I’ve spent the afternoon lamenting about my lack of fucking lately. Ben’s my roommate, even though we fuck now and then, he doesn’t count.
“Who?” I sit up, interested. I snap off the television and give him my full attention.
“Jones,” he answers with a smirk.
“Get the fuck out of here!” I shriek, throwing a pillow at him.
Jake Jones is the drummer for my friend’s band. Everyone else in the band goes for the “metal” look: skimpy goatees and long greasy hair. Jones possesses soft black curls and brilliant green eyes, baby-faced and adorable. He’s the one the groupies anxiously hang around the stage for, squealing when he takes off his sweaty t-shirt halfway through the set. He’s never treated me as anything more than one of the guys. Honestly, he’s so far out of my league looks-wise that I’ve never even fantasized about fucking him before. Continue reading
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“He’s got a job and a car,” Tony whispers in my ear as he makes introductions.
I just turned twenty-five and I’m in a panic. Everyone else my age is getting married, people are talking behind my back. They already think I’m odd and snobby because I won’t go work in a factory.
Dean’s good looking in that beefy sort of way, dirty blonde brush cut, big blue eyes. He tells me how he had a football scholarship, about the blown out knee that killed the deal and the dream. We find that we know nearly all the same people. He’s not terribly bright, but he’s polite and attentive. He’ll do. I let him move in a few weeks later.
The sex is good, he can keep up with me. We spill our fantasies and skirt around the edges of secrets. Dean confesses he’s always wanted to see what it felt like to be fucked in the ass. I tell him I’d be happy to oblige. He says he thinks he might be bisexual. I’m cool with that.
We go to a shady sex toy store the next town over, but when we get there I get shy and refuse to go in. I wait alone in the car, shrinking down in the car seat, hoping no one spots me. Dean comes out, hands me a paper sack. He bought a dildo for himself and a bondage magazine for me. I glance at the cover. Twelve dollars! A small fortune, but I’ll hang onto it for years, the only proof to me that someone else out there likes this stuff, not just me. Continue reading