Enter "LeRoi"
The first afternoon home from school also happend to be the first afternoon home from France so, even though I was really tired, I went to the computer to sign onto AIM so that the world would know that I had decided against eloping to Europe since my husband had begun an affair before the engagement had officially begun. The Bastard. What was meant to be a quick 'sign on' followed by an 'away message' turned into a conversation when an ever-familiar but always unexpected grey box appeared on the screen. The box asked me if i would accept a communique from a person (who insists that his identity is a matter of 'military' secrecy *cough* *cough*) who wanted to say hi to me. Since it would have been rude to have brusquely denied him the pleasure of my conversation, I accepted and he started speaking to me in a familiar manner that indicated that I was supposed to know who he was. I feigned recognition, what else is one to do, which was a good thing because I had apparently been talking to this guy for a long time. He knew about the trip to France and that I was in law school and other details that left no doubt that I was the one being absent minded. In any event, I ended the conversation after five minutes or so and then went to bed. When I got up from the nap it was around 9:30pm and the apartment was empty. Pleased to have some time alone, I went to the computer to play some background music while I tidied up. There was a message on my screen from the mystery guy! Moderately annoyed at the prospect of future annoyance, I read that he had sent a picture of himself to my email account (how'd he get that addy, excellent question...) so I naturally checked my mail to see. The pictures that I saw weren't all that amazing, but they at least showed me that I had talked to this guy before - only it was under a different screen name. From what I remembered, he was a funny guy that was a lieutenant or corporal in the army and he'd been trying to hook up with me for weeks before I'd left the country. As I was looking at the pics I wondered why I had ever hesitated to take him up on his offer and then remembered Steven. The Rat Bastard. Maybe there was still some residual anger directed at Steven, maybe this was just another point in the series of events that had begun to go right since getting back in the states or maybe I was just genuinely interested in the guy, but this time as he made his advances I didn't resist. I gave him my address.
Reminding myself of a desperate housewife, in the literal sense rather than the metaphorical, I embarked upon a mad cleaning frenzy in some bizarre effort to have the apartment looking nice for the whore whose name I couldn't remember. I'm sure there's a clinical term for my impetus but I couldn't tell you what it is. My instict is that it was probably the sense of nervousness more than anything that convinced me that the coffee table was slightly askew or that the slip cover was showing a little too much ankle, but everything in the common area was neat and perfected by the time I realized that I needed to shave and shower and become otherwise presentable. I guess it's something in my nature that drives me to mad lengths to convey a sense of outward perfection, but when the knock came on the door I was sitting on the perfectly composed slip cover in a neatly organized living room, wearing pajamas and a non-descript t-shirt in such a way that the carefully calculated look seemed effortless. I waited in front of the door until he knocked a second time and then only slowly pulled on the knob. There weren't any butterflies, but then again - some things are better done away from the sight of day dwellers. He was a dark skinned negro that reminded me very much of Taye Diggs. The pictures he'd sent hadn't picked up the scars on his face, but they didn't take away from his overall appearance. They made him come across as rugged and masculine. He smiled when he saw me and I said something witty. Without inviting him in, I turned and began walking through the living room, fairly secure in the knowledge that he was watching the way my pajama pants draped over my ass. In retrospect, I probably should have spent a little more time in the living room or at least a little more time cleaning my room, but it didn't matter in the end. Our conversation lasted for the length of time that it took for us to walk the 13 steps to my room plus the few words spoken while he gave me a less than spa-worthy massage. I'm not sure if, in his mind, he was done with the massage or not; I simply turned over onto my back to indicate that the time for massages had past.
It was glorious.
When he first began I thought that I would leave the encounter satisfied but not surprised. There was a bit too much of this and a bit too little of that, but when the first moan escaped my lips - unbidden, no less - I began to think less and feel more. Afterwards, I would liken the experience to ballet - sometimes subtle and sometimes powerful, but always requiring a remarkable amount of control - or to a film with incomparable cinematography (a la Crouching Tiger or Hero) - but neither allusion captures the extent to which he took control of my senses and manipulated them to produce whatever sensation he desired. His attentions demanded complete adherence to an unspoken regime, and as the pleasure began to literally force me to writhe on the bed he bid me be still and I tried to quiet for a time. He liked the moans though and it was just as well since my capacity to control the air escaping through my esophagus. This whore had restructured my whole comprehension of what oral sex was all about. Great was my pleasure.
When the sensation abruptly stopped I lifted my head to put my unfocused eyes on the still nameless 'font of pleasure', "Someone's here," Tilting my head to the side I could hear that someone was outside in the living room. Irritated, I got up and cracked on the door, "Who's there and what are you doing?" I snapped. "I'm gonna watch some T.V.," my roomate Chris said. I smiled, Chris would leave me alone without much argument, "Well turn it up REALLY loud and ignore anything you hear," Heteros are so easy. "I'll just study in my room," I heard him say as I was closing the door. "Back to work, lieutenant!" I barked as I came to stand in front of his already open mouth.
After a climax so intense that I actually cringed as he tried to touch me again, I led the nameless pleasurer to the door with promises that the next time I would reciprocate. We smiled and hugged and when he left I thought to myself that I could try to make something work with him. The smile held as I picked the paint of my wall from under my nails and carried my sin-ridden sheets to the washing machine. Smiling still as I put myself down on the freshly changed sheets, I slept and dreamed of the prospects to come in this new semester with a new boy.
Reminding myself of a desperate housewife, in the literal sense rather than the metaphorical, I embarked upon a mad cleaning frenzy in some bizarre effort to have the apartment looking nice for the whore whose name I couldn't remember. I'm sure there's a clinical term for my impetus but I couldn't tell you what it is. My instict is that it was probably the sense of nervousness more than anything that convinced me that the coffee table was slightly askew or that the slip cover was showing a little too much ankle, but everything in the common area was neat and perfected by the time I realized that I needed to shave and shower and become otherwise presentable. I guess it's something in my nature that drives me to mad lengths to convey a sense of outward perfection, but when the knock came on the door I was sitting on the perfectly composed slip cover in a neatly organized living room, wearing pajamas and a non-descript t-shirt in such a way that the carefully calculated look seemed effortless. I waited in front of the door until he knocked a second time and then only slowly pulled on the knob. There weren't any butterflies, but then again - some things are better done away from the sight of day dwellers. He was a dark skinned negro that reminded me very much of Taye Diggs. The pictures he'd sent hadn't picked up the scars on his face, but they didn't take away from his overall appearance. They made him come across as rugged and masculine. He smiled when he saw me and I said something witty. Without inviting him in, I turned and began walking through the living room, fairly secure in the knowledge that he was watching the way my pajama pants draped over my ass. In retrospect, I probably should have spent a little more time in the living room or at least a little more time cleaning my room, but it didn't matter in the end. Our conversation lasted for the length of time that it took for us to walk the 13 steps to my room plus the few words spoken while he gave me a less than spa-worthy massage. I'm not sure if, in his mind, he was done with the massage or not; I simply turned over onto my back to indicate that the time for massages had past.
It was glorious.
When he first began I thought that I would leave the encounter satisfied but not surprised. There was a bit too much of this and a bit too little of that, but when the first moan escaped my lips - unbidden, no less - I began to think less and feel more. Afterwards, I would liken the experience to ballet - sometimes subtle and sometimes powerful, but always requiring a remarkable amount of control - or to a film with incomparable cinematography (a la Crouching Tiger or Hero) - but neither allusion captures the extent to which he took control of my senses and manipulated them to produce whatever sensation he desired. His attentions demanded complete adherence to an unspoken regime, and as the pleasure began to literally force me to writhe on the bed he bid me be still and I tried to quiet for a time. He liked the moans though and it was just as well since my capacity to control the air escaping through my esophagus. This whore had restructured my whole comprehension of what oral sex was all about. Great was my pleasure.
When the sensation abruptly stopped I lifted my head to put my unfocused eyes on the still nameless 'font of pleasure', "Someone's here," Tilting my head to the side I could hear that someone was outside in the living room. Irritated, I got up and cracked on the door, "Who's there and what are you doing?" I snapped. "I'm gonna watch some T.V.," my roomate Chris said. I smiled, Chris would leave me alone without much argument, "Well turn it up REALLY loud and ignore anything you hear," Heteros are so easy. "I'll just study in my room," I heard him say as I was closing the door. "Back to work, lieutenant!" I barked as I came to stand in front of his already open mouth.
After a climax so intense that I actually cringed as he tried to touch me again, I led the nameless pleasurer to the door with promises that the next time I would reciprocate. We smiled and hugged and when he left I thought to myself that I could try to make something work with him. The smile held as I picked the paint of my wall from under my nails and carried my sin-ridden sheets to the washing machine. Smiling still as I put myself down on the freshly changed sheets, I slept and dreamed of the prospects to come in this new semester with a new boy.