Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Ashlyn--Scratching that itch

I love basketball. In my previous life, I had season tickets to the Dallas Mavericks. It cost me an outrageous amount of money, but I worked insanely hard and the Mavs games was a way I treated myself.

So when Matt suggested we go to a Celtics game Valentine’s night—I was all over that. Who cares if the Celts might be the worst team in the league; or up to that night they had an eighteen game losing streak? It was good to go to a game.

Preparing for my date and looking through my clothes, most of my “sports” wardrobe turns out to be Red Sox stuff—I had Red Sox baby tees, jerseys, hats and I even had a thong with the Sox’s symbol on it. I eventually found a Celtics t-shirt, but it was in bad condition, so I decided to pass on it and wear a green sweater instead. It was a date after all, and a girl’s got to look her best, right? I even went with green matching bra and thong—it wasn’t a first date anymore, who knows what could happen after the game.

Because of the bad weather/it was a holiday/Celtics hadn’t won in 18 games--the “Garden”, where the Celtics play, was empty. Matt and I had decent seats, but we snuck down to amazing mid-court seats because they were available for the taking. The game didn’t start well—the Celtics fell way behind early—but before the half was over they got their act together and took a two point lead. The “Garden” really started rocking after that, the Celtics hadn’t won a game in a long time and the fans smelled blood in the water. I admit it; I got caught up in it. At some point I was up out of my seat, jumping up and down, screaming like I grew up a Celts fan. I had a great time.

The game was a lopsided win in the end, but that was okay too; when the game’s outcome was set, Matt started stealing kisses. I’m usually the kind of fan who likes to watch the entire game and stays until the clock reads all zeroes—but after several kisses I nodded yes when Matt asked me if I wanted to go to his place.

I was reminded how young Matt was as soon as we walked in the door—the place reminded me of my first apartment: Old beat up furniture, nothing decorative on the walls and beer bottles scattered everywhere. It was kind of a turn off.

“Sorry, my roommate is a slob.” Matt apologizes.

He clears off a spot on the couch for us, and we sit, moving close together—and picking up where we left off at the game, the kissing turning more passionate.

“Your roommate coming home soon?” I ask.

“He won’t be back until tomorrow.” Matt gives me a grin.

When Jean-Michel and I had sex, I think he took into consideration that I had a male mind in a very female body—he eased me into it, both physically and mentally, until I was comfortable. There was also a mutual giving a taking, I never worried about who was dominant or submissive—we seemed to be working together toward our mutual pleasure.

Sex with Matt was very different. Matt was definitely the aggressor.

He placed his hands on the sides of my head, pulling me gently closer, kissing me, and controlling the action. Quickly, one hand drops and he starts massaging one of my breasts through the sweater and kissing my neck. He was moving so fast, but it felt so good. My sweater comes off and is tossed aside; he then starts kissing the tops of my breasts.

“My god Ash, you’re beautiful.” He says to me. There is an awkward pause and we struggle with my boots for a moment, but Matt takes the opportunity to lose his shirt and shoes as well. Restarting, we go back to kissing. He slips a hand under my bra and starts massaging again. I loudly moan. It felt so good.

He stands us both up, and loosens both our jeans. He pushes mine down and I step out of them. I kick them away. He reaches around me and unfastened my bra, I raise my arms and he lifts it up over the arms, removing it. His mouth is warm, wet and hungry on my nipples. It occurs to me that I had lost all control of the situation, that I was going wherever he lead—but I didn’t care. It felt so good.

He gets behind me and then reaches around, running his hand over my body. I was down to my thong and he was down to his boxers, but quickly loses the boxers and I can feel his hard on pressing me in the ass. He slides the one hand into my thong and slides two fingers into me. I gasp and arch my back in pleasure. He plays with me for a few moments, driving me crazy.

He slides the fingers out of me and starts push down the thong to remove it. I help. When the thong is gone, I start to turn to face him, but he stops me.

“Lean forward.” He tells me. I do it, resting my hands on the top of the couch. He leans against my naked ass and with his foot he directed my legs apart. He then grabs my hips with his hands, and then slides his cock into me from behind.

“Oh my god!” I yell.

We never build any kind of a rhythm together—I simply couldn’t keep up with him. He pumps into me with an animalistic passion and after a minute or two of that I hear him moan loudly as he cums—it’s over for him.

I have mixed feelings at this point.

The sex felt really good, was passionate and it was interesting being “taken”—but I felt cheated that I didn’t have an orgasm. I kind of felt used. I decided it was unfair to compare my experience with Jean-Michel with this experience. Jean-Michel had insight into my body—and womanhood in general—that Matt simply couldn’t have. I push the lack of an orgasm out of my head, and give Matt a kiss. Matt is a young guy—maybe we can go again.

We never found our grove that night, but the following morning I wake up and we are in his bed together—and the guy has morning wood. It’s good to be young. I crawl on top of him, waking him, attacking him. He wakes quickly to my kisses, but I don’t give him the chance to take control, I set the pace—and not to long later, I finally get my orgasm. I collapse on top of him, exhausted and satisfied.

Eventually, we get up and shower together.

I borrow a shirt, and check out the refrigerator, hungry—there was nothing but condiments and beer. Yeah, this guy is young, it feels like I have stepped back in time to a previous time of my life—back when I only kept beer in the fridge.

Hungry and annoyed, I checked my phone and realized I missed several calls from Art.

As I listened to my messages, Matt came up behind me, kissing me on the neck.

I turned to him, kissing him. “I gotta go.” I slip out of the shirt he loaned me and started putting on my own clothes.

“Okay. I’ll call you.” He says.

“You’d be crazy not to.” I say, and head out.


1 comment:

Scott said...

Note to self... find rhythm.