Thursday, 26 February 2015


He wore tights. He really wore tights.

She was unsure if she was supposed to be impressed by this or the many other mundane things he’s been saying to her. She wanted to tell him how this was a total waste of time and there was no plausible reason she would even agree to see him. But you know that force of nature? Or is it just how it happens? It was more like she didn’t care; she just didn’t stop talking to him. A bit of a welcome distraction? Maybe?

He was relentless.

And tiring. At the same time. She knew he was staring at a road with an obvious dead end, wasted energy he could be expending on another potential, on another road that might just lead him to where he wanted to be, but instead she was enjoying one of the many temptations she so desperately did not care for. She assumed he had one of those mundane reasons for talking her up. Chief amongst them, obviously was the sex. She was sure, almost absolutely sure that she wasn’t a top ten prospect and she wondered why he was even trying. But then, she didn’t stop replying. Every sentence seemed to elicit a reply. It was like a game of miniature chess. One, desperately probing. The other, tactfully dodging. Sometimes, her own thoughts seemed to confuse her. She wasn’t sure if she just wanted to fuck him, or just enjoy the thrill of the game. Or just be entertained. Sit down and be amused. All day.

All night?

Because, you know, sometimes, the sex can be amusing. On top of you. Huffing and puffing. And then you have to respond to the lowly thrusts and the need for a fair settlement by responding with fake moans and shit. Hilarity. Or just take the best of the amusement and run? Or like how when you respond with sounds and he takes it as a cue to go faster? No, fucker, I’m moaning because I like what you’re doing. Now. Currently. Keep doing it. Obvious science. But the male psyche is intrinsically foolish and amusing, and she knew she’d have to deal with it. Sometimes, she wished he’d cut the crap talk and tell her what he wanted to do to her. Sure, the crap talk was slowly morphing into more than crap, but the slowness of the whole story line was itchy. He’d sent her flowers, and she decided to meet him.

When he met her, they were both drunk He walked towards her, his gait slow and steady, unsure in it's approach, yet familiar and confident in the same sense. Was it the crap talk? Funny how crap talk can make you seen like you know someone. He had been here before, she knew his type, she had heard stories about his type, looking for one quick stop over before their next conquest. Yet this history wasn’t going to stop her from what she wanted to do, it only served to spur her on. She watched him, curiosity had built up this moment to be greater than it needed to be, he had confirmed her original prognosis of his character, and the satisfaction left a tingling sensation down her back. It might've been the liquor laced hopping in her cranium and maybe her chest creating those physical impressions, but she felt in control. But, was she just fucking this one? Or was he the one fucking her? She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, allowing him to see a nice portion of her chest. Nonchalance would win this battle, most men are hilarious in their predictability, and that was the only true power she had over all. But was this a battle? Why did it have to be a battle? Was it her penchant for pulling things apart and putting them together again? She murmured, eyes low, peering at his brown skin, mentally chasing kisses up and down his neck. His lips were moving, but she hadn't heard a word he had said, and he looked at her expectantly as if awaiting a reply.

“I wasn't listening.

“You’re drunk?”

“No. I’ve had just one bottle.”


His accent was amusing. Not sure of how it happened, but light kisses replaced words. His hands clutched the back of her neck, drawing his mouth to hers and she felt the blood rush to the tips of her fingers. He moved his lips down the right side of her neck, and she threw her head back and thought, this was not miniature chess. She would run. She caught her breath as his warm tongue caressed her already erect nipple. He looked into her eyes, and she saw a flicker of exultation. He ran his hands through her hair. He played with her left ear, grinding his waist unto her already liquid middle. She parted her legs and wrapped them around his back. His already stiff maleness brushed against her sex. As he traced out a pattern down from her throat to in between her breasts with his lips, she felt his pulse pick up. Or was it her pulse? The touch from his tongue was so fucking light, she almost pressed her body against his tongue. He never really went straight for her breast, like most men do, he merely skirted around it, almost teasing, almost annoying. Flirting.

Like chess.

Never going straight. Moving in circles. Round her recently shaven sex. The prickly sensation combined with the roll of his tongue around her nipple created a lumpness in her throat, a lumpness she decided would never show in her eyes. Or escape through her mouth. Her core melted as his tongue followed a pattern against the same prickly hairs. Lightly touching on the tip of her sex, she gave away a tell tale shudder. She felt him smile, even though she could not see his face and she almost laughed at the hilarity of it all. He had smiled against her sex and she knew it. Without seeing his face. Combining the wetness of his mouth with the already liquid space between her legs, she arched her back against his mouth. She would let him win this one. Afterall, it was chess.

Small Losses, Big Victories.