(personal photo by Anonymous)
Part One.
She had a lot of baggage, but the times when nothing mattered were cool.
She was intriguing to me because she was better than me in our line of work.
Five foot seven, physically fit, perfect perky tits, nice ass, beautiful stomach, perfect teeth, a blond bombshell that glowed with the swagger of Ginger from Casino.
Me, I was a 22 year old paying his way through college by hosting some of the best after-hours parties in Philadelphia. By the time I was 24 I was managing 3 nightclubs on Thursdays and would work special late night bartending gigs, when Philly nightclub owners hosted their “private” parties inviting their favorite local drug dealers and strippers. For some reason these people trusted me and at that time I felt like a Puerto Rican version of Calogero “C” Anello from A Bronx Tale.
I learned a lot about women during this time, but not enough. Not enough to handle her. She knew she could have any man she wanted and for some reason she chose me, like a residential earthquake collapsing only one house in the neighborhood.
I was just getting out of a two month relationship with a girl who would get so drunk after four beers that she would pass out in her own urine, wake up, accuse me of sleeping with her friend that lived out-of-state whom I’d never met, and then lock herself in her room to snort crushed sleeping pills. Needless to say, that night, I broke it off and told myself that it was time to take a break.
But my so-called “break” lasted a month tops.
I’ll skip the unnecessary details of how I became acquainted with “her” because the more important details lie within the wildly chaotic chemistry we had with each other the minute we met. In the beginning it was every little stare, word, movement, and then this quickly graduated to every innocent touch, whisper, smile. It was like during every conversation we had, her and I could hear the devil on her shoulder orgasm from being finger fucked by the devil on mine, causing those few seconds of silence to be subconsciously louder than a head on collision.
The flirting was witty and kinky; and the sex was filthy dirty.
If it wasn’t sweaty, picture-perfect sex, then it wasn’t her and I having it. It was those people who give their boyfriends or girlfriends sympathy sex when “it’s been too long.” But, not us.
I was so embarrassed the day we broke into some random person’s beach house in Atlantic City and fucked on their kitchen table so hard that I came and uncontrollably peed all over her. For some reason she loved every second of it.
Physical pain during sex was something we dabbled with, preferring life-long scaring to heart-filled tattoos. The newly healed and raised skin on her knees tells the erotic story of that Halloween. Of being bent over, body and skin numbed by powdered drugs, and me straddling her from behind, thrusting repeatedly into her as she pushed me back to feel every single centimeter, using her knees as anchors to the cream colored rug, burning holes in them and leaving two red stains the size of coffee table coasters.
For the rest of her life she’ll look at the scars on her knees and remember that night.
Submitted by Anonymous.
Random Daze theme by Polaraul
