Dildos, Doms and Fishermen

I simply call him Fish. His real name is¦ well, off limits for readers of salacious GV blogs, unfortunately. But he’s a commercial fisherman. And I’ve long imagined that if it were ever to come to it, in a post-abortion world, I might name a little mistake of mine Fish. He’s like the baby I never want to have except better because I can fuck him.

In short: 30-something. Six foot and change. Hazel eyes and a dick that won’t quit. Did I mention tats, two nipple rings and a pierced cock? If you’re anything like the slut I am, you too have begun to wiggle in your over-stuffed pink divan (ok, black desk chair).

My night with Fish can be summarized by today’s overwhelming sleepiness, a soreness I feel when my nether-bits touch a chair and the wince that an accidental self-served nipple brush evinced just moments before I started this little sex archive.

It began “ like it always does “ on Craigslist.

To catch you up from the last blog, it turns out that I did end up fucking C1 (aka Military Boy) a week later (in a word: yum!). Oddly enough, he ended up being 5’3 (a detail he forgot to mention) and quite the ruthless cock-wielding dominant. But for some reason, I was fine with him fucking me senseless while he shoved my scarf in my mouth and held my arms above my head.

And to my chagrin, C2 ended up being a secret dom who expected me to solve his overwhelming feelings of failure by delivering him heartless ass poundings. Oh, no C2. Mommy don’t play that. He even had the nerve to call the dick I had picked out for him “small. If you can imagine me “ in black satin waist cincher, skin tight button-down pin stripe mini-dress, push up bra with cleavage up to my chin, thigh highs and a purple 5-incher that, yes, just so happened to match my purple lace boy shorts “ about to deliver my cock into his mouth when he says “it’s so.. small. I didn’t know that a dildo could lose an erection, but I felt, frankly, mortified, inadequate, mentally flaccid.

I thought for a moment how many before had been at this very place, on pleasure’s precipice only to lose any will to pound. Thankfully, I simply pulled it out of its respective harness, threw it on the floor and let him know “ with my newly minted therapy-induced communication tools “ that we needed to “check in about what an ungrateful little bitch he was being. He confessed his dom past, and it all of a sudden made so much sense. Me + dom = disaster. There’s only room for one top up in this piece, and goddess knows it’s going to be me.

But back to Fish. Fish was so mellow that I found myself asking him twice if he was (1) drunk, (2) high or (3) otherwise speech impaired (I have such a boner for lisps, by the way!). We talked on the phone and I began the Q&A section of the interview, which included the following highlights: (1) “Ok, I’m bossy. You’re going to do what I say, right? (2) “When is the last time you were tested and the last time you had intercourse? and finally (3) “Oh, and I’m on my period. Are you into that? To which he replied “Is it weird that I’m really into that? Score.

He hopped into a cab at midnight and came to my place.

I really, really wish I could give you every last dirty detail (but I have shit to do!), but what I can tell you is that there was something so delicious about his patience. He waited until I was beyond the begging phase and straight into the toddler-esque whining and bouncing phase, before he put his cock in me. I love that momentary reticence my pussy always offers up right when the head pushes in. She loves to feign some kind of surprise (oh my, what is that?) or innocence to the prying sensation, like this hasn’t happened before, like, around eight thousand times.

We fucked all night. I didn’t discover the enchantment of fuckathons until my mid-20s. My pussy was simply a different creature than it had been in my teens and early 20s, a newfound locus of heretofore unimaginable delight. Unlike my big tits, she doesn’t have a reputation to keep up. I think she finds freedom in our emotional distance.

I had been gifted a full pack of Magnums by the aforementioned Napoleanic-dick-dom. Can we momentarily ruminate on the sheer deliciousness of Magnums? I mean, they’re condoms for huge schlongs. They come in a Wonka-esque shiny gold wrapper. It just feels like they’re sort of like the Lincoln Continental of rubbers. They convey a certain prestige. The Magnums came in handy.

His experience with intense fishing and hauling (and other things that fishermen do, I imagine) have made his hands and arms really strong. He can fuck and fuck and fuck and not get tired. I have to bow out gracefully because I can’t keep my thighs up and open any longer. He needs to piss and I tell him to wear my white bunny slippers because I’m OCD about getting toilet cooties in my bed. He complies. Cuddling ensues. When we wake up, he wants to fuck again.

I throw him the blindfold (no man gets to see my gaping butt hole in the merciless light of 9am day), turn on some porn and reverse cowgirl him until he comes. Then I cum. We shower. Then we walk through Golden Gate Park, hand in hand, feeding squirrels, and he walks me to my office.

Yes. Really.

So, on the emotional perils and endless ambivalence of one night stands, I must say “fuck it.” Literally. And metaphorically.

Good Vibrations

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