I went to bed alone and drunk the night before, which is perfectly fine by me considering the shit day I’d had. I had no shortage of offers to warm my bed with me, or “just hang out,” but I was content passing out like a lady with her makeup on. Day breaks and my hangover is creeping in steadily like the sound of so many tiny screaming things only getting louder as they get closer. New Tinder message, hooray! Open it up and it’s from a man outside of my usual age preferences but still doable, a whopping 28 years of age. Ancient. A commercial crab fisherman on the Bering sea… I can dig it, how manly! Most of his pics he’s scraggly and bearded beyond any hope of hotness… but then I see him clean shaven and I realized why I right swiped him to begin with. He’s super attractive under that fisherman’s nonsense he grows out on the boat. We keep it really brief, he tells me he just flew into Anchorage and missed his flight up to the boat… so he’s got limited time before the next flight out. Then he tells me he wants to read my sex blog (ding ding ding!) so I send him the link. He reads, or rather browsed, a shorter story and tells me he wants to go down on me before he goes out back to sea for 10 sexless months. Also, he wants to send me a better picture of himself (dick pic? It’s probably a dick pic.) and forks over his cell number.
I text him, he immediately sends me a torso pic with two magical words: All yours. Let’s start with that body, shall we? HOT. Holy damn, he’s a darker shade of tan and absolutely delicious. I’m a fan right from the get-go. He tells me he’ll do anything I want… oh really, now? Truth be told I don’t really want a whole lot that’s out of the ordinary, at least not when I first wake up. I’m fairly vanilla most of the time other than my high sex drive, my volume, and my demand for satisfaction. I tell him I need to shower and get presentable before he comes over to rally me, he lets me know he doesn’t really particularly care about makeup or anything. Cool beans, dude. I take a quick whore bath and his cab drops him off right when I’m getting myself wrapped up in extra plushy towels. He lies on my bed while I’m in the master bathroom fussing with my hair. I throw on some panties and start looking for clothes, until it dawns on me at this point it’s absurd to bother. So I walk out to him mostly naked, and he’s waiting for me with his shirt off. Oh that curly Jew hair he’s got is just turning me on beyond words.
As soon as I’m next to him he goes in for the makeout. Yes, yes, yes. I love kissing, and I love a man who loves kissing. Clearly he enjoys it. Passion is delightful! The transition from making out to going down was seamless; he takes off my panties and throws my legs apart. It could have just started at this point, but instead he did the thing I don’t like. I *HATE* being spit on. But I let it slide because he’s a skilled cunnalinguist. That man’s head game was FIERCE, obviously he’s had lots of practice and takes great pleasure in being really, really, really good at it. I was kind of sad when face time was over, because I could ride that mouth all day. He rolls a condom on and gets on top. I’m digging what he’s laying down, running my fingers through his thick curly hair and tugging it when I cum. His body is covered in sweat, I’m wiping it off his face and out of his eyes- see, I’m a courteous lover. He decides to switch me over to the edge of the bed and slam it home in that position. Suddenly he takes a break having noticed the box of toys next to my bed, and slips my vibrator in for me to get a rocking orgasm- which I do. When I finish riding that climax he asks me if I’m ready for his cum. Well, champ, the answer is no. Not that I’m not ready for you to finish, that’s totally fine, but I absolutely do not want you take off the condom and just spray me with your fluids. GROSSSSSS. I tell him no, keep fucking me. He obliges until he can’t hold it back anymore, tells me he’s about to cum. I encourage it, I want you to cum. His orgasm was fucking beautiful. I deeply appreciate a vocal man in bed. Watching his face contort and his rhythm change was so hot, but his loudness brought me to climax right along with him. It brings me endless joy to have a hair trigger on my O.
He gets showered up, afterward I notice the world map tattoo on his back. Pretty neat, different than any I’d seen before. We go get smokes and talk a bit, he’s super sex-positive. Just a man whore who likes to bring women to orgasm as much as possible, my kind of man. He tells me he loves foreplay and going down, kissing is an absolute must now. Yes please. We discuss the finer points of why more women aren’t willing to be this open and true to our animal nature- for me the answer is simple, our culture demeans women who are promiscuous to the point they’ve bought it as expectation to be harassed and treated poorly just for enjoying sex. Not solely by men, but by other women as well. We place value on low numbers sexual partners for women, and high numbers for sexual partners for men. The math doesn’t add up god damn it. Well I guess it does if you value a man’s high numbers as successfully coercing sex from women who attempt to keep their numbers low just to appease the type of people who validate that kind of bullshit. That whole “a key that opens many locks” gem. Also, how do you expect women to really develop their sexual style, or even know their preferences, if we continually tell them not to explore their options? That’s just ridiculous. I’m 100x more in touch with what I want sexually now that I’ve been doing this for 2.5 months. Think back to every girl you’ve ever been with that was nervous, froze up, didn’t want to mix things up at all, or was just really prudish- WE have created these women. Every single one of them was made from the abuse we cultivate by sex shaming women. If you hear a guy talking trash about some slam piece he nailed down over the weekend, he’s ensuring more women don’t open their legs or their minds to this “revolutionary” idea that we, women, can have as much GREAT sex as we fucking want. This fantastic fisherman that came over for morning delight agrees whole-heartedly there’s just no logic behind trashing promiscuity in women.
This is where it gets interesting for me, he mentions having a science degree. A sex-positive fisherman who loves going down, has a degree in Kinesiology. Swoon, motherfucker! God that’s so arousing. Brains to boot, yum. I tell him about my “alternative lifestyle” of being the wife to a gay couple, who have loved and supported me through thick and thin, and he fully supported it. Encouraged it, even. I like guys like this, he’s not threatened by things outside of the scope of his normal encounters. Nope, he embraced the differences and told me to keep rocking on and living my life the way that makes me happy. We get to the airport and before he leaves he makes sure to give me another really good kiss. Yes, please and thank you. Not a bad way to wake up on a Sunday!