Hooter girls, doormen, foodservice folk, the porn empress, and the fashionista.

Excited at his ability to be frank away from the confines and dictates of his work environment, the barman was asking me rapid-fire questions about porn and the production of it. I bullshitted my way through as much as I could, looking at Candace, rolling my eyes.

Now curious about his own potential future in the adult film biz, he popped a video of himself fucking his girlfriend into the VCR, then kept up a running narrative throughout the show, describing his artistic intentions as the film showed close-up shots of his girl sucking his cock, and then doing her damnedest to look appropriately ecstatic when he shot his prodigious load across her face, a goodly amount of it hitting her in the eye. If I had been less drunk at the time, I feel sure that I would have been laughing more at the surreality of it all, like I do now in retrospect.

I know I was fucked up, but I do remember that there was a lengthy startled silence after the video, which continued with the ubiquitous 2nd scene: haughty over the shoulder look from the girl, ohbabybabygiveittome, the sound of sticky balls slapping against ass and upper thighs, money shot finale as our hero furiously strokes his cock, look of anguish-slash-concentration smeared across his face, you know the drill. The silence was finally broken when he asked if I thought I could use him in any upcoming productions.

Not one to break the hearts of any John Holmes-wannabes, I tried to let him down gently. "Well, you know, we film in California." He looked disappointed but understanding, which was the response I was hoping for - the one that would end the conversation. I was relieved to not have to tell him that although he had a cock any girl would love to catch a ride on, myself included, he over-emoted, and his lighting choices were suspect (although, in fairness, that probably would technically have been my job)...

The next thing I knew, I awoke in the dark to the touch of unfamiliar hands. I had passed out on the couch, and I momentarily forgot where I was and with whom. I smelled the hot breath of liquored audacity pulsate across my neck and shoulders. I stiffened with fear as a doorman (and the biggest one of them naturally) worked his hands over my tits, down my stomach and toward the Promised Land.

I threw up a little in my mouth and tried to sit up. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I scanned the room for Candace. She was not there. She was my ride. I began to panic.

“Shh, shh baby. Don’t worry – it’s just me.” His hands began rhythmically working my shoulders.

“Yeah, no. What the fuck do you mean, 'it's just me?' I don't know who you are. You need to stop. Where’s Candace?”

“She’s in the other room. Don’t worry about that. Let’s just you and me have a little fun right here.”

I struggled to get out from underneath him and said “no” several more times as he lay on top of me, trying to work his tongue into my mouth.

I held back another gag as adrenaline began to course through my veins. I needed to get the fuck out of there, I didn’t know where Candace was, and this guy was a shooter, not someone you fight. Presumably, in his mind, it was okay to violate me either because I made porn, or because I was insanely drunk, or (probably) both.

I was lucky, and managed to get away. I couldn't do anything physically, so it would have to be more lies. First I told him I was pregnant (I had told them earlier that I was married). That fazed him not one bit, and he was no lighter on my stomach. Then I told him I was HIV-positive. That did the trick. He jumped back off of me, saying "Damn bitch! That ain't cool!"

Then I was afraid he would really hurt me, because now he was afraid too. I rushed through the dark to find Candace, woke her up, and we took off still half-drunk in the middle of the night. When we made it to D.C. dawn was breaking, and the sky began to turn light again. I threw up several times at the side of the road, the acidic taste of fear and disgust mixed with self-loathing forcing its way from me as I gasped ragged breaths, sucking in fresh air, and, I hoped some common sense.

Now, when I have to have genuine Baltimore crabcakes, I fly them to me. Luckily for me, it's a rare craving.