Good Morning,
Whew–what a week. Technological bouts of road rage, my mind for some reason has been in a state of disorientation and on top of this, a summer one night/weekend stand has come back to bite me in the ass, and not in a good way. This is just all part of the game, right? I remember my state mind this weekend, work that day was full of the crazies, I was in a foul mood, my boss snapped, and I wanted-no needed- to get fucked.

Anyway what was a fun, but not anything more than a long one night stand has now showed up at the library this week. And boy is he a hot mess, teetering on looking like a fucked up patron. New goal–stop telling men where I work.

Here is our story previously published 8/4/09

Gravitational Pull

I know I’ve mentioned before my habit of picking the wrong men, but now I am thinking it is the other way around. The wrong men choose me. The lovable loser, the drunk, the afflicted, the addicted—they love me. Damn it! Well the weekend was no different. I was a bit crabby from work, my boss bitched at me about some bullshit out of his control and never in mine, then felt bad so took me and another co-worker out for a drink. We all went to a new bar, the Amsterdam Cafe, which is an oasis in the Tenderloin. We are enjoying our beer, the beautiful bartender, each other, and then he saunters in.

I can tell immediately he’s trouble, a beautiful loser. He wants to be my future ex-husband. Instantly he sparks up a conversation, buys me another beer, relentlessly compliments my smile, “you don’t even know what that smile will do to a man. Do you?” I roll my eyes, because I know what my smile does, especially if it is a genuine one. We move to the big open air window, looking out on the depravity of the Tenderloin, which in this haze seems almost romantic. We share a smoke. He is “playwright” the kind who has been working on his master piece for the last six years, from a bar stool. He’s the kind of guy who has vodka for breakfast, the kind of man who suffers from the tyranny of a lowbrow and highbrow lifestyle. He’s a Charles Bukowski. He is all wrong for me—so I push my leg into his, causing my skirt tighten, and ride further up my thigh. “Madam–are you pressing into me?” That genuine smile crosses my face; the good beer had gone to my head and directly to the junction between my legs. He gazes at my legs like they are a meal. Raising my brow, flashing a smirky sexy smile—I give him the unspoken word—let’s get out of here.

We finish our drinks, I tell my friends bye, the bartender rolls her eyes me, giving me that look like “are you crazy-girl?” I smile/shrug a yes to the bartenders unspoken question and he and I leave together. We get to his tiny crappy room in Chinatown/North Beach our appetites for each other ignited, he grabs me like I haven’t been grabbed in a long time, he is big, large as life, full of bombastic exuberance. His lips are soft, his hands grateful. Setting me at the edge of his bed, his hands pull my skirt up past my ass, pulling the fabric of my panties to the side, he slides his fingers into my wetness, “you wet dirty girl, I think I love you.” He licks and slurps, my legs straight up in the air in V drop to wide open as his thickness slides down into me and it feels so right, my cunt accommodating, opening to him. This cock has not been with a woman like me in a long time(if ever), a woman so full of fire, passion and a love that has no where to go. We find love and fuck, plug to socket, cock to cunt–temporarily, momentarily, transitorily. He is mine–I am his.

We come, I snap out of that sexed mode– I must have you haze and look around his place realizing there is no way I want to stay in this dump for the night, so—uncharacteristically– I ask my playwright if he would like to join me in my space, my domain, refuge, sanctuary, my home. He nods eagerly.

We have a night of scotch, sex and sleep. I ask him to scratch and rub my naked body, he does so without hesitation. I ask him to tell me a story, and he does without question–time and time again. Sex, rubbing, story, sleep–sex, rubbing, story, sleep; repeat until the sun comes up. He keeps my legs spread and drinks deeply, my body responds and pours into him–he swallows my come down like a shot, a drink to quench a life long thirst, I dribble and pour my salty sugar sex down his open waiting mouth from between my thighs. When I come it’s calm–sedate–satiated like he has been my lover for years. Pulling my legs up and together holding them with my arms and hands in a self imposed restraining lock, I give him a perfect view of my heart shaped box, his thick cock works its way into me. Struggling at first until his tip passes and presses through that first fold into the my hot slickness below, then he slides in with ease, hitting me deep and solid from this position—the pain, subdues into wet pleasure. We fuck, we come. And then we do it again, he ask how my pussy can be so wet and ready all the time, I flash him a sly blushing smile as he hits my junction again, this time he spreads me open, holding me there with his large frame, pounding, slow sliding and grinding my cunt. There is no senses of mind, it doesn’t matter, for this one night it all becomes irrelevant.

Sunday rolls, we’re rolling around. I set him up with my laptop, to keep him occupied while I do my thing. The playwright pours himself a stiff drink and a malt beverage for breakfast and I coffee, he watches me in my routine —I watch him in his. We finish doing our things. As I sit back in the office chair, stretching cat like behavior, he ambles over–swaying my smartballs dangling from his fingertip before my eyes like a hypnotist. I must have left them out. He bends down and spreads my thighs wide, dips the smartballs into his mouth coating them saliva, then parts my lips with his fingers and works the balls into my pussy. It hurts, then my cunt concedes then consumes the balls. He closes my thighs. Standing up from my desk he comes up from behind me, grabbing me like I’m his. I ask if he want to go scratch on my naked body one last time before I take him home? He scopes me up and carries me to my big bed. Grrrr– so good. This has not happened in a long time. It takes a strong man to carry me, I am not some waif—I am all woman–full, strong, curves. My body—like my drive—is solid. He throws me on the bed, spreads me open, lowers his face and laps at my lips, my folds, eliciting my sweetness to drip around the smartballs, that are being pulled in and clinched around. My cunt fully wet and ready; grabbing the cord with his teeth and yanks the balls out, along with a rush of my fluid, then replaces the emptiness with his throb, and we feel him grow thicker inside me, flipping me over he pumping into me, then pulls out and attempts to push his dick into my tightest space, he get the tip in and cums.

I have every intention of dropping this beautiful loser off and getting the remainder of my weekend back on track, but somehow he convinces me (he is very convincing), to join him for a beer and lunch in North Beach. The afternoon turns out to be one of those quintessential San Francisco moments. My playwright, knows everyone in the neighborhood, or pretends like he does, we end up at a poetry festival at the illustrious bar Vesuvio where, my own, SFPL international poetry event was being held.We drank, flirted, I grabbed his cock many times on top of his pants, I love feeling a mans cock grow in my hand with that jean barrier between us; and we listened to a beautiful woman reading poetry in Spanish. It turned out to be a wild, poetry, beer and cheap booze; fall asleep in the park under the sun–intoxicated on life in San Francisco–and, for the moment, a love filled weekend.