Sex Love Repeat
Page 2
We broke from the crowd and moved faster, our flip flops slapping against the wood boardwalk, the tinny laugh of children vaguely registering in my head. I broke right when I saw the opening and jogged down sandy steps, glancing behind me to make sure he was there. He was, his eyes bright and curious, his steps right behind mine, keeping easy pace with my frantic steps. “What are we-where are we going?” he called out. I ditched my sandals when I hit the sea of white and ran through hot sand, gripping his hand and pulling him along, under the boardwalk, past a few homeless tents and down towards the water, where the posts are thicker, the cover more enclosed, privacy at a barely-there standard. I waded into calf-high water, pulling and then pushing him against a square post, my hands frantic on his shirt, my mouth fighting the movement of clothes for another chance at that gorgeous mouth.
His hands pushed my thin tee up, over the curves of my bikini top, his firm fingers sliding the triangles of my bikini over, my br**sts spilling free, his hands cupping them and squeezing, his breath catching in my mouth. He pulled away, looking down, staring at my br**sts in his hands, his head leaning down, his hands lifting me into the heat of his mouth. His mouth was incredible, soft yet firm, pliable against my delicate skin, his fingers’ brush against my ni**les soft and sweet. I could feel him, hard against my thigh, and I reached back, digging into my pocket for what I always keep there – just in case. Just in case I meet a man who I can’t resist.
He started at the touch of my fingers, dipping under the nylon of his shorts, his mouth coming off of my br**sts and looking at me, surprised. “Here?” This close, I could see tints of green in his blue eyes, the color of ocean water, glittering brilliantly against the brown sand of his skin.
“Yes, here. I need you.” I met his eyes confidently as I said the words, my hands already sealing the deal, pulling him out *oh my god HARD* and sliding protection over him with one smooth motion. His eyes darkened, intensity stealing over them, and he turned us, trading places, pushing my back against the hard wet span of wood, his hands lowering, gripping the back of my legs and sliding up, pushing my skirt higher, his hands gripping the meat of my ass and lifting.
Then I was in the air, his pelvis underneath me, supporting me against the post, and his fingers were skimming the line of my bikini bottoms, traveling up the curve of my hip until he reached the tie, yanking quickly, his hand moving back down once the material of my suit is gone. His mouth left mine, a gasp in his tone as his fingers pushed inside, one digit and then two. “Jesus. Are you sure?”
A stupid question as I hung before him, my br**sts exposed, legs wrapped around his waist, my need dripping a path for his cock. “Give it to me,” I breathed. “Hard.”
He didn’t ask again, didn’t do anything but prop me hard against the post, used his fingers to position himself at my entrance, and then he fucked. Quick fast strokes, his breath hard against my neck, his hands digging into the flesh of my ass, pulling and gripping the skin as he made his mark on my body. His f**ks were wild, out of control, and I moaned against his neck, loving the fervor of his movements.
When I came, I cried out, his mouth quickly moving to mine, muffling the sound, as my body shook around his, my legs squeezing as intensity shook my body. It was too much, too great, the heat of my orgasm and clench of my sex, and I felt him as he came, the twitch and raw emotion that flowed through him, his breath gasping as he grunted, slowing his f**ks and giving me a few last, final, pushes.
“Oh my god,” he whispered against my neck, his c**k softening inside of me. “Oh my god. I think I’m in love with you.”
He wasn’t in love. Not yet. He was just surprised, that a girl with perfect teeth, and a bred-in-the-Valley smile, would f**k a stranger under the pier in Santa Monica. And I thought, as I dropped to my knees in the water and peeled off the condom, taking him into my mouth and sucking cum off his cock, that I would never see him again. That it would be that one, fuckable moment, and nothing else. But here we are, two years later and incredibly in love.
That’s right. In LOVE. Yes, I am still the hoochie who just got my brains f**ked out on the weight bench. The one who has dated Stewart Brand, one of the most eligible bachelors in downtown Hollywood for the last two years. I know what you’re thinking. That dropped jaw and disgusted look on your face? I’ve seen it before. But wait. Please. Don’t judge me quite yet.
VENICE BEACH, CA
I am barefoot on the couch when Paul gets home, the door slamming open and shaking the framed ribbon that was his first ever surfing prize. I slide the headphones off my head, rising to my feet. “Hey lover,” I say, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“Hey beautiful. How was life in the other half?”
“Bearable,” I pull him tightly to me for a kiss. “I need you.”
He welcomes me back with a kitchen fuck, my ass bare on the counter, legs wrapped tight around his waist. His mouth plays with my neck as he fucks, his pace smooth and unhurried, as if we have all of the time in the world. And, in a way, we do. Nothing to do today, no appointments or places to be. He whispers dirty things as his hands slide around and beneath me, gripping my ass and pulling me into his strokes. I come once, my legs tightening around him, my walls constricting and squeezing, his speed increasing enough to take me over the edge and gently back down. Then we move, his arms carrying me to the bed, his c**k still hard and firm inside of me, and he lays me down. There, on our worn sheets, he rolls me onto my side, and takes me to orgasm another two times, finishing with a groan.
We lay entwined in each others arms, the open window providing a strong breeze of salt and sand, washing over our damp skin. He pulls me closer, pressing a soft kiss on my neck. “I love you Madd.”
“I love you too.” And I do. I love this man, who has not one stressed out bone in his body. He concerns himself with two things. Surfing, and keeping me happy. I love his outlook on life, a Bob Marley style philosophy. We fuck, we surf, and we love. There isn’t too much else to our life. To this half of my life.
“Waves are supposed to be strong this afternoon. Wanna ride some today?”
“I think I’ll hit the bookstore. Log in a few hours. You go out this morning?”
“Yeah. Got up about five. Maverick’s Invitational is in three weeks so I’ll hit it hard ‘til then.”
Paul doesn’t need to practice. He is god on a stick. His arms and legs work in perfect synchronization, his body gliding and bending at the perfect moment to stay balanced. Watching him surf makes my heart pound and my body clench. It is pure sex, the push and pull of muscles in a graceful movement that displays his athleticism. He’s consistently ranked in the top twenty surfers in the world, a ranking that means little when it comes to his finances. Every competition is a negative investment, unless he wins. If he wins, sponsors are happy and prize money covers a few months of rent. If he loses, he is out his travel expenses and we eat Ramen noodles until the next big event.
I close my eyes, twisting until my head is on his stomach, his hand automatically reaching for and running through my hair, pulling bits of blond and curling them around his finger. I close my eyes, the movement soothing and familiar. Outside, some music starts up, the strands of reggae floating through the air and over our space. To Ziggy Marley’s voice and against Paul’s sun-kissed abs, I close my eyes and fall asleep.
HOLLYWOOD, CA
I hate society’s notion that there is something wrong with sex. Something wrong with a woman who loves sex. I’ve loved sex for as long as I can remember. I lost my virginity at fourteen, when Gus Blankenship showed me his penis behind the gym, and I got so hot and bothered that I let him put it in me. Right there, with hard gravel digging into my back, his excited acne-covered face above. It was the best forty-two seconds of my life thus far.
That was back in the day. When fourteen-year olds were still pure, and not the makeup covered, push-up bra tramps that they are today. Sixth grade sleepovers are now orgies where the girls fight over who’s gonna get to suck the barely-handsome dad off first.
It’s all wrong, the evolution of our innocent youth into cock-gobbling sluts. Which seems hypocritical coming from me, but its not. I f**k because I love it, because I want to, it brings me pleasure. They f**k because they think that they have to – for the guy, for the queen-bee girl, for the proverbial ‘fuck you’ to society that they think it creates.
They have it so backwards, so twistedly screwed. Sex should be about mutual enjoyment, connection, the borrowing from another’s fire at a moment when you want it most.
I pity them, with their glossy red lips and pierced belly buttons. Because, when it all comes to pass? When they ‘grow up’ and getting f**ked during halftime is no longer cool but suddenly slutty? They will feel dirty. Used. Ruined. Because they did it for the wrong reasons.
My phone rings, shrill and demanding. I sigh, the ringtone one reserved for only one individual.
“Would you like me to get that?” The soft voice of the masseuse matches the dim room, soothing sounds, and eucalyptus scent.
“Do you mind bringing it to me? I’ll put it on silent.” I push up, taking the cell and silencing the call, flipping the button on the side to mute any future interruptions. “Sorry about that.” I lay back down, holding out the phone, the woman taking it from me with a gracious smile.
My Mother. I will need to call her back, as soon as Kindi finishes melting every muscle off of my body. Paul needs this, to let this woman work her magic on his sore back and tight legs. But that will never happen. Kindi is a Stewart perk, her oiled hands rubbing me down in the second floor of Stewart’s skyscraper. That’d be combining my worlds, and as stupid as I am to have the two worlds, even I realize the danger in mixing their components.
I take a deep breath and exhale, intentionally relaxing my shoulders, her fingers digging and pushing, breaking up a bundle of nerves, the pain excruciatingly pleasurable. I push all thoughts of Paul out of my head and focus on her hands.
HOLLYWOOD, CA
I grew up a charmed child of La Jolla. Nannies wiped my dirty ass, Christmas was spent in Aspen, and school uniforms shared closet space with miniature lines of Dior and Versace. I lived a privileged line between surfer chick and spoiled brat, sandy cheeks and wet bikinis chafing the leather seats of my ice blue BMW convertible. I smoked weed with friends in million dollar mansions with ocean views while our parents cruised the Black Sea. I f**ked preppy boys who wore Lacoste and Rolexes and played lacrosse. I was in a bubble of ridiculousness, and grew up thinking that life never said no, credit cards were never declined, and happiness was a given.
Then my father, a hedge fund manager with a minor addiction to co**ine, drove off the manicured edge of a Malibu cliff, to the polished astonishment of a restaurant full of Orange County’s upper society. The fact that his mistress, a surgically enhanced blonde three years older than me, was in the front seat, was hid from no one, and embraced by many of my mom’s arch enemies. They both died, drowned or killed by the cliffs. I didn’t ask for particulars and none were offered up.
Perfection, in that moment, became flawed and fragile. I never took anything for granted again.
Our money lasted another ten months, ‘til the fat mortgage, civil lawsuits and attorneys took it all. I spent my senior year in the public high school, my BMW repossessed, my school uniforms left in the closet of a home that the bank quickly seized. I was unceremoniously dumped into normality, courtesy of a mother fighting her own depression. If I had still had a cell phone at that moment in time, I can assure you that my lifelong ‘friends’ would not have answered my call.
Looking back, I see the turning point that occurred at that moment in time. I miss my father, despite his shortcomings and mistakes. I loved him, I have pieces of him throughout my personality. But the person that I was becoming? The type of individual that easy wealth and never-told-no parenting breeds? I was a bitch. A self-assured, my-way-or-the-highway, bitch. I didn’t appreciate what I had and demanded more at every turn. I am grateful that I got kicked in the ass. That I had a taste of reality before I traveled too far and that persona became permanent.
That happened to my mother. She was raised in those twenty-thousand square foot mansions, she was given everything she ever wanted, right up until the moment that it all disappeared. She drowned herself in top-shelf martinis we couldn’t afford, refusing to cook, clean, or pay bills – her breeding too great for such blue-collar work. I became the adult, she became the child, and we sank further and further in life until I moved out and she found a man. Now she is the wife and full-time dependent of Maurice Fulton, an old man who she can’t possibly love, one who keeps her groomed and outfitted in his big house and keeps her glass filled. I speak to her occasionally, when I get the sadistic urge to see what an society-bred alcoholic sounds like.
Family is one thing I have in common with my men. We are all loners, floating through life unattached, except to each other. We don’t talk about our pasts, our lack of familial ties. There is no point in dwelling on the darkness. Not when our new life is full of such life.
Five months before Paul, I met Stewart, on the street in downtown Hollywood. It was November and snowing. Not thick heavy snow that allows snowmen and powder fights, but a light flurry that swirled through the air and fell softly on open tongues, melting upon contact. It doesn’t snow in our part of the world—not normally, the barely-there flurries an event worth celebrating.
I was downtown, having met my stepfather’s attorney to sign some paperwork. Halfway through our meeting, I noticed the snow, my feet bringing me to the window, hands and nose pressed to the glass like a child. I was anxious to move outside, to feel the soft flurries and to lift my face to the sky. When the meeting concluded, I ran, down six flights of stairwell steps, and burst into the frigid air.
His hands pushed my thin tee up, over the curves of my bikini top, his firm fingers sliding the triangles of my bikini over, my br**sts spilling free, his hands cupping them and squeezing, his breath catching in my mouth. He pulled away, looking down, staring at my br**sts in his hands, his head leaning down, his hands lifting me into the heat of his mouth. His mouth was incredible, soft yet firm, pliable against my delicate skin, his fingers’ brush against my ni**les soft and sweet. I could feel him, hard against my thigh, and I reached back, digging into my pocket for what I always keep there – just in case. Just in case I meet a man who I can’t resist.
He started at the touch of my fingers, dipping under the nylon of his shorts, his mouth coming off of my br**sts and looking at me, surprised. “Here?” This close, I could see tints of green in his blue eyes, the color of ocean water, glittering brilliantly against the brown sand of his skin.
“Yes, here. I need you.” I met his eyes confidently as I said the words, my hands already sealing the deal, pulling him out *oh my god HARD* and sliding protection over him with one smooth motion. His eyes darkened, intensity stealing over them, and he turned us, trading places, pushing my back against the hard wet span of wood, his hands lowering, gripping the back of my legs and sliding up, pushing my skirt higher, his hands gripping the meat of my ass and lifting.
Then I was in the air, his pelvis underneath me, supporting me against the post, and his fingers were skimming the line of my bikini bottoms, traveling up the curve of my hip until he reached the tie, yanking quickly, his hand moving back down once the material of my suit is gone. His mouth left mine, a gasp in his tone as his fingers pushed inside, one digit and then two. “Jesus. Are you sure?”
A stupid question as I hung before him, my br**sts exposed, legs wrapped around his waist, my need dripping a path for his cock. “Give it to me,” I breathed. “Hard.”
He didn’t ask again, didn’t do anything but prop me hard against the post, used his fingers to position himself at my entrance, and then he fucked. Quick fast strokes, his breath hard against my neck, his hands digging into the flesh of my ass, pulling and gripping the skin as he made his mark on my body. His f**ks were wild, out of control, and I moaned against his neck, loving the fervor of his movements.
When I came, I cried out, his mouth quickly moving to mine, muffling the sound, as my body shook around his, my legs squeezing as intensity shook my body. It was too much, too great, the heat of my orgasm and clench of my sex, and I felt him as he came, the twitch and raw emotion that flowed through him, his breath gasping as he grunted, slowing his f**ks and giving me a few last, final, pushes.
“Oh my god,” he whispered against my neck, his c**k softening inside of me. “Oh my god. I think I’m in love with you.”
He wasn’t in love. Not yet. He was just surprised, that a girl with perfect teeth, and a bred-in-the-Valley smile, would f**k a stranger under the pier in Santa Monica. And I thought, as I dropped to my knees in the water and peeled off the condom, taking him into my mouth and sucking cum off his cock, that I would never see him again. That it would be that one, fuckable moment, and nothing else. But here we are, two years later and incredibly in love.
That’s right. In LOVE. Yes, I am still the hoochie who just got my brains f**ked out on the weight bench. The one who has dated Stewart Brand, one of the most eligible bachelors in downtown Hollywood for the last two years. I know what you’re thinking. That dropped jaw and disgusted look on your face? I’ve seen it before. But wait. Please. Don’t judge me quite yet.
VENICE BEACH, CA
I am barefoot on the couch when Paul gets home, the door slamming open and shaking the framed ribbon that was his first ever surfing prize. I slide the headphones off my head, rising to my feet. “Hey lover,” I say, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“Hey beautiful. How was life in the other half?”
“Bearable,” I pull him tightly to me for a kiss. “I need you.”
He welcomes me back with a kitchen fuck, my ass bare on the counter, legs wrapped tight around his waist. His mouth plays with my neck as he fucks, his pace smooth and unhurried, as if we have all of the time in the world. And, in a way, we do. Nothing to do today, no appointments or places to be. He whispers dirty things as his hands slide around and beneath me, gripping my ass and pulling me into his strokes. I come once, my legs tightening around him, my walls constricting and squeezing, his speed increasing enough to take me over the edge and gently back down. Then we move, his arms carrying me to the bed, his c**k still hard and firm inside of me, and he lays me down. There, on our worn sheets, he rolls me onto my side, and takes me to orgasm another two times, finishing with a groan.
We lay entwined in each others arms, the open window providing a strong breeze of salt and sand, washing over our damp skin. He pulls me closer, pressing a soft kiss on my neck. “I love you Madd.”
“I love you too.” And I do. I love this man, who has not one stressed out bone in his body. He concerns himself with two things. Surfing, and keeping me happy. I love his outlook on life, a Bob Marley style philosophy. We fuck, we surf, and we love. There isn’t too much else to our life. To this half of my life.
“Waves are supposed to be strong this afternoon. Wanna ride some today?”
“I think I’ll hit the bookstore. Log in a few hours. You go out this morning?”
“Yeah. Got up about five. Maverick’s Invitational is in three weeks so I’ll hit it hard ‘til then.”
Paul doesn’t need to practice. He is god on a stick. His arms and legs work in perfect synchronization, his body gliding and bending at the perfect moment to stay balanced. Watching him surf makes my heart pound and my body clench. It is pure sex, the push and pull of muscles in a graceful movement that displays his athleticism. He’s consistently ranked in the top twenty surfers in the world, a ranking that means little when it comes to his finances. Every competition is a negative investment, unless he wins. If he wins, sponsors are happy and prize money covers a few months of rent. If he loses, he is out his travel expenses and we eat Ramen noodles until the next big event.
I close my eyes, twisting until my head is on his stomach, his hand automatically reaching for and running through my hair, pulling bits of blond and curling them around his finger. I close my eyes, the movement soothing and familiar. Outside, some music starts up, the strands of reggae floating through the air and over our space. To Ziggy Marley’s voice and against Paul’s sun-kissed abs, I close my eyes and fall asleep.
HOLLYWOOD, CA
I hate society’s notion that there is something wrong with sex. Something wrong with a woman who loves sex. I’ve loved sex for as long as I can remember. I lost my virginity at fourteen, when Gus Blankenship showed me his penis behind the gym, and I got so hot and bothered that I let him put it in me. Right there, with hard gravel digging into my back, his excited acne-covered face above. It was the best forty-two seconds of my life thus far.
That was back in the day. When fourteen-year olds were still pure, and not the makeup covered, push-up bra tramps that they are today. Sixth grade sleepovers are now orgies where the girls fight over who’s gonna get to suck the barely-handsome dad off first.
It’s all wrong, the evolution of our innocent youth into cock-gobbling sluts. Which seems hypocritical coming from me, but its not. I f**k because I love it, because I want to, it brings me pleasure. They f**k because they think that they have to – for the guy, for the queen-bee girl, for the proverbial ‘fuck you’ to society that they think it creates.
They have it so backwards, so twistedly screwed. Sex should be about mutual enjoyment, connection, the borrowing from another’s fire at a moment when you want it most.
I pity them, with their glossy red lips and pierced belly buttons. Because, when it all comes to pass? When they ‘grow up’ and getting f**ked during halftime is no longer cool but suddenly slutty? They will feel dirty. Used. Ruined. Because they did it for the wrong reasons.
My phone rings, shrill and demanding. I sigh, the ringtone one reserved for only one individual.
“Would you like me to get that?” The soft voice of the masseuse matches the dim room, soothing sounds, and eucalyptus scent.
“Do you mind bringing it to me? I’ll put it on silent.” I push up, taking the cell and silencing the call, flipping the button on the side to mute any future interruptions. “Sorry about that.” I lay back down, holding out the phone, the woman taking it from me with a gracious smile.
My Mother. I will need to call her back, as soon as Kindi finishes melting every muscle off of my body. Paul needs this, to let this woman work her magic on his sore back and tight legs. But that will never happen. Kindi is a Stewart perk, her oiled hands rubbing me down in the second floor of Stewart’s skyscraper. That’d be combining my worlds, and as stupid as I am to have the two worlds, even I realize the danger in mixing their components.
I take a deep breath and exhale, intentionally relaxing my shoulders, her fingers digging and pushing, breaking up a bundle of nerves, the pain excruciatingly pleasurable. I push all thoughts of Paul out of my head and focus on her hands.
HOLLYWOOD, CA
I grew up a charmed child of La Jolla. Nannies wiped my dirty ass, Christmas was spent in Aspen, and school uniforms shared closet space with miniature lines of Dior and Versace. I lived a privileged line between surfer chick and spoiled brat, sandy cheeks and wet bikinis chafing the leather seats of my ice blue BMW convertible. I smoked weed with friends in million dollar mansions with ocean views while our parents cruised the Black Sea. I f**ked preppy boys who wore Lacoste and Rolexes and played lacrosse. I was in a bubble of ridiculousness, and grew up thinking that life never said no, credit cards were never declined, and happiness was a given.
Then my father, a hedge fund manager with a minor addiction to co**ine, drove off the manicured edge of a Malibu cliff, to the polished astonishment of a restaurant full of Orange County’s upper society. The fact that his mistress, a surgically enhanced blonde three years older than me, was in the front seat, was hid from no one, and embraced by many of my mom’s arch enemies. They both died, drowned or killed by the cliffs. I didn’t ask for particulars and none were offered up.
Perfection, in that moment, became flawed and fragile. I never took anything for granted again.
Our money lasted another ten months, ‘til the fat mortgage, civil lawsuits and attorneys took it all. I spent my senior year in the public high school, my BMW repossessed, my school uniforms left in the closet of a home that the bank quickly seized. I was unceremoniously dumped into normality, courtesy of a mother fighting her own depression. If I had still had a cell phone at that moment in time, I can assure you that my lifelong ‘friends’ would not have answered my call.
Looking back, I see the turning point that occurred at that moment in time. I miss my father, despite his shortcomings and mistakes. I loved him, I have pieces of him throughout my personality. But the person that I was becoming? The type of individual that easy wealth and never-told-no parenting breeds? I was a bitch. A self-assured, my-way-or-the-highway, bitch. I didn’t appreciate what I had and demanded more at every turn. I am grateful that I got kicked in the ass. That I had a taste of reality before I traveled too far and that persona became permanent.
That happened to my mother. She was raised in those twenty-thousand square foot mansions, she was given everything she ever wanted, right up until the moment that it all disappeared. She drowned herself in top-shelf martinis we couldn’t afford, refusing to cook, clean, or pay bills – her breeding too great for such blue-collar work. I became the adult, she became the child, and we sank further and further in life until I moved out and she found a man. Now she is the wife and full-time dependent of Maurice Fulton, an old man who she can’t possibly love, one who keeps her groomed and outfitted in his big house and keeps her glass filled. I speak to her occasionally, when I get the sadistic urge to see what an society-bred alcoholic sounds like.
Family is one thing I have in common with my men. We are all loners, floating through life unattached, except to each other. We don’t talk about our pasts, our lack of familial ties. There is no point in dwelling on the darkness. Not when our new life is full of such life.
Five months before Paul, I met Stewart, on the street in downtown Hollywood. It was November and snowing. Not thick heavy snow that allows snowmen and powder fights, but a light flurry that swirled through the air and fell softly on open tongues, melting upon contact. It doesn’t snow in our part of the world—not normally, the barely-there flurries an event worth celebrating.
I was downtown, having met my stepfather’s attorney to sign some paperwork. Halfway through our meeting, I noticed the snow, my feet bringing me to the window, hands and nose pressed to the glass like a child. I was anxious to move outside, to feel the soft flurries and to lift my face to the sky. When the meeting concluded, I ran, down six flights of stairwell steps, and burst into the frigid air.
