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The most recent guy I dated tried to fake an orgasm when I was going down on him. I had to break the news that only worked with women.
To paraphrase the old lady Rose in Titanic, Hutch Hawkins wrecked me in all the ways a person could be wrecked.
I got that sexuality lived on a spectrum, but this was some Kinsey-six bullshit.
There was inherent loneliness in being gay. You had to face the world by yourself and slowly find allies.
Hutch Hawkins broke my heart once. I wasn’t going to let him do it again.
In ancient cultures, the sharing of food was symbolic of unification. And in modern times, Skittles were delicious.
After what happened with Amos, I couldn’t bring myself to risk hurting another person. And I couldn’t risk hurting myself. I might’ve been the one who mucked things up with Amos, but my heart broke, too. I put on a smile at prom for all to see, but when I got home, I sobbed on my bed until the sun came up the next morning. I didn’t know it was possible to miss somebody this hard, like every cell in my body ached.
Loneliness just becomes another layer of clothing you wear. You don’t even realize it’s on.
“Birthday cards and business cards? You fugly slut,”
He was just jealous because he was bald.
My gym towel desperately needed to be washed. I could crack it in half at this point.
For now, I’d just blow my load, not my chances.
“Amos, I know I broke your heart before, but if you give me one more chance, I’ll never break it again.”
Was I willing to die to have great sex? The answer was yes, apparently.
While there were no known dangers of using expired lube, there was a chance that bottoms could experience burning. It was just a chance!
I leaked a puddle on my stomach. I was never good with being patient, doubly so when I knew I was about to get railed.
wasn’t one of those guys with a porn-ready ass that could take it at a moment’s notice.
Screw GPA. I wanted to get to pound town, and I wanted Hutch to take me there.
His thick hands dug their grip into my thighs while he, for lack of a better term, fucked the life out of me.
Sharp, needy thrusts, pummeling inside me, splitting me open like a fresh watermelon. Put me on a medical slab and declare me officially dead.
Telling someone you loved them, or that you never stopped loving them, should be reserved for really special moments that were thought out in advance. They shouldn’t immediately be followed by coming all over yourself.
I didn’t want this nice man to think I was a slut right off the bat.
I leaned against the threshold and let myself have one more dopey, wide-eyed, birds- chirping-like-I-was-a-Disney-princess smile.
“I can’t stop thinking about last night,” the voice read aloud—very aloud. “I want to be inside you again. Peach emoji. Eggplant emoji.”
Yea, we were about to go at it like quiet chipmunks,
he whispered out my name like he was talking in tongues.
Math aside, I loved his plan.
“Doing it on a desk was even better than I imagined, although next time I should bring a neck pillow.”
“Crap.” He shot up and brushed a hand over himself. “How do I look?” “Sexy. Hot. You need your own calendar,” I said with only minimal hyperbole. “Not that. Wait, really? Thank you.” He shook his head bashfully. “I mean, does it look like I’ve been engaged in sexual activities?”
We had good sexual chemistry, but our improv skills left much to be desired.
I was the one who went on a weird tangent about using a cactus as a dildo.
“They’re missing out, because history is my favorite subject. But maybe it’s because I’m hot for teacher.”
