I hadn’t heard from the Journalist in quite some time when I received his text message: “Oh fuck you, just come out already!”
I was out. I was having a bite and a beverage with a friend of mine by the river. Suddenly I thought to my recent dalliance with visual embellishment and I wondered if he had seen this blog. But the Journalist isn’t really the type to care if I have a sex blog…except that he’s not in it. We fooled around sometime last spring once and he’s been a little hotter in the pursuit of something further than I…I could see a possible annoyance with my blog if he’s not in it.
I wrote back: “Huh?”
Turns out he has another friend who shares my name, and got us mixed up, but he invited me to join them out nonetheless. I politely declined, electing to spend some more time with my friend…but I’d happily meet up with him later.
I texted him again after I took leave of my friend and finally we met up outside his apartment, in a quiet upscale neighborhood close to a boardwalk. We took a walk down by the water and had a really great time catching up. So often the men I see are less intelligent than me, or they don’t understand my professional interests or ambition…The Journalist is a refreshing change of pace. We both agreed that we really must spend more time together outside of booty calls.
Physically we’re not well-matched. His body is not really what I’m used to in a man, he’s more petite than me, although we’re probably the same height. I find his slight body rather fascinating, and he seems to have the same fascination for me – he took a long time admiring my “gorgeous body,” speaking with the same objective enthusiasm with which he speaks to me about his work to compliment my curves and tell me I have a great ass. I’ve lost some weight since the last time I saw him, and we both had a little chuckle when my dress just started sliding off on its own while we were kissing.
He’s not into the power exchange thing, but he knows I like it and he plays into it really well. He likes grabbing my hair and slapping my tits and ordering me around, but he does it lightheartedly. He delights in hearing me giggle and breaks up the seriousness of rough play with his weird brand of silliness. He reminds me a little of a boyfriend I had in college who couldn’t fuck me without making jokes all the way through–which I loved, because it taught me that self-reflexivity is sexy.
Anyway, the notable thing about playing with the Journalist is that he’s uncut. Now I’ve seen a lot of cock in my day, but he’s only the second time I’ve come across this phenomenon. It’s no skin off my nose (so to speak) whether a man is circumcized or not, but I have to say it really puts a hitch in my cocksucking confidence. I am confounded by the shroud surrounding the beast, curious about its shape – less mushroom, more zucchini. I delight in playing with the foreskin, experimenting, peeling it back with my lips and teasing the hidden tip with my tongue. I’m not quite as sure what feels good for him.
Last night I became a little wrapped up in my curiosity and experimenting and momentarily forgot that I was trying to get someone off. He grabbed a handful of my hair, yanked my head up toward him, looked me in the eyes and growled, “Suck it like you mean it, whore.” I grinned back at him and dove back down to comply wholeheartedly, pushing his cock back into my throat, pulling back to bob my head on him a bit while I sucked hard and loud, slurping and smacking…it was so nice to have a dick in my mouth with its owner moaning uncontrollably with every motion of my lips, his hips bucking to fuck my hand, though he tried desperately to stay still to savor the feeling of my warm, moist tongue caressing his balls and his thighs–and then without any warning whatsoever I was lifted off the bed and flipped over onto my hands and knees. He bit into my neck while he jerked off on my ass and there was something so primal and delicious about that neck bite. I reached between my legs and watched him over my shoulder, staring at the ass he’d admired so fondly before.
It’s nice being able to bring myself to a climax while my lover comes on me. It’s nice, in that post-orgasmic moment, to be able to scoop up a handful of his cum and rub it into my breasts and down onto my belly and lick it off my fingers. It’s nice to watch him watching me play in it with that little exhausted smile of fascination they all seem to have when I do that.
