I have been known to get a thrill from cavorting in semi public locations, such as in cars on rainy side streets, darkened door ways, Starbucks bathrooms, the alley behind the Roxie, and laundry-mats–to name a few. But never so blatantly lascivious as I behaved on the day trip I took while in New York.

We went to Storm King, a 500 acre sculpture park in the Hudson Valley. The ride up consisted of lush scenery, music, and lots of pussy teasing. By the time we got there, we were giddy on each other, maybe a bit still stoned and definitely high on the smell of cock and cunt that had been filling the car. The rain was teasing us. We found a spot under a sheltered tree for our lunch. From this vantage point we could see the green hills sprinkled with masses of jutting steel art objects as they protruded through tree tops, resembling metal monsters embarking on the land–an abstract takeover of the human race.

Under the tree we ate together. I like eating with you. Eating, fucking, laughing, crying–the end.

The rain never did rain, we walked, we kissed, we walked some more, played grab ass–innocent fun–looking at art allowing happiness to filter in.

Finding ourselves sitting on a bench in front of a small pond for a big sculpture–a Roy Lichtenstein, part of Storm Kings permanent collection. The mermaid racing boat used in the 1995 America Cup and the reflection it left was our view. Hand holding, became kissing, became handling, became want–then need. I needed to feel you on my cunt, your mouth, your fingers. Cock.

I suddenly had this feeling of nothing else around me being there. On your knees between my thighs, like a movie wedding proposal, except you pull aside my soaked panties. You lick and eat and begin that slow glorious finger fucking that drifts me out to sail. I have had these experiences only a few times–where reality and the wet oil painting meet. Where the sky is a blue so deep I will never see it again, where the trees become globs of varied shades of green shimmering wet paint.

“Put two finger in” I pleaded.

“I all ready got two in” is your response.

Slut.

“Well put in three” I demand.

I’m gone, lost, my head hangs on the back of the bench, through my slit eyes I watch the sky as it shifts, the blue mixes with clouds we don’t have in California. I am sure some sort of filth is spilling out of mouth…fuck me fuck more more right there….maybe I even say I love you, my mouth leaks like my pussy sometimes.

NYC has four fingers inside of me as I rumble the jimmyjane on my swelling pussy. I feel like I am pouring a continuous river of cum. I am embarrassed for a moment, but quickly let it go.

“Do it.”

The pain is sharp as the largest part of your hand pushes through. I can now feel your entire hand, fingers, fist rubbings my velvet walls–the pain is now all bliss and fuck delight. I have pulled one tit out of the top of my tank top, pinching hard down on to my nipple–moaning, whimpering, crying for release.

My mind is nowhere, I have definitely slipped into that other realm. I know it, I feel it–I want to cum, I need to cum. Slowly, I lift my heavy head, wanting to look down at you between my thighs.

My eyes come into focus, just in time to see on the other side of the pond a mini electric tour bus full of art lovers on their excursion of the park.

Everything frezzes.

“There is a fucking bus full of tourist right behind us.”

I see them looking at us, feel their eyes. We are scared still, fear and lust is frozen inside my pussy. With your fist still inside me I watch the little bus float by, heads turn. My first fisting has come to an abrupt end as you hand pulls out of me, we attempt to regain our composure and run for the hills or more precisely to the famous Andrew Goldworthy wall, where a couple can hide and fuck and find their sweet release they so desperately need, with a little bit more privacy.

I was just out of high school when I met him. He had this broken nose look, which is such a fucking turn on to me, dark brown brooding eyes. He was older, tough, poetic, Bukowski-esqe, had bar tabs all over town. Talked about art, music, he was a literary slut (so damn hot). He was the third man I had sex with, but he was the first that I had real, what was that?, pussy plumping, cum dripping, orgasm spasm, sex with. He taught me many things.

The first time I saw his body, my heart sank, he was not overly fit, but his trunk was solid, his chest had little hair, leading down to his stomach, to his treasure trail, all of which lead to my first real dick. When I saw his cock, I was dazed, it was sleek, dark, curved on the down, and always stayed unyieldingly concrete, no matter how much we drank. I think this cock is solely responsible for my deep love, devotion and worship to all the magnificent beams of steel that have come my way. Staring at his dick made me high. Tasting it made me drunk. I swallowed him like I had been sucking cock for a living, but he was only the fourth man I had ever had in my mouth, but the way I performed was pure devotional piety to his flesh tower. I loved that cock. I loved that romantic fucked up-ness we had. It was a seedy, dirty noir love, fuck story.

He was the first to make me wet, to make me cum, to really fuck me with his fingers, and the first to spread my lips apart with his wet eager tongue. We would spend afternoons fucking all over my parent’s house. He liked to listen to classical music while he had me spread and splayed. We always fucked and sucked in time to the music. While my head bobbed around that tip, as I tried my best to take him all in, often choking, but never giving up. It tasted too good. He was the first man to cum on my face. It was so strange and hot. When he came, he then rubbed it in with the tip of that beautiful shrinking dick, as he held the back of my head into his body, the cum like glue fastening us together, strings and strands of gooey fluid attaching him to me, as I remained gripped.

someday it will all be different
stand-up bass
sounds off into the night back ground

loneliness changes my mind
I just wanna change my mind
like so many times before

I cannot look back
track the lack
of contact

map the loss
create a legend
Northeast
Southwest
the West is where I lay to rest

that past that binds
chains that link
genes that create
tears that stain

the hidden emotional maneuvers
between lovers
“love chess”
leaves me
Kind of Blue