become, “I really need to be alone with you for a couple of hours.”
We had danced around the topic of sex through our texts and phone calls, but it was mostly conversational in nature up to that point. “This is what I hate about sex with my wife…” “Well, this is what I hated about sex with my husband…” We hadn’t really discussed it as far as what we wanted to do with or to each other, but it became abundantly clear that we were both extremely curious.
I admitted to him that I checked out his shoes when I was down there in April. “It’s totally involuntary, it’s just something I do when I see a smokin’ hot man,” I explained. I could practically hear him grinning and running his fingers through his hair.
“Well, I don’t know if you noticed but I also have really big hands…”
“Yes, I did notice that you have very nice hands,” I replied suggestively. “You seem very confident discussing this particular topic, Matthew. I’m not sure what to make of that.”
“I’m very confident, baby, no problem there. I mean, let’s be real, here. I can’t imagine that something small is going to look good, and it’s probably not going to feel good. And I want you to feel really, really good. Really.”
“Really?” I teased.
“Yes, really. And… I’m used to four hour bike rides. STAMINA, baby!”
“Well, I think that covers everything then! See you in six hours!”
That ramped up the heat of our conversations significantly. I suppose, in the past, I would have considered myself to be somewhat of a prude–not so much when it came to the actual having of the sex–but at least the discussion of it. To me it just wasn’t a topic you necessarily analyzed over a midday phone conversation. Yet I found myself sitting on a bench outside in the courtyard of my office building listening to Matt tell me in explicit detail about all the places on my body that he eventually intended to lick. I didn’t bother to mention to him that I never cared for oral sex in the past, from anyone, because now I would suddenly catch myself daydreaming about how that might be with him. His strong hands wrapped around my hips and thighs, drawing me forcefully closer to his perfect lips, my hands running through his hair, desperately grabbing on to him, while he gazed up for my reaction between tongue strokes. My God he could be a sexy motherfucker when he wanted to be . He was never vulgar though. It was as if he just “got” me, and every word that fell from his mouth was phrased exactly the way I needed to hear it.
If the phone calls were racy, the texting and emailing was worse. We were truly terrible, horrible, no-good people. After dropping a good 20 pounds, I was feeling pretty good about myself by this point, and decided I was going to do something I had never considered before: take a “provocative” picture and send it to him. I figured I had a pretty good butt overall. So I put on my most adorable pair of silky light pink panties with little hot pink hearts. There I stood, slightly bent just so in front of my bedroom mirror to get the perfect shot on my iPhone. I was so proud. I would have rather died a horrible painful death than to share that with anyone in the past, but sending it to him made me happy somehow. I knew that it would surprise him and please him, and that he would know exactly what to say. I was right. He received the file on his phone and immediately told me I looked absolutely incredible. Then he made a point to view it on his laptop to tell me again that I looked even more delicious on the big screen. That was awesome.
It was not awesome when about a week later my friend Katie in New York sent me a late night text.
Hey chickadee, whose butt is that on your Instagram page?
I’m sorry, what was that?! Heart attack commencing in 3… 2… 1….
Yeah there’s a pic of someone in some pink panties up there! Is that you?! Damn girl, you are getting tight! :)
PARDON!?
HOLY
We had danced around the topic of sex through our texts and phone calls, but it was mostly conversational in nature up to that point. “This is what I hate about sex with my wife…” “Well, this is what I hated about sex with my husband…” We hadn’t really discussed it as far as what we wanted to do with or to each other, but it became abundantly clear that we were both extremely curious.
I admitted to him that I checked out his shoes when I was down there in April. “It’s totally involuntary, it’s just something I do when I see a smokin’ hot man,” I explained. I could practically hear him grinning and running his fingers through his hair.
“Well, I don’t know if you noticed but I also have really big hands…”
“Yes, I did notice that you have very nice hands,” I replied suggestively. “You seem very confident discussing this particular topic, Matthew. I’m not sure what to make of that.”
“I’m very confident, baby, no problem there. I mean, let’s be real, here. I can’t imagine that something small is going to look good, and it’s probably not going to feel good. And I want you to feel really, really good. Really.”
“Really?” I teased.
“Yes, really. And… I’m used to four hour bike rides. STAMINA, baby!”
“Well, I think that covers everything then! See you in six hours!”
That ramped up the heat of our conversations significantly. I suppose, in the past, I would have considered myself to be somewhat of a prude–not so much when it came to the actual having of the sex–but at least the discussion of it. To me it just wasn’t a topic you necessarily analyzed over a midday phone conversation. Yet I found myself sitting on a bench outside in the courtyard of my office building listening to Matt tell me in explicit detail about all the places on my body that he eventually intended to lick. I didn’t bother to mention to him that I never cared for oral sex in the past, from anyone, because now I would suddenly catch myself daydreaming about how that might be with him. His strong hands wrapped around my hips and thighs, drawing me forcefully closer to his perfect lips, my hands running through his hair, desperately grabbing on to him, while he gazed up for my reaction between tongue strokes. My God he could be a sexy motherfucker when he wanted to be . He was never vulgar though. It was as if he just “got” me, and every word that fell from his mouth was phrased exactly the way I needed to hear it.
If the phone calls were racy, the texting and emailing was worse. We were truly terrible, horrible, no-good people. After dropping a good 20 pounds, I was feeling pretty good about myself by this point, and decided I was going to do something I had never considered before: take a “provocative” picture and send it to him. I figured I had a pretty good butt overall. So I put on my most adorable pair of silky light pink panties with little hot pink hearts. There I stood, slightly bent just so in front of my bedroom mirror to get the perfect shot on my iPhone. I was so proud. I would have rather died a horrible painful death than to share that with anyone in the past, but sending it to him made me happy somehow. I knew that it would surprise him and please him, and that he would know exactly what to say. I was right. He received the file on his phone and immediately told me I looked absolutely incredible. Then he made a point to view it on his laptop to tell me again that I looked even more delicious on the big screen. That was awesome.
It was not awesome when about a week later my friend Katie in New York sent me a late night text.
Hey chickadee, whose butt is that on your Instagram page?
I’m sorry, what was that?! Heart attack commencing in 3… 2… 1….
Yeah there’s a pic of someone in some pink panties up there! Is that you?! Damn girl, you are getting tight! :)
PARDON!?
HOLY
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