Anders

Men lose their locality when it comes to fucking. Unfortunately the truth is that the time and the place are important, as is the mix of chemicals that eddy around us when we interact with someone enticing. All things in our perception have a beginning, a middle, and unfortunately and end. I have spoken to a lot of dudes about their dating habits, and I know a lot now, I know a lot about the way most of us think, and I'm dismayed at the stupidity.

The whole enticement deal is a voluntary process, and we choose our mode based on a lot of factors. Unlike most people I'm not in a mad rush to the end, ever.

Mostly all men objectify women at a certain point. This follows the concept of the ends justifying the means, as if the end is what the goal is. In fact this is social dogmatizing at it's worse, to seek the end before the means. Popular fiction reinforces the end as the goal, people are trained by the same industry that pays for my beer, you're all being duped.

LA is a big city. Since I mostly live in the small north western quadrant and almost never leave that area, it's also a small town. It's sometimes hard to avoid people, and I have had emails where people labeled me as a womanizing cheating misogynist with no class. Ironically this proximity problem is a contributing factor in making me more transparent than I could be, I'm not as much of a shithead as you think. When I am dating someone with pure values, I'll be almost forced to date her exclusively, or I'll be forced to date her for a short time.

I think the median time to date someone and lie about a long term commitment in LA is about four weeks, unless you're a hermit. After four weeks you will be found out. That's why I don't construct elaborate lies, I don't hide the obvious. Half truths are the only reason I'm alive, but as far as my relationships go, I'm very uncomplicated.

Back in my Jeep immediately after picking her up, I am sitting next to Alana driving with the windows open and she is talking.

"Let's eat, are you hungry?"

Alana looked at me with her green eyes and pouted her lips in that involuntary fashion that made me question if it was an intentional assault or not. She is a model, she knows her looks, she knows what visually works for her, she's an expert at using her face to get what she wants. I of course am in rapture for a lot of other reasons.

"Yeah, let's go over to Robertson, you like burgers?"

She nods, the morning light reflects in her green and gives me another half breath moment. Is it possible that I'm just a big sucker for beauty? Is it possible that I'm drawn to and invariably controlled by the siren? This is a common thread in my life, and probably mostly all of what goes on inside my tiny brain.

I'll reiterate the concept I began with. It is not the fuck principle that totally drives me. I was kind of on auto-pilot and I apprecaite that each moment has the potential to have a natural high.

I enjoyed her accent. I enjoyed her skinny knees and size 2 ass sitting on my passenger seat. I enjoyed her descriptions of how weird it was the drive on the wrong side of the road. I enjoyed the way her tits pronounced her t-shirt. I enjoyed the way her lips sort of matched her hair and she had subtle freckles, and the last thing was that she was really smart and quit funny. It also wasn't the "last" thing either but rather the way 11:59pm and 12:00am butt up against each other.

I'm also skirting around the fact that I'd wanted to fuck her since San Francisco. I'm also on the periphery, I'm not desperate, I'm not needy, and I'm direct but not intimidating.

We're sitting in the outdoor cafe in our little intimacy bubble and my friend Anders just happens to be walking by. He's gruff, he's tough, he is well built and has those Nick Lachey tattoos that were all the fashion a few years ago. Actually his tattoos would probably get him killed if he strayed through Long Beach in the wrong place. Anders is just a dude who thinks he has a lot going for him.

He stood by our table for a few seconds before I noticed him. To be honest I have to admit that I did use a few seconds of ignore time just break him down a little, like I was in competition. In reality it was like the Netherlands stacking up against Nazi Germany. Alana raised her eyebrows at me, which I suppose was my signal to acknowledge his presence.

I look up at Anders and smiled, "Hey, what are you doing here?"

"oh" He looked down Alana then back at me. "Just getting starbucks and I saw you over here"

"I thought you had that thing going on in Redondo today?"

"Yeah, finished up at ten." Anders checks out Alana's t-shirt, she beams back a shielded glare. "You know Karl, the fucker never sleeps, and does everything in one take".

At that point I liked him, and we both laughed.

"hey this is Alana, she's just in from San Fran." Hand gestures follow and I shift my attention back to Alana. "This is Anders, I sometimes make him get me coffee".

Anders laughs and a little silent desperation creeps out as he shakes hands with Alana who doesn't move and continues the shielded glare. There was no softness in her eyes this time.

"hey" He finally deigns to look her in the eye and quickly averts his gaze back to me.

I break the awkward interaction. It's clear she doesn't like him. This could be interesting.

"We're just thinking of getting some beers, you want?"

This is where the brotherhood connects and Ander's pea brain has a direct connection to my evil intentions. He knew somehow that this invitation was a ruse, that he was in danger of being carved up by Alana for interrupting her carefully planned seduction. I was laughing inside all the way to the bank.

"Nah, I gotta jet, nice to meet you though."

With that he's gone and I'm back to visually tracing Alana's nipples through her t-shirt.

Back at LAX

LAX smells like aviation fuel.

Sitting double parked in front of terminal eight with the window down gives me a high I am not allowed to have. Distinct from the genetically tailored air conditioning inside, the arrivals loop is compressed atmosphere of a thousand landed flights, of billions of dollars in fuel surcharge and Bush taxes.

Watch the beginning of the movie "Love Actually" and you'll see the Disney version of the concept of people coming together. I puke at the rose scented unreality of the airport in that movie. LAX really is like my uncle's verbal illustrations of Da Nang 1968, except mostly the biggest incoming barrage is Air China flight 666 from Taipei loaded with avian flu and illicit alternatives for cold medication.

I am waiting in the illegal zone.

Was it terminal eight or terminal six?

Was it arrivals or departures?

Was it Seattle's best or Starbucks?

Did she take her birth control pill or did she "forget"?

My questions make no sense, and neither does the illegal zone. I would be reminded of a sheer madness that is Hoboken with all this double parking which I am happily contributing to.

I drift back to my cell phone conversation with Alana of the previous night.

"Michelle gave me your number, she said you're good for it".

There's something about Alana's accent that makes her exotic reference of the unnamed "it" as specific and pointed and decidedly erotic. My genetic programming to pro-create is cross-referencing ancestry of mixed Anglo-Celtic dogshit and I can just affirm that her accent is real unlike my Americanism. The rolling lyric that she's been able to project since she was screaming for a cookie or whatever the Irish feed their young as infants, it's evolved not affected like us all here.

I'm reduced to a one worder, "Ok". Then I firm up again and think of the next down.

My selections arrive at the question of do I really care what goes on in her little red mop covered skull? Her thin lips and perky tits and the ability to wear green. My memories were pickled, but flirting with her in San Francisco was a mixture of me talking and her breath pumping it's Gaelic flavor of pheromones all over me.

We exchanged a simple set of smalltalk for ten minutes then moved onto the obvious topic.

"My layover would be pretty dull if I didn't get out of LAX, dontya know?"

I met her once, but the memory map is already set as if it's in my head laid out and under some canvas tarp that I'd rip off just as sure as I'd not hesitate to rip her panties off her given the chance. She's basically offering herself to me for the day and we've not said a hundred words, however the price has to be paid first.

"You know something?" She purposely paused for a second, the way her voice trailed up at the end. She had a hidden agenda, I was the target here and she didn't want me to get off the hook.

I responded, "I know a lot", but she cut me off.

"You need to pick me up from the airport" and with that we were back in the bar on that night a couple of weeks previous, bending our arms and looking at each other a little too much.

"and you need to show me some places"

And her velvet murmured resonance entered my ears and circled around my brain triggering the flight or fuck impulse. It was a synaptic junction that I have been trained since a teenager to select the latter.

My pause was a little too noticeable. I was not sure I was in control of this conversation any longer. I needed to get back in the seat, needed to wrest it from her again and put her on her back.

"ok, I'll save you from the airport lounge experience"

It was what she wanted to hear.

She interrupted, "Grand". It was an unnatural response to my comment but her sound made it fit anyway.

The attack plan formed in my head in an instant, even though unlike most exchanges with strange women it didn't really involve the question of if, but how and when.

I did my best to not imitate her accent, "I'm sure after the airport seats you probably need muscular therapy."

"Aye, I'm still suffering from the flight here, how did you guess?" She was onto me, there was an unsaid attached, the battle was on and she knew the game too well. Before I could respond she continued.

"You could definitely help me with that so come get me and I expect you to feed me before I have to leave, you got that? Now I have to go so listen up".

She gave me the flight information and hung up.

Each year that goes by, each transient that I pickup from the airport, the smell stays the same. Whether I'm there for business or for the pleasure of picking up Irish models on a world tour, if just for the afternoon, airports give me a healthy benzene ring high and good dose of anticipation.

As she stepped through the automatic doors into the sea of used kerosene for the first time with her little duffel bag under her shoulder I saw a superb woman. She walked purposely and with flip of her head tossed her hair off her face. She stepped over the curb as she saw me get out of my jeep and crossed the taxi lane like a woman who knew where she was in the world and had a pretty good idea where she was going.

These people impress me.

Running shoes

I slept ten minutes after the usual time, and when I opened my eyes I immediately felt lonely.

There was something nurturing in the ritual of my father waking me in the morning. Sixteen years of history and I could have been a newborn in his arms feeling his hand stroking my hair. I could have sensed that singular smell that only he had. I could have recognized his carbon copy voice that was inside me without the bariatric chamber affect of hearing it in my own head while he stood in the open doorway to my bedroom.

Nothing.

I was not quite awake but I knew it was past time. The sanctity of sleep was wearing off. The dull grays and blues of shadows that crept too slow to notice their passing flooded over my Heather Locklear poster, but the only sound I could hear was my brother snoring in the room next door.

Nothing else.

No smell, no bed head hair messed out of place even further by a gentle tussle. No "ahem" coming from the hallway. No steps heavier than mine heading to the back door.

I felt confusion.

It was school day and I could only have been in my room or in my uncle's spare room. There were no other regular places from which I could have been awakened.

He didn't wake me up that morning, although there were plenty of times when he didn't and I'd have set my alarm clock. It was not set this time.

My eyes and mouth were dry as I bounced out of the bed still not consciously aware that this day was a new life. I put on my running gear and still half-heartedly went into the hallway on my way to meet my father in the backyard. He mostly would be waiting for me to get my laziness into running condition so we could start our day.

My brother's snoring seemed louder than the day before. I wasn't sure if his croaking was getting worse or if it naturally increased volume when his internal clock assumed I was not in the next bedroom. I was ten minutes later than usual.

Stepping outside I was still alone as the screen door slammed against the frame. The morning air was colder than the day before with the days edging slowly back to winter. I lifted my left leg and stretched my thigh out glancing down at the little cement shelf next to the back door.

My father's running shoes were sitting there, placed in a stance like an embarrassed child trying to hold in his urine, the right one on it's side cocked towards the left. Tears filled my eyes as I saw the reddy mud caked to the side of his shoes. It was the same mud that I'd tracked into the house yesterday and often before, mud from our route through a building site that has been finished for nearly two decades now.

Twenty four hours before that moment we set off for our last run together. Had I known it was the last time there were a million things I would have wanted to tell him.

I pushed back to urge to cry and started running our usual path but the image of his shoes back there invaded my thoughts. The loneliness of my first waking minutes crept into my heart and I must have looked ridiculous as I started to cry. The harder I cried, the faster I ran.

My Dad was gone and he was never coming back.

Last day as a kid

My mother was at the table when I came in the door, seated with her head in her hands. I remember outside being reassuring, the feeling of breaking through the veil of the nightmare, the heat on my back, and how the air conditioning evaporated the sweat on my cheek. It was all about the transition, and the immediate need to reverse day and go back to being bored in math class, somehow I knew.

The room was filled with pain.

The door slammed behind me and my mother looked up out of her hands, she let out an unrecognizable whelp and started to get up. I saw the age in her, age of her mother visiting upon her. She had lethargy in her rising, but still it was laced with a frantic pressure that threatened to blow out the windows of the dining room and knock down the graying portraits of my forefathers on the wall behind her.

Explosive compassion.

Comforting hands lay on her shoulders suggesting with not unkind force that she discontinue her struggle to stand on her buckling legs and return to the chair. My aunt was in attendance, her ghost materialized in the fog of misery that I felt in my home. My mother looked at me, directly in the eyes, she did her best to telepathically tell me to run back to yesterday. She cried out, "Jed, I'm sorry", and my aunt dulled out her sobbing with a hushed "sshhhh" and some more shoulder rubbing.

My uncle beamed in from the shadows. Nobody had opened the drapes since the heat of the noon day sun was denied admission. He crossed the room directly and took my gaze from my mother. He gave me his own moist eyes and a familiar smile.

His smile had no elation.

My progress across the room was cut short by him grabbing me and holding onto me. I noticed then that even with his extra padding he was an older softer version of my father. He rubbed my back the same way my father did, and his breathing held the same rhythm.

"son, we have to talk."

He cleared his throat and looked down at me even though my height brought us to eye level. I was looking into Dorian Gray's picture, although the image showed me a path of differing choices I was to have for my own life.

"let's go outside for a minute" he asked.

It was a question, although his physical maneuvering was hardly a request. It was time for something horrible to be known, it was time for this man who loved me like I was his own to guide me through it.

Being back outside in that atmosphere of the most recent afternoon's innocence didn't help what he was about to say, rather it made me feel there was never going to be any escape. He knew it would be better for us to share the passage than to partake in it alone.

"Your Dad is a strong man son, he's the best." His voice kind of trailed off into soprano. His gaze tried to impart that which his meager words had somehow failed to establish.

Regaining tempo, he continued.

"They couldn't save him at the hospital son."

The world started spinning.

"he's not with us anymore."

The words were trite. On their own, they were meaningless, they were twigs in the river of his streaming empathy. The subtle ramp onto the highway to a future without my father was here and standing not inches from me. Here was a closest thing in the world to my father, a man who from the back could be my father, breaking me into the harshest of realities.

The twig in the river was the key to his whole presence, the words just gelled the cruel news into stark clarity. He didn't have to say much more although he did continue to speak for a long time. I heard his words, soft rumbling, exactly the tone of someone who'd caressed my broken heart would take. Every one of his words explaining the incident, the gun, the heroism, the madness at the hospital, mixed together into a good story with tragic ending. All this information was a tornado around my head. Right at the beginning I knew I could not stand and listen but I didn't need to, my uncle was strong enough to hold me up.

HNT 4

Since there was no objection to ugly short day, and I got a special request from Drew to immortalize Brad, I figured it was time to make it a triple play. Poor Drew's saggy tummy is intimidated by Brad's steely hardness, and that he walks around thinking he's Conan the Barbarian... well, let's just put him up into the peanut gallery for criticism.

Yes, notice the pinkness?

Brad was the only guy at the party who wore speedos, although I'm not going to subject you to that. Anyways, this guy makes a living out of taking his shirt off... I'll let you decide exactly what that profession is, just think the Fast and the Furious and you might be on the right track.

Or would you rather stories about 15 year olds?

1985

"You can't be serious"

Melanie lowered her head slightly drawing my gaze to her lips, that natural girly pinkish hue semi-engorged in blood as she seemed to me to be in a perpetual state of arousal. She pursed quickly and resumed her standoffish distasteful glare at me turning the key in my head germinating those seeds of doubt that only she could find.

She raised a finger to my chest and poked me in the sternum.

"oww"

"Kathy is too ugly for you, I won't let you"

"Mel, she's my bitch slave, and she wants to go with me"

"So does most of your class I bet, you have to choose better or not go"

Melanie's glare softened and she smiled. As she put an arm on each of my shoulders I noticed that I was now taller than her, and broader - the new revelation of the day. Her smile increased the room temperature and she beamed a heat wave from her face right into my eyes, eased her hands down my arms and grabbed my triceps.

"mmmm" She rubbed my muscles.

"You should just forget about silly Kathy Jed, she's frumpy"

Melanie was now pulling me towards her using my own arms as trapping. I was not sure how she got from arms length directly in my face so quickly but it was instantaneous. The motion was almost supernatural, the shift of Dracula, a girl with evil intentions on my youth. Either that or I was losing seconds.

We'd been this close before a number of times. Melanie always got away with the assumption that I'd do anything she wanted but she was not my girlfriend. We'd played this role each time a little different, each time a little more intense. She was now a couple of inches from my face and I could feel her breath on my chin. She closed her eyes and tilted her head letting her hair fall behind her ears on one side.

Holding me she didn't move an inch as I slid my arms around her. She opened her mouth a little and began her next statement.

"and we both know you like skinny..."

I was right on cue, right on target, she'd trained me like a circus monkey. I leaned in and lowered my hands sliding them down over the small of her back and gripped each ass cheek. I then sealed my lips on hers just before she was about to close her mouth on the utterance of the word "skinny".

I caught her on her exhale, that eleventh hour just before the breath is expunged and she's about to take the hill climb up the next one. My lungs were almost full as I topped them up intercepting all of her last exhale. I then breathed out and calibrated with her intake so the whole contents of my lungs where drawn into hers. It was as if I was the outside air. In concert, we did a slow muscular lip dance with each others moistness.

She returned my air load directly into my mouth as I breathed back in, this time significantly depleted of it's oxygen and laden with more carbon dioxide that my body was anticipating.

Pulling her skinny hips by squeezing pristine ass and drawing her pelvic region against my groin I made sure her pubic area could feel the rigid solidity of my erection in my pants. I made a point of grinding the underside of my dick into her, rolling my hips around in the process.

We took a mutually light headed breath of real air with a quick break from the lip lock, then she moved a hand up to the back of my head and pulled me back sliding her tongue into my mouth and rolling it around mine.

The truth is that I did do anything Melanie wanted, and it was pretty obvious at that point that she owned me, body and soul.

Caitlin

Brad invited me to KGs July 4th party like a penile embelism, foam foam, spew spew, feel good then pass out and get sunburned in by the fact that I can't hold my liquor and the sun does not set until the next day in summer.

Oh yeah, free alcohol, catered, and all of the Playboy mansion rejects (who are still pretty hot) hanging around at a rich guy's house.

Brad exaggerates like a monkey that just learned English trying to convince you that he also learned french. You don't know who KG is, that's not important, I don't want to be sued for anything I write here. You don't know who Brad is unless you're one of about three hundred plastic assholes he hangs with, but no last names here, so I should be pretty safe.

Actually, Brad is a monkey, why he doesn't have back fur, I am lost for words. He has a killer smile and can bench at least two hundred pounds so I don't mess with him or his influence too much.

"he likes you, you're that guy he wishes he was", I'm hearing honesty in Brad's voice, the kind of honesty that your stomach makes when you've mixed too much Coors with Vodka and the lasagne chaser just doesn't fit quite right.

There might be truth to the matter, I mean, I'm wondering if a guy with eight figures in the bank buys one too many sports cars does that make him in a midlife crisis or does that make him just in midlife? Fact is, I do get the impression that KG likes me, it's that pat on the back for something I didn't really have the right to take credit for.

Now that I've lost you, I'll admit that I did infact go to the party, and a lot of us did stand around drinking and pretending we're all best friends. It was a blast for all concerned with one screwup, KG and Caitlin are close in a way that I know without KG Caitlin would be back in Cedar Rapids doing dinner theater and serving fries at Dennys, or married to some douchebag property developer high on Rogaine and Viagra.

Today I'm pissed for some reason. You see Caitlin was at KG's party and we kind of dumped each other in fashion of a completed Mexican standoff where we both fired at the same time. This is my "lunch" break and I'm just not in character enough to tell you well how it all went down, how used I feel, how evil she is but oh shit, just sexy she can be when she gets her hair wet.

Sorry about the picture, I found the most unflattering one I could from Brad's computer and made sure her face wasn't visible. Her face, oh, yeah, gorgeous.

Sigh.

HNT 3

Ok, don't say anything about my shorts.... and I'm not compulsive about chest shaving as some posers I know.

Alana

"Wanna get a drink?" Michelle was on her back. She was recovering from being out of breath by lying still looking out of the bay window. The dim ambience of San Francisco's common luminescence, free utility, filled those parts of the room that did not foster easy shadows.

Even on the oblique her eyes reminded me of someone else, almond or brown, reminded me of someone far more important in my carpet bag history of lies and deceit. I noticed whilst in the midst of my minute reminiscing, with a cruel twist of difference, her nose was utterly different. The eyes remind, the nose diverges, she is different, I am older, things move on, we just fucked, she wants a drink, snap out of it.

"Yeah, either that you do some cooking"

She looked at me from the window and shot me her trademark smile. I think I had the same smile in my arsenal. I think that particular physical twitch bonded us before we even spoke, sameness. Her smiles are a language unto themselves and that particular crescent yelled "fuck you I cook for no man". She sprung into action fishing out a new pair underwear from the drawer, dressing faster than I had undressed her the alcohol secretly sending her subliminal beckoning urging her onwards.

It was obvious that we were both done with sex for the moment and I took that mutuality as a queue to retrace my path of sin from the bedroom back to the living room picking up my clothing like some reverse roadmap from a flesh themed gingerbread house.

We weren't out her front door a minute and she's on her cell phone mustering some sort of gathering, or divining plans to join an assortment of oddballs she works with or fucks irregularly, or whomever. I don't mind her friends, I prefer mine, I prefer the rich sufficient types and their Bentley coupes that live up on Nob Hill, but clearly this was not my night.

The bar was gaudy, and the colors were fresh out of a Power puff Girls episode, at least that was the feeling. The huge disco ball suggested that Meat Loaf might jump onto the empty stage at any minute, and there was a collection of fake New York crowd mingling in the subtle club glow. A rhubarb of a hundred conversations failed to intoxicate me, I'd seen scenes before and resisted them enough to know that anything being said in this bar was devoid of merit simply because it was in the wrong city.

I'd just been fucked within an inch of my life, she got her wish to be on the bottom then flipped me like she'd been studying judo for a decade and finished the act. It didn't matter, even in this den of wannabe losers the loudest thing wasn't the humdrum of the conversations or the bastardization of 80s music into some sort of mix, it was the squelch of my own fuckdar going off without my finger on the trigger.

I am a compulsive sex addict, there you go, it's out now. I'm scanning all of the time, looking at necks and navels and thighs and feet and boring my eyes into the crotches of teenagers at the mall and menopausal divorcees at art galleries without real conscious thought. I'm superficially required to appraise your fuckability before I hear that you're a Nobel winner or that your sump pump business is failing. This of course goes on in my mind and unlike my early twenties, there's a filter established now that prevents me from being a complete jackass.

Three pings register as I cross the floor, three other than the rolling debauchery that is Michelle's ass in black cords and her golden shoulders revealed by a wife beater continually distracting me. Two were individual looks by nondescript San Francisco semi- attractives near the end of the bar. They both couldn't resist the glancing, they were both here for a purpose, they are both needing to be fucked, they are both slaves to their tingling clitoris and it's manic hatred of their lack of social promiscuity. The third was a little more interesting, green tshirt, jeans and a pony tail holding red hair back tightly in a handle almost too irresistible to consider pulling.

Alana as I later found out had red hair, weak chin, and an Irish accent. Her gaze drifted to me and stuck me like an arrow through the eye as I casually scanned past her daring myself not to take notice. It failed, she caught the grip of my recognition and quickly looked down, then back, then down again. I was already past her, resorted to fixating on Michelle's pert backside as we crossed the room to her group. Alana was Michelle's friend, and per my sex addiction I'd had her in my cross hairs for eight seconds and already I wanted to fuck her, not that men need sex addiction tendencies to fall under that spell.

I decided to play nice, pay attention to Devon, the one friend of Michelle that I had met. He was startlingly handsome and witty and unlike most men fitting that description in San Francisco, he wasn't gay. Other people in her gaggle were mere shadows, just me, Michelle, Devon, and Alana held any place in this court.

I was impressed by Devon's appreciation for the finer points of the new Superman movie's box office success. Seems that we both knew people who worked on that film, who moved to Australia for their duration, and who now were back in the US looking for a new job. California is a small world, and nobody really wants to know about how well I get on with Devon regardless of how pithy and elegant the conversation was.

What was crucial was my developing interaction with Alana. This always happens to me. Getting an attraction that is self evident between two people, and it is instantaneous and regardless of extenuating contexts or graces, invariably the sea parts and you end up in their face in some bizarre moment of judgment.

"I think Billy Joel was right." I was two feet from Michelle, and the same distance from Devon, yet Alana was about six inches from left side nursing a gin and tonic, her eighth from my recollection.

"you're obscure" Alana's Irish accent was melodic and rolled exactly in the same way that her well presented rack pushed the circumference of her tshirt. Her strappy bra's black line was arched over her shoulders, the left one was exposed by the way she rested back on her heels and tilted her head to the right as if her left ear was the one responsible for filtering my bullshit.

"what the hell does that mean then?".

"just by lookin at you, I can see that Catholic girls start much too late".

I was cocky, self centered, likable in a Colin Farrel you just can't hate me way. My delusion was in full swing but the difference between psychopaths and me is that my delusion had already laid seed in Alana's reptile brain triggering unwanted electrical impulses down her spine and focussing on how her panties were now rubbing against her stiffened and moist clitoris.

Green eyes, red hair, such a genetic freak. Somehow she was completely un-Californian enough to almost make me slip a minute in locked in her exotic but disapproving gaze before I resumed my forward posture back to listening to Devon describe something mundane about the insurance industry.

I'm almost sure Alana's body temperature elevated as she struggled to get her wee head around my comment. It was a stupid comment, but she was drunk and I was cute and hot so I probably could have told her that her earlobes were water melon seeds and she'd have considered it plausible.

"I started young enough." Bratty, her red hairedness made me think perhaps it might be possible for me to have a shot at impregnating Lindsay Lohan.

Now Alana had her full attention on me and I was busy listening to Devon describe shit I was totally not interested in while quite without her knowing, I was picturing my face buried in between her legs, or perhaps Lindsay's, while she screamed something about God and virginity in her highly charged sex filled accent.

It was not that I didn't care that Alana had lost her virginity somewhere between the age of 16 and 22, I was on auto pilot. I was destined to make her crazy enough to go out of her way to prove herself to me. The fact that it took eight gin and tonics to get over her genetic resistance to alcoholic inhibition removal is interesting but immaterial.

Michelle looked at me as Alana finished her fuming sentence. At that moment I was not sure if Michelle knew what was up or not, but as she's probably smarter than me, she probably did. The good thing was that as this odd dynamic developed the night became more and more interesting.

Up in SF

Michelle was busy at the ironing board as I walked up the back steps and saw her through the glass kitchen door. She turned as I tapped on the door frame and was startled for a minute. Suppressing a shriek and relaxing in place for a second, she gave that unplanned joyful smile with her immaculately perfect teeth and right then her eyes betrayed her relief that in fact I did come visit her from afar.

The character she plays is one of indifference, but underneath she is far from it. She stands firm on her independence, never claiming need or supplicating herself to the whim of others. She rather prefers to let anyone believe that she's self sufficient. Michelle shifts around the notion that should we make any impromptu plans, and should I cancel them like the bastard prick that I am, that's she'd get by happily careless about it on company the friends she has at her every beck and call, and in the fact that she has a well engineered toy and batteries in bulk from Costco. It's nice to know how replacable I really am.

Of course the ambivalence is a ruse. Michelle is addicted to sex and companionship in the best junky way possible. She's not a slut but somewhere under that veneer of the nice girl is someone who knows enough men to fill her calendar and her slit with just as much firm vein ridden flesh and personal lubricative occupation as she might require. Some of those who would fit her mangled use of the term "suitor" are clearly more desired by her secret agenda than others. Just where I fit is just not quite important to me.

The smile vanished and in it's place was the person who'd greet me at the door had I been a plumber or pizza delivery boy. She's not cold, just very good at poker when she applies herself, although given my ability to spot a faker from across the globe, she's as obvious to me as day is to night.

She commanded, "Lock the door please", as she took her short petite butt across the kitchen back to her ironing board.

I followed her and catching up as she stopped I leaned over and kissed her on the shoulder. She let out a satisfactory "mmmm" as she picked up the iron again and continued to ignore me with what she was doing before I rudely interrupted.

"Am I turning you on with my shocking display of domesticity Mr. Leland?"

She leaned over her ironing board and started stroking the hot metal over her work shirt, steaming it whenever the compulsive desire to make that satisfying noise hit her. The seem of her shorts bisected her small butt and gave me a pristine view of small curvature meeting firm thighs.

"you can be the judge of that one..." I stepped forward and let the firm tube of muscle that formed the underside ridge of my erection sit squarely on her clothed butt. I gripped her hips and pulled her pelvis back onto me and conducted miniature up and down motions that amounted to fully clothed dry humping of her firm ass.

She exhaled and closed her eyes, leaning on the iron while thermal physics threatened to take over and distractedly burn a hole through her delicate material. Having sat in the car for hours thinking of fucking her my penis was for a long time already in a lubricated state of anticipation. It had erected itself on my thoughts for a significant number of false starts already that day, this time it was not a false start and already still clothed I could feel the yea nea physical torture of full release now or later. I chose later.

Struggling to find volume, and quavering a little she asked, "you were hard when you came in here weren't you?"

I put hand around her face to cover her mouth and put my fingers in between her lips. Still pushing her hips against the ironing board I reached around and undid her shorts. She lifted herself up on her toes, as if to help me get her shorts off her. Just as I suspected as I pulled them down she was wearing those little black sheer panties, the memory of which I'd used a number of times to ease semenary pressure on those days where I'd sleep alone.

For me the feeling of my hand sliding down into a that beautiful space between a woman's legs while she's squirming firm against me just serves to make my rod thicker and harder. The sensation of doing it serves to increase the flow of blood to the head of my dick where the nerve endings are set on fire so that not only is my heart pounding, but the head of my dick has a steady rythm to it, threatening to spit it's wad at any moment.

It's almost the perfect subtle mind trip to put myself in that position where I'm semi-molesting a partially clothed woman. The fantasy in my head makes me the best candidate for preparation of our fake impregnation, the best roadmap to opening her up good enough with my fingers. The most direct and overcoming path to eliminating her resistance to being fucked enough and letting her sweetly surrender to going with the feeling of my solid shaft penetrating her. By the time I'm ready to expand her vaginal muscles from the inside, she's good and ready and accept that my seed is going to fill her completely and even though I'm rough and forceful, I'm going to satisfy her enough one way or another.

I'm quick to remove my shorts and boxers.

As my hand was firmly in place inside the front of her panties I was still rolling my index finger over her clitoris she was anchored in place. In a one-two motion I slipped on a condom and pulled down and aside the crotch of her underwear. Quickly making sure her pussy was moist with a finger I let her panty elastic snap back over my dick and aimed it squarely at her hole.

Placing the newly freed hand on her shoulders, and firmly pulling her back towards me with my other palm sitting comfortably above her pubic mound and below her navel, I pushed her shoulders forward and forcefully slid my dick all the way into her as if I needed her to be doubled over to allow the whole length to inhabit her at once.

She let out a guttural moan and pushed back towards me smooshing my balls against her clitoris. Still bent over, the iron had fallen over the other side of the ironing board, she grinded on my crotch keeping my penis as far in her as possible.

"no, we can't do this" she whimpered and moved to the left straightening up. I followed her, my dick still buried in her, and holding the back of her neck kept her bent over. She saved a head butt of the wall by putting her hands out in front of her.

I'm amazed at the angles at which sex works with for some women and how those same angles don't work for others. With Michelle, most any angle works. She has the most versatile universally jointed vagina genetics can produce.

Still moving forward, her back corrected it's arch and I pushed her squarely against the wall which served the straighten her up. With two thrusts into her, keeping my dick wedged in her slot, she was flat against the drywall inches from the entrance to her bedroom. Thrusting up and under her now spread legs, I titled my hips and lifted up her lightweight onto me and used the door frame to hold my body leaning backwards slightly.

"I want to, ugh, be, ugh, on my, ugh, back"...

Need I continue?