I look him in the eyes, and we talk about so many things, but it’s what we don’t talk about that bothers me. As we sit here and sip on our drinks, and what I’d really like to know – but am too afraid to ask – is what’s your fantasy? Because we’re sitting here talking, and we might be pretending that we’re interested in anything other than the reason that we both know brought us together tonight, and that’s to fuck. I’m here because I want to fuck. I’m here because I want to get touched by him, but how come we’re talking about everything other than touching? Anything other than sex? When sex is where we’re going.
I look at him, and he says these things, but really what I want to hear is how he wants to get touched by me. What he’s thinking about when his eyes graze my legs, the top of my thigh stuck beneath my short skirt. What is he thinking as he licks me in his mind. What does he want to do to me. What is his fantasy, and how does he want to fuck me in the best way possible? In his mind, is he holding me, caressing me slightly? Or biting me and choking me and smothering me with a pillow? I would like to know what the best sex ever looks like in his mind, and I would like to know what my role in that fantasy is.
We are all spending too much time not having the sex of our fantasies. And I would like to know if this is the guy with whom I can have my fantasy sex, or if we’re going to go home tonight and both be disappointed by half an hour of mediocre fucking with eyes closed while thinking about the fantasy sex we could be having but right now aren’t. With him on top of me in the missionary position and me thinking about how wonderful it would be if his dick were bigger, and his skin was darker, and if could hold me closer so he could get in deeper and whisper mean things to me while pinching my nipples. And him, looking away, not at me, but beyond me, while dreaming of some other woman with bigger tits and a nicer smile and a tighter pussy and a yen for getting face fucked.
I wish he would tell me. I wish he were brave enough to tell me his fantasy. About how he’d like to fuck me in the bathroom because I would do it. About how he wish I would kneel down in front of his bar stool right now and suck his dick. I wish he would tell me if he wants me to be tender and to hold him while he stares in my eyes and fucks me gently. Or if he wants to drive down East 14th and pick up a prostitute and go to some flea bag motel while we have a cocaine fueled orgy. I wish he would tell me, because I wouldn’t be afraid. I wouldn’t run away. I wouldn’t be scared of his cock or the millions of ways he wants to stick inside me. I would do it. I would do all of it. I would do any of it. For hours upon hours upon hours.
All I ask for in return is that he fucks me like a champ and says ‘yes’ when I ask him to cum of my face and eat me out for an hour. All I want is to break him sexually and force him to exit his sexual comfort zone so that I can enjoy the look on his face when he realizes that he’s lost control of his body by surrendering his sexuality to my every whim. Is that too much to ask?