Bitch

I go through extremely horny and wild times in my life. Sometimes I'm even placid and faithful after my fashion. And occasionally, rarely, I am very bitchy. This is an unusual condition for me, but it's where I've been in recent weeks.

Ever since Chad found his sweet-young-thing girlfriend, one who can accommodate his eleven-inch cock, he's changed. He still wants to come over and fuck me, of course. But he wants to talk about her. Lauren this and Lauren that. It would be one thing if he wanted to talk about their sex life. Instead, it's all relationship and even domestic stuff. I can see where this is headed and right now he's a taker. I don't mind sexual takers, to an extent, if they have something else to offer. But this blechy lovie-dovie shit. Spare me.

So Chad was talking and we were going through a bottle of wine. Then he wanted to fuck. He led me back to the bedroom and, a rarity for me, I was just not in the mood. We joylessly stripped by the bed — he's feeling guilty, no doubt — and climbed in. Few preliminaries. He didn't get his cock sucked and didn't seem to notice the signal. I lay down and just let him fuck me, let him do the work. You want to marry this solipsistic girl, get ready for this kind of sex...until the kids come, then no sex. As usual, he got about two-thirds inside me, and it felt great (I'd be a liar if I didn't admit it). I got wetter and wetter, the sounds of cock, pussy and pussy juice in the room.

Then I just opened my legs wider, put my feet on the mattress and started fucking him back, doing my oscillating pelvis move. He comes in less than thirty seconds. I came like I did early in college, which is not much.

"God, that was great!," he said, dismounting. He still doesn't know to wait a while before pulling out. The emptiness he left matched my mood.

"Now," I said, "leave and go home to Lauren."

"What?"

"You heard me."

Work is very intense and high-stakes right now, and every few months an old lover comes through town. Until then, I'm just going to be a bitch. And sometimes I'll be a really horny bitch, especially right before my period. Forgive me.

Dresses I've known (and been known in) Part II

My friend Pam and I were very, very bad a couple of times in college, miniskirt-wise. We put on our sexiest short skirts and found places to sit while doing a "Sharon Stone" leg crossing as men walked by. Then we'd be bitchy cold if they tried to hit on us. Oh, did I say we weren't wearing panties — and with my titian red pubic hair the view up my skirt was unmistakable. No, horny guy, you didn't just imagine that. I have to say, we looked great. That happens when one is twenty. Afterward, we'd be so damned horny that we'd either end up in bed with each other, or have to go off and find our boyfriends of the moment and get some hard fucking. And they thought we were so aroused and came so fast because they were such studs.

Being out in public with no underwear and in a short skirt, too, was an amazing sensory feeling. The fingers of warm summer air tickling up my legs and into my pussy. Nothing between me and the outside world. My long legs, all 5'8" of me ("five-six of that legs," as my ex-husband said) striding through nature oh-so-naturally. Liberating, yes. A turn-on — most definitely. Especially with the eyes on me. I knew what they were thinking, and what if they knew those long legs led up to no panties...

This little adventure was quite the drive into Nasty County for a girl who was still shaking off her uptight, anti-sex, theocratic upbringing. On the other hand, it had risks. Boston then wasn't as gentrified as today, and the hoods were abundant. One day we did our beaver show off campus and a gang of five tough, working-class Irish kids started following us. This was long before I knew martial arts, much less carried a weapon. We were terrified. We gave them the slip at Downtown Crossing. Otherwise, I could imagine being dragged back to Southie or Dorchester for a couple of days of gang rape. Doing this to what they perceived as stuck-up, upper-class college girls would have only added to the allure, and probably brutality. The public defender would have said we were "asking for it." Twenty, cute and stupid. This scared us out of going commando so flagrantly. But I still do it occasionally still. (Pam is now a suburban mommie who wears long jumpers -- sigh).

Short skirts provoked so many consensual fuckings. In recent years, a long-distance lover checked into a hotel and I knocked on his door. I had on a tight, mid-calf skirt. Tasteful but men noticed, especially "leg men." It got his attention. He pulled me inside. After about ten minutes of the most divine kissing and embracing, he steered me into the nearby bathroom, hiked me up on the vanity, pulled his cock out of his suit-trousers and started fucking me. My panties never even made it past one ankle. They shook there like a little storm flag as he frantically screwed me. After we both came and disengaged, his semen spilled onto the inside of the skirt's fabric.

Oh, if I had ten dollars for every time that's happened in my life, or sperm otherwise ended up on one of my short skirts. That cool liquid feeling against the backs of my thighs as I drove home from an interlude. Those skits made for great "access" during college for outdoor and quasi-public sex. A guy fucked me on the hood of his fancy car one night, out on a country road. My khaki miniskirt pushed up to my waist and the breeze wafted over my legs and ass as he mounted me. We left heel and knee prints in the hood, and I bet they would hear me screaming that singular getting-fucked scream a mile away. Another guy pushed me up against a railing at a deserted ocean overlook and took me from behind, just pushing aside the thong I was wearing under the short skirt. I looked out at the waves and somehow that made my orgasm more intense.

A boyfriend in grad school and I were on the train. I was in a denim mini. He just kept reaching over and fingering me. I almost came and was starting to moan when the conductor started through the car and I moved his sweet hand. My first married man lover took me out to a fancy restaurant. I was wearing my first little black dress. He sat across from me and I felt his stocking foot against my calves. Pretty soon it was up inside my crotch expertly "fingering" me. He got quite a kick out of watching me flush and stifle moans while he looked on with great innocence. The toe of his socks ended up quite damp.

And that leaves the grand history of Linda Sue in little black dresses...for another day.