The LushUs Life
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BLOGGER'S NOTE: I'm currently working on a bit of fiction because the demons in my imagination need a bit of excercise. Not "exorcise" asin to remove, but "excercise" as in to stretch their legs. :) I'm thinking of posting a disclaimer of sorts, because I might have to. In the meantime, please be advised that the current post "Part One - Thirteen Days" is a work of fiction, likewise for any posts pertaining to it. Just remember - it's all a work of fiction. |
Everyone Gets Lucky Once Dec 11th, 2003 1:22:11 am EST Everyone gets lucky once, even me. Even me; the unluckiest girl ever in love. Even I can get lucky. After a string of heartbreaks that managed to make my hairdresser scream, I finally got my lucky break. My lucky break was named LushBoy. Well, of course that's not his real name, but protecting the innocent and all that. For you see, innocence plays a real part in precisely why I am just so damn lucky. Lucky, lucky, lucky me! I pride myself on my lack of innocence, or, more specifically, my knowingness. Oh yes, I am very knowing. For as long as I can remember, the lure of sex has been irresistible to me. My deepest memories of childhood are rooted in it, thick with it, dripping with it. I was born adrift on a sea of sex. Dreaming in my drunken boat of sex. I have been studying it all my life. From my first crayon scrawls of "boobies" and "pee-pees" and huge, round bums, to the dizzy adventures in summertime bushes with the local boy who initiated me into the ways of nudity at the tender age of six. Did I know that the pitter patter in my unopened rosebud was arousal? No, of course not. But my instincts ruled me then as much as they do now, and I knew somehow that this feverish, throbbing hunger and the sight of flesh were inextricably linked. So, naturally I continued my experiments as often as possible. ...And, as I recall, got caught as often as possible. Oh, that I could have continued my research in peace! But no, 'round every corner, though I should say accomplice shrubbery, parental outrage seemed to await me! Caught with boys and girls of every flavor, en flagrante as they say, in some of the most compromising positions imaginable. Once with my bum pressed tight in a sort of gluteus kiss with the bum of a boy I still like to think of as Tarzan. Once with a girl, I don't remember which, as we stood face to face, fingers laying bare our most intimate of organs for each other like small, pink, bio-lab dissections. With the exception of the now notorious "bum kiss", all of these surgeries were non-invasive. Looking but not touching. Showing and telling. "Wanna' see me pee?". Mere technical demos. The occasional foray into public nudity. You know, an "I dare you to run to that tree and back naked", kind of thing. ...Jesus, I think I was even spotted and tattled on by neighbors! I'm sure I should be mortified, but the whole thing just seems hilarious to me. Beautiful, funny and slightly disturbing. My poor parents. My poor neighbors. Must've given them a fright. You'd think after a start like that I'd have been a handful in my teenage years, but not really. It was all still show and tell, but now the biggest sex organ of them all, the brain, was beginning to swell and flush with desire. Dog-eared Nancy Friday anthologies spiced with some Anais Nin and lots of "supernatural horror". Supernatural horror is always a sure bet for lots of depraved sex. Some under the guise of ritual and some with the bite of a vampire as a penetration euphemism. All of it raw and blessedly hot. Clive Barker, I adore you! You wrote about what it was like to be a woman so believably that only an ass like me could be shocked (and heartbroken!) when you came out. But I digress. By 16 I was a connessoir of trashy lingerie. I was long legs in high-heels and micro-minis and that retrosexual goldmine the garter belt. I thought I discovered the garter belt. I thought I invented it. Jesus Christ, why wasn't everyone wearing these?! So versatile! So comfortable! So nice to look at! I was doomed to be a pioneer of the garter belt all on my own. And judging from the disapproving way my mother eyed those black and white and violet and cafe au lait colored clusters of ribbons and hooks dangling from the shower curtain rod after I had carefully handwashed them in lavender delicates wash, perhaps that's for the best. But still just sex as playtime. A glimpse of thigh here, just to cause a reaction, and falling into a swoon when I did. Feeling both powerful and prey-like, enjoying eyes on me but feeling oddly trapped because of it. Knowing that the way I dressed and my self-aware little gestures were promising more than I was fit to deliver. A spy in the house of love. Cock-tease. And even though I attracted hoots and hollers and sometimes very polite and ardent advances, I didn't feel pretty. I didn't feel beautiful even though I got red to my ears every time I heard it, which was a bit too often for my own good. 18 seemed a pretty good age to lose my virginity, so I did. I wish there were more to the tale than that, but there isn't. I was sure by that ripe old age that love didn't exist because I was 18 and knew everything. I was tired of sitting around imagining what it was like to nudged open, or rent apart, as the case may be, so I employed the services of a good male friend, who had once been a boyfriend, to preside over the grand opening ceremony. I bought condoms for myself unashamedly, and used them correctly and was proud of my own self-possession. He was big and although I was soaked to my knees it hurt like hell and it was sweaty and cramped even on the bench seats of his Ford Granada. Even "ribbed for her pleasure". I didn't expect to come the first time and I didn't, even though I had done so a zillion times by my own hand. And for you skeptics, a zillion is still a conservative estimate. We banged sweatily away at each other a few more times over the course of that summer, but quickly grew bored with each other. At least I think it was mutual, because it was around then that I learned how to screen calls. Mere months after declaring "love is dead, long live sex!" I fell in love for the first time. It was as tumultuous and breathtaking as I always hoped it would be. He was a friend first and a lover suddenly and unexpectedly. It just came as a revelation to me one day. I love him! And I told him rather fearlessly out-of-the-blue and I remember him shouting with relief. He said we both felt the same way and only I had the courage to say it and he thanked me. It was, up until then, the best day of my life. It was wonderful and frantic and filled with laughing and crying; crying for joy and crying with heartbreak. We lasted a year. He left me for a girl I introduced him to 3 days before my birthday. I remember offering to be his "bit on the side" just to keep him in my life. His soft, curly hair and wild blue eyes. His brilliant mind. His effortlessly perfect body. Oh, my lover. I hate myself now for being such a pushover, but even still I recognize I offered the continued use of my body to him out of the honesty of my own desires too. You see, I wanted the continued use of his body as well. But he didn't bite and thank god for that. As much as I wish I wasn't, I'm too much the jealous type. It was six years before I fell in love again, and it was even more tragic than the last. But both before and after, I began to amass some great stories. My own dog-eared anthology of amusing exploits all carefully chosen and rare but incredibly unique. Perhaps chosen FOR their uniqueness. Musicians and artists with a way with words and mild substance abuse problems. An unlikely, white-collar dom with a penchant for spanking my bottom raw and a tireless arm. A lovely, lithe European boy that I picked out of a crowd as the prettiest, only to find him also intimidatingly hung and with an inexhaustible lust. A man 10 years my junior when I was coming up on 30. (And yes, though the former was older chronologically, he was still a boy to the latter man. There is a difference that has nothing to do with age.) Even a girl who was my very best friend, and another girl who was sort of a friend of a friend. And in between these these dalliances were what I like to think of as my occasional petty theft of sex. A few strange, brief moments that it seemed, not only to me, but the friends I chose to relate them to, as things that could only happen to me. A not-underage-but-uncomfortably-young boy who spotted me in a sexy goth club one night and sweetly acted as loving pet to me over the course of the evening's revelry. He lolled with his head on my shoulder, stroking my hair and telling me how cool we (my friends and I) were as though he knew nothing of awkwardness. We drove him home safely, a little higher than he was before he met us, but utterly unsullied. (even though sullying him would have surely been delightful.) And one night at a gay club finding myself crowded in a gender-nonspecific bathroom stall with a flaming "tighty-whitey dancer" who got me high, then showed me his ass, and then jerked off for me while I stood behind him. I peered rapt through the crook of his elbow with my arms around his waist and my hands criss-crossed around his perfectly pumped pectorals watching him pump his perfectly plumped cock, whispering my guttural appreciation. I couldn't understand what compelled people to think it was alright to behave this way around me, but I was pleased that they did. But for all my adventures, it was all rather cynical, I suppose. Pop psychology would surely call it "intimacy issues". The older I got the more I liked to spend time on my own. This whole love thing wasn't panning out the way I had hoped, and there seemed too many compromises. Not to mention that even the two or three times I had been in love, wildly in love, I couldn't imagine spending "forever" with any of them. I was beginning to believe that the whole "lid for every pot" thing was bullshit, but I was oddly comfortable with that. I wasn't afraid of spinsterism because I knew I could do it brilliantly. I could still have lovers and guy friends and the occasional absurdist fling, so who needs a soul-mate? I'd be good at this spinster thing. But the one man I continually discussed these matters with, my one guy buddy who knew of my junior league tart days straight through to my days of being bound and flogged, the one man who knew of my desire to boldly reinvent spinsterhood, well, he turned out to be my luckiest break yet. One night while playing Telephone True Confessions, we began spilling our deepest darkest secrets to each other. We shared a litany of shames and regrets and secret longings. I had always thought he was cute and sexy, but far too valuable to fuck and therefore, fuck things up with. Everything about him seemed to deserve my most careful consideration. But I must admit, after Telephone True Confessions, I began having uncontrollable urges regarding LushBoy, this most special of friends. Just as we were about to hang up, LushBoy seemed to stall. This led to intimations that he had another big secret to share. There was much hemming and hawing, but LushBoy was very reluctant and left his final confession for another day. I went to bed that night in a hell of curiosity, waking the next day to find an e-mail that explained it all. LushBoy was, in fact, an innocent. A virgin. I was reeling. Do they even make those anymore? Is anyone even born a virgin these days, let alone a virgin at 30? LushBoy became even more exotic to me than before, and I felt even more amazed to know him. Imagine me, jaded little me, knowing an innocent! It was ludicrous and delicious and when I called him that day all delightfully a-twitter, he wondered aloud what I thought he was going to say. In perhaps my only unguarded moment since the beginning of time, I answered; "I was hoping you would say you liked me!" I immediately wondered if that wasn't the wrong thing to say. Did he think I was preying on his amazing purity? ...Was I? In all honesty, I didn't know. I wanted to push, I wanted to pry, I wanted to grab and devour. I wanted to be his first, last and always. I wanted to make him mine, mine, MINE! I found myself strangely envious of his purity, not because I regretted my past, far from it, but because he still had sex to discover for the first time. I found myself excited for him, but could I bear the thought of his maiden voyage with anyone else but me at the helm? No. No, I don't think so. Sticky situation, this. It seemed unsavory that someone as rife with sin and cynicism should even be allowed to make eye contact with someone so innocent, let alone sexual contact. So how much of my desire was driven by greed for what I saw as possession of this crowning jewel? Did I want to fuck LushBoy before this revelation? Yes. Most definitely. I had often steered our conversation to erotic content in the past to test the waters, and had, on one memorable occasion, given him the "full court press". For the uninitiated, the Full Court Press is a friendly hug that lingers a bit longer than it should and includes a certain amount of pelvic pressure typically absent from "friendly" hugs, usually with an open palm on the small of the receiver’s back in a firm gesture of intention. It's a good barometer for gauging attraction but ambiguous enough to allow both parties to save face if one or the other isn't interested. Usually deals are cemented almost immediately following a full court press, but in LushBoy's case, the reaction was so unreadable that I was left baffled enough to suffer my attraction in silence. The taste of his flesh remained confined to late night imaginings and involved masturbatory fantasy. Now, did I want to fuck LushBoy after his confession? Well, let's just say that after the confession, NOT fucking LushBoy became inconceivable to me. And this was exactly the reason I no longer trusted my judgement. Although passivity never was one of my strongest traits, I made a concerted effort to leave the ball in his court. I made him aware of my attraction, gave him an honest account of just how far back in history it went, and then tried not to slaver over him like choice prey whenever he was near. We discussed options, fears and repercussions and, after years of knowing each other, went out on our first official "date". He had already made it clear that he felt it was difficult for him to make any "first moves", and although first moves are my specialty, I found myself strangely humbled at the idea of being the first to hold his hand, to touch his hip, his leg, his hair, the first to kiss him. Yes, dear reader, for LushBoy was even unkissed! Virgin lips, as well! Looking back, I don't know how I kept from bursting into flames around this rare delicacy! And what's even stranger is how he managed to remain in his pristine state all these years. ("It's all in the wrist!" he joked when I asked him that very question.) For here was a boy who was funny, smart, kind and interesting. A boy with talent and wit and a goodness that showed in the face. And on top of that; utterly beautiful and undeniably sensual. Full, ripe lips, laughing eyes, a beautiful boyish smile, hands that were capable-looking and lovely with a fit little frame to carry it all. Utterly fuckable. Any moral/religious obstacles? No. Any orientation issues? No. Any performance problems? Nope. Lack of interest in sex? "I wish!" he answered. Hmm. So what was the deal, you ask? Far as I can tell, he seemed a big fan of unrequited attractions. At least, this was how it all started. He'd develop crushes on unavailable/unsuitable women and suffer his desire in silence. A completely acceptable quirk when you're 15, 16, 17, but as the years wore on, the idea of making the leap became more and more intimidating for him. Before he knew it, youth was beginning to skate past him with a speed I think we're all familiar with and he found himself at an age where confessing virginity became akin to confessing some rare and fatal communicable disease. The few women he did admit his condition to only made matters worse, treating him like some enfeebled freak. Oh, if only those fools had an idea what pleasure they missed out on! On second thought; I'd rather they didn't. He'll have an army of women howling outside his window like stray cats forever! Kissing LushBoy blew all my greatest first kisses out of the water, and believe me, I collected great first kisses like fine Faberge eggs. My hand on his chest feeling his heart pound as if it would smash free of its bone-cage and spatter my face ruby red. Using my lips to lever his gently open. Feeling him flinch a bit as my tongue tried to touch his. Forgetting for a second the care with which I was to proceed and trying to snake my hand into his lap only to be met with his fingers circling my wrist and a soft but firm; "not yet." Ooooh, it was heaven and hell! It was a torturous rapture and even though I wanted it to go on forever, I was still me, after all, and I was dying to tear him open like a Christmas present and wallow in his sweat. We left it at just kissing that night, and I stumbled in my door after he left more turned on than I've ever been in my life. It was a whole, endless week before we got the chance to sleep together for the first time, and I was as nervous and excited as I probably should have been for MY first time! For all of my cavalier, cocky attitudes about sex, could I possibly live up to his expectations? What kind of expectations does someone have about sex after 30 years? Would I be a disappointment to him? Was I even his type or just "any port in a storm"? Would everything be awkward afterwards? I was about to find out. I undressed him with care, surprised that he was more muscular than I had expected, kissing him as I unbuttoned his shirt, tugged at his tee shirt, and just as I went for the jeans he stops me and says, eyes wide and almost accusing; "you too!" I laugh and do my best to catch up, for modesty's sake, and we unbutton each other's jeans at the same time. Yes, everything most certainly was in working order and I was completely amazed by just how substantial that working equipment actually was, laying to rest certain fears that perhaps he was less than impressively endowed. I fought the urge to grasp that long, thick, beautifully hard cock of his and drop to my knees for fear that he'd flee the scene. Even though there was nothing more I wanted to do at that moment. Instead I took it uncharacteristically easy, every move tentative and rich with meaning and respectful of the newness of it all to him. I wanted to cement every detail, not just for him but for me. I wanted to savor every second of his shy glances, his modest downcast eyes when I caressed his cock, the way he made an effort to hold my eyes when I guided his hand between my legs, directing his motions. You see? Like this. Little circles. Feel that? See how wet? Kissing his mouth slowly and deeply, tasting him fully, meshing as much of our skin together as possible. Easing my hands down before my body as I kissed a path down his chest, his stomach, rolling my tongue around on that delicious jut of hipbone I find so maddening about boys. Feeling his fearful anticipation of my trajectory, seeing the sheets balled in clenched fists at his side and a "wait! you don't have to..." as I moved to taste him. I smiled and smoothed the tightness of his stomach with my hand and explained as delicately as possible that I knew I didn't have to, I WANTED to, not out of obligation, but because I truly loved this. I would show him in a minute and he'd see. I will forever swoon at the memory of his sharp intake of breath and how perfectly synchronized it was with the elegant curve of him sliding over my tongue. I wanted to swallow him whole, he was so delicious. And such a perfect fit, as if he was custom built for me. I felt him grow even harder and longer, his erection pulsing and leaping with every swirl of my tongue. I could have loved him with my mouth forever, but I felt some reassurance was in order. I crawled up closer to him and put his hand on my inner thigh, which was slicked after only a few minutes of sucking him. See? I asked, sliding his hand up even further to my soaking pussy. See how much I love it? The almost surprised look on his face made me smile, and his eyes slowly grew more grave and intense as he kept his hand where it was, slowly working it back and forth, feeling me now, exploring. I marveled at what a quick study he was; the way he sought out my clit, finding it fast among the other folds and ridges, feeling its length, testing its hardness, watching my face, my eyes, as he moved in different ways. Before long I began to ache for him inside me. I reached into my bag which I had conveniently left beside the bed, and grabbed a condom. His eyes darted from the small glossy square and back to me, his expression unreadable. "okay?" I whispered. He pressed his lips tight together, eyes serious, and nodded silently. I plucked the slippery ring out of the package and skinned him in latex as deftly as I could, straddling him cautiously as I finished unrolling. I paused for a minute, unable to suppress a grin and warned; "You're not even going to believe how good this feels." and for a second he smiled too before closing his eyes and turning his face into the soft folds of his pillow as I lowered myself down and around him, having to nudge things a bit because he was so pleasingly big. And something happened to me in that moment as I was still, feeling his heart beat both deep inside me and against my palms which were flat on his chest to anchor me. There he was, stretched out beneath me in the flesh like so many times in my mind. My eyes stung and my head swam and my heart felt about to break with the perfection of it all. I want you forever, I wanted to say. You're the one. And I was scared for a minute because I never felt anything so all-at-once like that. I caught my breath instead and began to move, hoping that I could somehow transmit how deeply grateful I was for this; his trust, his decision to share himself with me, of all people. I rode him until I was exhausted, awash in pleasure, fast and teasing with short, quick jabs and slowly and deeply, grinding myself against him until I came in long, undulating waves. When my legs became too shaky, I folded myself down on him, resting my head on his chest, and within seconds I was asleep. Apparently my breathing gave me away because he laughed and tenderly touched my head and I sprang awake and said; "Oh! I'm so sorry! I've just never felt so...comfortable before." and then I dozed again for a few minutes, still with him hard and deep inside me. This, in and of itself, was an event. I rarely, if ever, spend the night with a lover, and when I do, it's murder trying to get to sleep. If I do manage to catch a few winks, I wake up constantly, longing for my own bed, a bed all to myself, until I can politely slink away and take my sleep deficit back to my familiar sanctuary. I preferred to sleep alone. Nothing personal, I just always have, and sharing a bed is difficult for me. But in LushBoy's bed, I felt like I was home. His sheets were soft and sweet and more importantly, he was in them. I never wanted to leave. And instead of fighting to maintain a little space of my own in his bed, I wanted to sleep with every possible limb wrapped around him, with my nose in his spicy, shampooed hair, with his skin all enfolding me, with his chest against my cheek, with his lips at my forehead, with his cock for a pacifier, anything, everything, I wanted to walk hand-in-hand with him in his dreams. To pull him along in mine. When I woke from my doze, I began to move again. Fluid, dreamlike motions that merged us at the pelvis until we no longer knew whose was what. I continued for as long as I could until I confessed I was just too tired to go on. He hadn't come yet, and admitted to feeling overstimulated to the point of numbness. We smiled and kissed, fell asleep naked and entangled his hardness a constant presence against the small of my back. I awoke the next morning still in his arms, with his fingers laced in mine and locked over my heart as if to keep each other tethered to the earth, to this warm, welcoming bed. I felt alive and safe, I felt strong and reborn. ...I felt that maddeningly yummy length of flesh still hard and ready between my thighs and smiled. I rolled over and kissed his forehead, rolled him gently on top of me and grabbed another condom off his nightstand. He was inside me minutes after we awakened which is my favorite because it's then that my pussy feels like a soft, tingling hothouse flower blooming still inside some languid dream, even more receptive somehow. I liked the newness of his weight on me, the way he fit so nicely and pressed against me so perfectly. It felt like I was engulfing all of him, and I was so caught off guard by the ease and depth of the sensation that I found myself coming before I even realized it was starting. His eyes widened a little and he whispered; "I can feel that!" as I rippled and clutched around him. And as perfectly as mine ended, his began and he pressed into me, gripping my shoulders, and pounding me against him with surprising ferocity and letting out a long, satisfied animal sigh. We rested in each other's arms a moment, and rose shaky and ravenous, dying of thirst. We had breakfast and spent the day lounging on the couch, sliding against each other giddily in the shower, falling back into bed when we had regained enough strength and then waking from a doze to find it was dusk and then calling for takeout. We ate and watched movies and fucked again, falling asleep tangled and sweaty once more, waking the next morning to find that same heartbreaking puzzle of arms and legs locked together as if we had been doing this for a hundred years. It was the single greatest, most complete encounter I had ever had, and it continues still. We fall into bed with the same passion and hunger and newness every time, somehow. The gods sent me a lover who has not only learned my body and mind and soul so completely, but also seemed to know me intuitively from the start. I can only hope I have given him as much in return. Every day we discover each other. Every day we amaze each other. Every day we are grateful to be in each other's company. My name is LushGirl, and this is my story. I have a million great stories, but this is the only one that means anything. This is merely the beginning of the story of LushGirl & LushBoy, also known as LushUs, yet somehow this is the whole story. For all of the details I have left out, all of the adventures we have had together since, and all of the adventures yet to come, this story as is complete (and as long!) as it will ever get. I have no need of gestures anymore, of artifice, of an escape hatch, of a clever and amusing ending. For every time I've fallen in love with a whole roomful of people at first sight this is the first love, the only love, the one thing you need to know. So thank you to the Indecent Blogging community for giving me a place to tell this story, and thank you to LushBoy for giving me such a miraculous story to tell. I am unspeakably grateful to both. And thanks for spending your time with me. (19) Comments
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