Archive for June 30, 2013

Parking (Or my Mazda 323 story)

I invented parking.

I mean, didn’t we all?

1995. May. Small, blue Mazda 323. Moniker: The Smurf. Location: The parking lot outside of my mom’s small apartment building. Not the nicest location, but not mine for much longer, luckily. Characters: Me and my boyfriend, the one who I thought was “the one,” before Mark.

It’s the best option available to us. Why do we park right in front of my building? I just don’t know.

Kissing. Kissing his neck, his mouth. Touching his hair, his neck, his chest. Heart pounding, breath speeding. Suddenly it dawns on me. I can touch his cock if I want to.

I want to.

It’s okay; he’s certainly not going to stop me. I do. Wow. It’s amazing, the feeling of doing it — touching his cock. It feels good, exciting, empowering. I’ve never felt anything like this.

Later, a neighbor friend of my mom’s tattles on us. Fuck. Really? Was she never a teenager? I would never do that. (Please, let me never be that way.) Do I feel embarrassed? Ashamed? Not really. I feel angry. Really fucking angry. I don’t quite know it yet, and if I did I would not admit it.

Fast forward almost 20 years. Mark and I are out on a date. We’re driving home from dinner and he starts touching me. Yes, while driving. First my thigh, then my pussy. I like it, but it’s strange. It makes me uncomfortable. I cannot relax, could not possibly come. Pedestrians, drivers next to us at lights burn at the edge of my consciousness, almost getting in. No. I do not want them in. Flat out no.

Mark drives past home, to the college campus near our house. Parks. Perfect scenario, right? No. It’s just wrong somehow. Wrong place, wrong guy, wrong car, wrong me. I don’t even feel tempted to touch his cock. After a little while, we head home. For better or worse, home is much hotter.

Do you like me?

Hello Readers,

Do you like my blog? Have you been reading for a while? I am so curious about you. What exactly do you like? What brings you back?

Let me know. Don’t worry, commenting is anonymous. Use a made-up email address if you must. Use just one letter of your name. Email me privately. Whatever.

But trust me, this could be better. This could be hotter. It could be crazy hot. Talk to me. Let me know what you like, what you want. I want to make you happy.

What can I do for you?

Dear Mark

I want to try something new tonight, okay?

I don’t know why this is the only way I can tell you my idea, but it is.

I want you to come on my face.

I hope you’ll say yes. I really want it.

Love,
Jenna

I read from Leah’s blog

Do you know her? She wrote the beautiful, mystical, and filthy Leah Lays London. It’s closed now, which is just a shame. But it is gorgeous, and I am savoring it little by little.

Leah’s wild. Her blog documents her fun in and around London between June 2010 and February 2012. It’s crazy, and it is wonderfully written. I envy her experiences and writing skills. Her descriptions are moving, they grab you and take you along.

What I find most intriguing about her blog is how much of it is just beyond what interests me sexually. But somehow, her writing manages to convert me. Somehow, I want what she wants. How does she do it? How does she use words alone (there are no photographs on the site, and only one painted image) to change my mind?

First of all, she writes perfectly, elegantly. Her grammar is flawless, her imagery arresting. And she carefully chooses her words. She’s not afraid of the dirty vernacular, and cunt and pussy make their regular appearances. But just as often, she’ll use vagina. Or even vulva. It’s unusual, and it’s somehow poetic in her tales.

Leah is dirty. I mean dirty. The kind of dirty that I can only aspire to and never hope to achieve. She’s into all sorts of submissive things that, honestly, I’d never heard of before reading her blog. And I’ve only read a little of it. I have a lot to learn from her. Just the extent of her dirtiness makes her hot to me, but it’s more. It’s that even the dirtiest of her sordid details is so beautiful through the lens of her words. She lets her boyfriend shove her head into a toilet and drink. She lets her girlfriend pee on her face, and she loves it.

And I love it. Through her words, it sounds absolutely magical. I couldn’t stop thinking about it when I first read the blog post. Why do I like what I don’t like? I wondered for days. So I emailed Leah, and asked if I could record that post for you. And she said yes. So here it is.

Do you like the recording? Tell me, and maybe I’ll do more. And do you have any idea what appeals to me so much about Leah’s blog? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Oh, and thanks so much, Leah, for letting me share your words on my blog.

Come with me

Let’s run to the beach under the mottled sky. The sun will sting our eyes as we fall in line, settle our steps. Water lies gray as the asphalt and so still we can see the buoys like stones on the surface. We’ll pass the boats with sails down, transformed into skeletons, and the sand beyond empty. Should we stop?

Why I’m happy

This is only one of the reasons. Can you see Mark’s hickey?

It hurts a little. I love it.

Thanks, Mark.

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Okay, this one is sexy

I came across this bathroom this week, and yeah, it was totally hot. It was sparse, elegant, and most important, clean. Extremely clean.

I know, I should have caught a little of myself in the mirrors. Next time.

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Surprise me

Go ahead, be a creep.  I want you to.  (I know, it’s fucked up.)

Make me ache to know if you are even thinking of me. But BE thinking of me, all the time.

I want to be whatever you want me to be.

Sneak around, stare at me from afar. Make me wonder if that’s you. Follow me around during the day, when we are both supposed to be acting normal. Later, pounce on me in an alley or a half-lit staircase. Scare me a little.

Don’t splurge on a fancy hotel. It’s not what I want. Not really. I want the scummiest hotel room, over on the edge of town, where people only joke about going. Where we will only go after dark, late, so no one we know recognizes us. Make me ashamed with the realization of my wanting it. Make me love it.

Let me forget who I am. Don’t try to know me. Knowing is unsexy. Feel me. Make me wait, longing for your touch. Watch me, and tell me how dirty I am. Make me wet. Make me beg.

Do whatever the fuck you want to with me and don’t feel bad about it. Feel great. Use me. I want you to.

I’m ready for it. I’m dying for it. Surprise me, show me what I don’t know, what I’ve never even imagined. I will love it. Then leave me hanging. Don’t show up, don’t call, don’t text. Don’t communicate. Remember, make me ache.

Never talk to me again. Please.

Wicked Wednesday... be inspired & share...

Stickshifts and Safetybelts

[I think Jenna has a Mazda story of her own, but since she won’t share it with me I’m going to share mine with you.]

The Mustang would have been more spacious, but I was in the midst of rebuilding the engine, so Dad’s little Mazda 323 hatchback would have to do for the night.

We had dinner, hung out with friends, and now I had to get K back home by midnight. We pulled up in front of her house. The porch light is on, but the rest of the lights are off. It’s 11:45.  Are they asleep? Are they peeking out the window? Does her dad finally trust me?

We kiss. And kiss. My hand touches her thigh, slides up to her shorts. K unzips them, and I move my hand up and into her panties. She reaches over and feels my cock. I’m 18, and hard well before she touches me.

Suddenly she turns and climbs over to the driver’s seat, sliding her jean shorts and panties off in the process. I unzip and slide my jeans down, and slowly she slides her knees to the side and mounts my cock. She leans forward, I pull up her shirt, and she moans as I suck on her large nipple on her perfect D cup breast. Within minutes I’m spent.

She smiles, climbs back into the passenger seat, and puts her shorts back on. We kiss again, and as I move to grab her the curtains in her sister’s room move. “Time for me to go” she says. I kiss her one last time, and she’s off and to the door before I can slide my pants up.

I found it

Reblogged from The Infinite Ache, source: Fuckmaker