A Slick New Land
I wasn't a model. There was no Nicole Richie, Stephanie Seymour, or Keira Knightley begging to emerge from my near forty inch hips with just a *little!* more working out. In fact, I was lower middle-class in the looks department, with the blue eyes and blonde hair that genetics commonly liked to deal its European subjects. I also graced the "endowment" of a backwards-for-Hollywood body. What this meant was, my tits were about five-sixths the size of my ass and a small C-cup (on a good day). Refusing to abuse my feet, I liked well-balanced knee high "Docs" with steel-toes or chunky heeled sandals.
"Man-hater" was one of my ex's most favorite insults. He even had a song to go with it, a parody of the 80s hit "Man Eater," which he threw back his shaggy football mullet and sang at regular intervals while ballerina twirling on his size nines. Before I had a boyfriend, "lesbian" was my more common slight. This was, perhaps deserved, as I was the desire of most of the bisexual and lesbian women in my social circle. It would have been easier if it was fitting, but I remained in lust with the sleek taper of a furless man's naked back and infinitely teased by the faintest prod of tiny hipbones over low belted jeans.
As I looked upon tiny, petite women with envy, I referred to my preferences as "downsizing the genetics." Alternately, my next explanation was that I simply loved playing with a tart little ass and everything in between.
God, I loved a man on his knees with his nuts in my hand. My fantasies revolved around widening the soft cleft of that skinny toy's sexy ass and slowly milking his eager button to the "oooooo, ohhhhh god"s of my little solar system. I loved the wink and flutter of that tiny pulsar as my long fingers fed it. I loved swollen balls bouncing with pent up sexual frustration. I loved cock rings and spankings and long steamy blowjobs that bordered on torture by orgasm-deprivation. Most of all, however, I loved a man's nuts in my hand.
The hardest part was finding one comfortable with that proposition. I developed a theoretical test, through the ballerina's failure of it. It involved a hard bite to the thin-skinned, tightly nerved throat. Of the popular reactions, I reasoned that silent endurance garnered a gentle throw into the "passive but friendly" category. A reaction that included an aggressive behavior, such as slapping or other tantrums earned a whip into the "hostile un-dateable morons" category. A firm discussion of biting boundaries allowed the man to remain a remote possibility, while a throat-tilting, cock-hardening reaction branded him mate worthy.
I wanted and needed my appropriate reaction, or so I thought.
~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~
I met Sean Strikkuj on the internet while I was still with the aforementioned ballerina. Ballerina whined about his cheating girlfriend (even before I cheated!), and purists encouraged the whirling, whining guilty-go-round. I felt worse for what it did to Sean, who was mostly a warm guy, a puppy with a lustier side that extended further than my personal imaginings. I squirmed, crossing and uncrossing my legs then rubbing them together when he mentioned his cock's reaction to our teasing. Some nameless person kicked me in the lower stomach one day when he asked, "Do you ever wonder how long it is?" Of course, I had, but I wasn't rude enough to ask. He was six inches and cut.
I was shocked when he shyly admitted to being a virgin and in heaven when he said he wanted to be with me. Every time I neared leaving, Mr. Macho whipped out the "poor-me-raised-in-a-foster-home" card or the "I-broke-my-leg; don't-you-feel-bad-for-me?" card, and I stayed. He rarely said a word to me, except to comment on and condemn logs of Sean and me talking. Every statement, every flirtation was cause for some jealous rant. We had separate rooms, and I told him pointblank, "Please date." He had "game nights"; I had my computer and Sean.
As the screaming escalated to physicality with Mr. Macho, I knew that Sean had to go too. I couldn't let him stay, but telling him to go proved harder than making the ballerina move out. In the first grainy picture that I had of him, his hand turned and opened like an offering to me. It was so underexposed that it swallowed his dark hair. In the next, his high school graduation photo, he gazed at me with a squared, slightly goateed jaw but with grey-woven green eyes begging to laugh. He was so good, and I wanted him so bad.
After leaving Mr. Macho with the apartment, because he refused to LEAVE the apartment, I waited to say anything; truth be told, the process took several weeks, and Sean and I weren't talking at the time. I had no idea how to broach the subject. I hung out with people, but it left me feeling empty and disconnected. Some people drew the conclusion that we were "dating" and began acting that way without notifying or even asking me out! This was too confusing and frustrating, and that made my reactions erratic and hostile.
I made pleas to mutual friends to reveal how Sean was. Nobody seemed to know. It was as if he fell from the planet or was some dream that was so wonderful it turned horrible for its disillusion. Moving again and looking into re-starting college, I found him.
He was wary. I didn't blame him. We visited this hopeful place tens of times before, and it became a hellish disappointment. I told him that I had a bad habit of expecting people not to change. I gave him his 'out,' but he seemed silently perplexed. In fact, he didn't say anything for the longest time before murmuring something that made me cry like a child.
"I still love you dearly. I know that hasn't changed at least," he said.
The words pulled a six-ton weight from my chest. If I could have reached through the computer and hugged him, I would have hugged him so hard he might have stopped breathing. Instead, I sat torn between gratitude, love, wanting, relief, happiness, and giddy fear with the Nile River leaking from my eyes. We had no plan to meet. We were thousands of miles away, and I should have hooked up with someone locally (my parental warning voice blared).
~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~
It took three more years to happen, but finally, we met. Out of the throngs of people streaming through Newark Airport, I knew Sean as soon as he swung through security. He was walking sunshine to the glare of over-bleached snow colored walls, like a dash of the warm west coast stashed in a carryon bag. Unfortunately, I was a frozen girl-sickle in the "Not my President!" babydoll t-shirt that I promised I would wear. It didn't matter. He saw me, a little smile creeping along his lips but not breaking them. He crossed the airport. I crossed the airport.
His gray Airwalk sneaker bumped one of my steel-toed Docs.
"Hi," I stammered awkwardly while my brain screamed every random thought from ABANDON SHIP! to OHMYFUCKINGOD I NEED TO HUG YOU!
"Hi," he answered, smile finally breaking.
"So did yo...," I started tentatively.
"How are yo...," he answered at the same time.
"Sorr..."
"It's okay," he said as a big skycap shouldered past him with bags.
"Go ahead," I urged quickly.
Never a big talker, he went silent.
We were as awkward as teen-agers, and I couldn't stand it anymore. My arms shot around him, and I crushed him against me. I have no idea how long I stood there holding onto him with my heart throbbing in my ears, but I couldn't have let him go if the world was imploding. I hid my face against his shoulder as urges to laugh and cry battled. I inhaled his scent. If I could have burrowed under his skin, I might have done that. Instead, I settled on gently raking his back as we swayed.
"God, I'm so glad to see you," I choked out against his neck. He smelled perfect, just the right balance of clean with the mostly-natural hint of disappearing cologne.
"Nice to see you too," he answered, and I grinned, hearing the smile in his voice. He wanted to tease me about calling him God again, but his fingers were too busy rubbing the base of my neck.
"I uhm... never flew into Newark before," I confessed apologetically, trying to hide the shiver snaking up my entire spinal column. My hands slid through his long dark hair, half-afraid that touching any other part of him would prompt me to maul him. My head felt heavy, and I was dizzy. "I have no idea where your bags are, Mr. God."
"Don't care," he murmured lazily. "We'll find em sometime."
~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~
I tried so damn hard to be good and not rip his clothes off or confess how much I imagined him without them. I couldn't stop LOOKING at him, as if to remind myself that yes, he was really there. The purple and white lace thong I selected that morning clung uncomfortably. It was soaking wet as we shoved open the room that he rented, his bags and my backpack in tow.
I told myself on the way to the Airport that I would remain respectful and get to know him face to face, but my very good intentions died the minute our lips touched in the parking lot. His clothing definitely looked VERY unnecessary as I nudged the door closed behind us.
He put his things down and came back to me for another kiss.
I stroked his jaw, tongue probing his bottom lip with gentle flickers.
