Tuesday, May 30, 2006
flashback
Jumping up and down on the dance floor, aware I was sweating profusely from the heat and exertion, I noticed her looking at me. She looked at me through her eyelashes, they way they do when they want to be taken home, fucked.
She'd told me no, last time I made a civilized move. Asked her out for a coffee. No. The time before, she had also told me no, so I asked her if I should bother trying again. No.
So I just kept on dancing and sweating, jumping and waving those stupid glow-sticks in the air. The crowd surged back and forth on the too-small dance floor, people smiled drunkenly, sang along, fought for balance, fought their way to the bar. A mob of almost-thirties in throbbing 90s rave nostalgia.
The time I wasn't that civilized and just took her home, that's when she'd said yes. Shouted it in fact, gasped it. But the sound I'll always remember is the cooing happy sound she made as I slipped my boxers off and she saw what I had in store for her. She liked that and I liked that sound.
I think of it when I see her, thought of it on that dance floor.
I think we went at it at least four times that night. I couldn't get enough of her, she liked everything I had to offer. We were both sore by the end, drenched in sweat, exhausted, but in that oh-so-nice way. We fell asleep in a tangle of limbs and sheets and pillows. I awoke before her and enjoyed the curve and feel of her breasts, one of the few times I've actually liked big ones like that. They were massive, real, perfect. They'd moved very nicely when I'd entered her. I quietly slipped out and bought breakfast. That's how to treat a lady the morning after a fuckathon, isn't it? Breakfast in bed?
I was probably trying too hard.
As I left the sweaty bar and the pumping music, I considered walking around the place a bit to see if she still had that look on her face. But I have my dignity. She told me no. If she wanted more she could come and get it, I know she has my number. There were other bars waiting, other girls. Besides, the spark was gone.
That third no killed it.
She'd told me no, last time I made a civilized move. Asked her out for a coffee. No. The time before, she had also told me no, so I asked her if I should bother trying again. No.
So I just kept on dancing and sweating, jumping and waving those stupid glow-sticks in the air. The crowd surged back and forth on the too-small dance floor, people smiled drunkenly, sang along, fought for balance, fought their way to the bar. A mob of almost-thirties in throbbing 90s rave nostalgia.
The time I wasn't that civilized and just took her home, that's when she'd said yes. Shouted it in fact, gasped it. But the sound I'll always remember is the cooing happy sound she made as I slipped my boxers off and she saw what I had in store for her. She liked that and I liked that sound.
I think of it when I see her, thought of it on that dance floor.
I think we went at it at least four times that night. I couldn't get enough of her, she liked everything I had to offer. We were both sore by the end, drenched in sweat, exhausted, but in that oh-so-nice way. We fell asleep in a tangle of limbs and sheets and pillows. I awoke before her and enjoyed the curve and feel of her breasts, one of the few times I've actually liked big ones like that. They were massive, real, perfect. They'd moved very nicely when I'd entered her. I quietly slipped out and bought breakfast. That's how to treat a lady the morning after a fuckathon, isn't it? Breakfast in bed?
I was probably trying too hard.
As I left the sweaty bar and the pumping music, I considered walking around the place a bit to see if she still had that look on her face. But I have my dignity. She told me no. If she wanted more she could come and get it, I know she has my number. There were other bars waiting, other girls. Besides, the spark was gone.
That third no killed it.
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