Site icon My Love Life is Complicated

My First Golden Shower.

Advertisements

If you told me the light skin cutie I was making eyes with at the club, a year later, would be sucking the lining out of my ass and hydrating himself with my kidneys secretions I wouldn’t have believed you. When you meet pretty people you find yourself having a difficult time imagining them doing anything ugly. He fit in that box. It wasn’t until I gave him my body fully that I realized most folks aren’t truly “freaks” as they proclaim. The average person believes the only requirement of being a “freak” is enjoying sex, a lot. Share this story with the folks who say they’re freaks but still gag at the thought of swallowing semen or sipping from a squirter.

Shorty and I had been dry interacting with each other for a year, meaning– light conversation when we saw each other on the scene. We’d exchange obligatory hugs, share a head bop when the music overpowered engagement and at the end of it all we’d make promises to stay in touch by way of Instagram– knowing we never would. He wasn’t particularly my type because I thought I wasn’t particularly his. It didn’t feel like we matched.  All of my assumptions were halted when divine intervention stepped in. Maybe saying divine or referencing anything spiritual in relation to the deeds we did is a bad move, there may be some weird ju-ju that comes with that. Pray for me.

One night after the club a few gregarious fellas I met in passing invited me to some studio for a kick-back situation. I don’t go out much, but when I do, I’m the type that doesn’t want to go home until the sun is present. My partying is capricious by nature; bring your good heels, extra tampons and cash if you’re rolling with me, its likely we aren’t coming back. Needless to say, I took them up on the offer, all the after hours in Denver are either for teens or they’re serving as trap houses for the Caucasian crowd. The studio option had appeal. So I’m in there. Rubbing elbows with folks and breathing on people in good fun. Next thing you know, light skin shorty with the silky hair rolls in. We rapped, switched numbers, and the sex saga begins.

He told me he had been meaning to connect with me but was playing it cool. We toasted with our beers at a bar. I found his conversation baseless, but his face and laid back energy was enough to get him a seat at the table. Fully aware that the bar date was the perquisite to sex if I was who I am now I would have told him to just give me the cash in hand instead of wasting it on a courtesy date.

I digress.

Our sexcapades started off casual. By casual, I mean vanilla, it wasn’t anything to write home to Zane about. The most interesting part about our intimacy was that it always took place in strange places. We rarely made it to the bed. He would denude me anywhere. I was artless at first, I had a lot of physical insecurities that poked at me and couldn’t get with this concept of having my ass out in bright ass public. But this man seemed so into it all that I’d forget about it and get lost in the experience. He desired me. He’d save my panties and sniff them when I wasn’t around. He’d taste my scars and explain their flavor afterwards. His silky hair matted by sweat to his forehead and eyes full of race he’d tell me, “I need to try everything with you… I need you to fulfill me.” And somehow it really felt like a need. There was damn near drool and subtle twitches. He’d then grab me, immerse himself into my pink and express into my ears, “your body is perfect, you never have to be shy around me, its okay…” and then somehow, it was just, okay.

I hate to tell my future husband that I tried everything already, but blame it on this guy. One day I came over for one of our typical exchanges. I was riding him with perfection and mentioned in my moan that cumming is a possibility. He then says, “I want you to pee.” The record scratches.

“You mean squirt?” I slow down.

Him breathing hard, “I mean pee.”

I pick up the pace, trying to sound sexy, but feeling beyond confused, “I’ve never squirted before…” He means squirt, surely…

“No! I want you to pee.” He presses my lower stomach.

“I can’t pee while you’re inside me.” I tried to force it, it didn’t work, and I was relieved.

“Tell me when you’re about to cum and then go ahead and pee.”

I didn’t pee. That time. There was a licentiousness about it that I needed to explore more on my own before I randomly start peeing on motherfuckas. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. After that point, I guess now that the seal was broken, he felt comfortable to ask more often. I made excuses. I switched positions. I diverted.

Has he done this before? What if I do something else while I’m peeing, on accident? Would he get sick? Does he expect me to let him return the favor afterwards? I’m not letting him pee on me, oh my – Isn’t this considered gross? The last question created the most discomfort.

Isn’t this considered gross?

I was thinking about everyone outside of the bedroom and what they would believe to be true about me. I thought that if you pee on someone, you get a scarlet P on your head, and from then on everyone knows you’re a pissy lover. It will be like they can sense it.

We had vanilla sex after that for the most part, but of course one day he brings it up again. He was downtown shopping between my cheeks and legs. He had a fascination with tonguing my anal, one that served me no physical purpose, but I got excited seeing him sexually inclined by it. We’d take a break, talk and then he’d take up the yoni. Soft kisses. subtle teeth. Pulling. Ribbing. Exploiting the gullibility of the clitoris. So open she stands not expecting to be beaten into submission. Wild tension gathers in parts of my body I can’t identify. There’s a frazzledness that I fall into when on the verge of ecstasy. A friction buzzes and becomes my hips, my thigh muscles are in recess. I can’t roll my hips enough to release the overtaking. He’s used to this possession that happens, and pulls me up to mount his face quickly.

“Do it!” His voice low, yet stern. “Just do it.” His tongue breaks up the fleshy guards and continues assaulting the easy mark. “You can do it.”

I’m trying not to scream. I’m not ready to cum. I’m not ready to cum. Oh my, I’m not ready. “I caaaan’t. I caaaan’t!” I’m pressing his forehead, but now he has my legs locked over his ears.

“Stop. Yes. You. Can.”

“But what if you don’t like it?” I try to move. I slap the part of his face that isn’t buried inside of me.

“I will.” He manages to muffle out.

He laps longer, wider, covering the bud.Twisting the bud.Removing the bud. Setting the bud back.Showering the bud.Loving the bud.Covering the bud.Twisting the bud.Removing the bud.Setting the bud back.Showering the bud.Loving the bud.

Twisting. Lapping. Removing. Showering. Wetting. Loving. The… bud.

The bud creamed.

The difficulty in expressing the pain and excitement that I was experiencing while spread wide and vulnerable is not something I am yet talented enough to do. So affected with arousal, my desire to release and please overcame my ambivalence. After cuming. I urinated. In his mouth. It was a crime of passion. It started slow. Nervous drops. And then it flooded. Obnoxiously, I drained what was left of my prudishness into his mouth. He caught most of it and let the rest drizzle down the sides.

I threw myself back in the opposite direction. He sat up and smiled. Never wiping his mouth.

I owned him. In that moment. There was a power in me that I had never felt sexually before.

“Fuck, that was the best sex I’ve ever had.” He said with wild hair and brightness around him.

I couldn’t breathe enough to make words. My heart was beating too fast to be accountable for my mind. I wasn’t sure what happened. Or that it happened. For a moment.

“That wasn’t so bad right?” He looked for encouragement in my eyes.

I laid down flat on the floor in attempt to collect what was left of me. Somehow I knew that I had opened up another world that I didn’t think was possible. My curiosity was peaked, I looked at my phone, checking the time to ensure I could squeeze another round of weird shit on the schedule.

“I’m going to hell.”

Exit mobile version