Ride His Dick then Ride the Bench

I told Eric today that our movie date would have to be replaced with just sex.  That I don’t want another movie or dinner date followed by conversation and childhood stories.  I don’t want to discuss undergrad memories, time wasted, time lost.  I want sex and nothing more.

I mentioned early that some women jump from dick to dick in order to prevent being alone.  To be honest, its not even about being alone, its about sex.  But the problem arises when women jump from dick to dick seeking not only an orgasm but the man attached to the dick that provides the orgasm.

Thing is, I’m not a jumper.  Never have been.

Unlike some people, I can be alone.  I don’t have to replace the previous man with another just to soothe the loneliness that aches in my mind when life slows down and becomes too silent. 

I want to stand still and feel every mixed emotion that is expected after a breakup.  After living as “we” its time to just be Fran.

And even if I want more, I can’t handle more. 

Rather than ride his dick and the rollercoaster of emotions that follow when fucking a guy turns into liking him which turns into a quasi relationship mixed with total confusion, I’m going to ride his dick, get off and sit on the bench because I’m too broken and too damn confused to play this game right now.

My Friend, the Goddess NIKE

My friend is so fucking scary.

Chick is afraid of dick.

She’s a 23 year old virgin, and when I say virgin I mean a virgin to not only penetration but stimulation.

She’s a red Amazon with huge breasts, curly hair, and wears a Tri-State mug that keeps bullshit from coming her way.

Chick is cool as fuck but can’t relay this to the dude she wants.  She’s an avid reader and I think my sexual escapades have substituted her Sex Chronicles and unleashed a flood of congested sexual desire.

So Lisa and I, being the slut whores that we are, have taken her under our wings and schooled her as best we know on how to get that dick.

The lessons include not just how to get dick, but how to get some head, how to give some head, how to talk to a man, how to be a comfortable with your sexuality and accept that there is nothing wrong with being a 6 foot horny woman.

Thing is, chick is receptive to our advice but when it comes to following the daily lessons set out in our plan she chooses her own path, a path I fear will lead to her masturbating at night for the next five years while everyone around her (including the dude she likes) is getting fucked and sucked.

She constantly makes excuses after claiming she’ll do better and grow the fuck up, but she’s still 7.  Well let me give her come credit, ater giving dude her number and setting up an appointment (not to fuck, but hey it’s a step) she’s more like 12.

She’s getting it, but damn, if she don’t get that dick before we graduate I’ll scream and revoke her privileges to the blog (is that shit even possible?)

I have to constantly remind her, encourage her to not over analyze life.  To embrace her tingle and stimulate it.  To grow up, be a woman, embrace her sexual side, open her newly purchased bullet and JUST DO IT!

We Can Be Cut Friends, You & I...

I had to check myself this morning and realize that sex with Eric is just sex.

Lisa fucked my head up one night when she called him my “boo”. 

Fuck friends.  Bust it baby, but never my boo. 

Then she asked me do I see him being more than just a friend.

I can barely classify him as a friend.  Dude is more of a stimulator.  He serves a limited purpose in my life, and to play it safe I want to keep it as such.

But being an emotional female who thrives for companionship (and a husband) I recalled my young thoughts of grandeur. 

I was reminded of the old Eric.  The Eric I fell for in undergrad.  The dude who took me to the lake and held me in his arms while we watched the downtown pollution conceal the stars.

The same dude who waited until the day of to ask me if I’d be his Valentine.  Had the nerve to show up at my house unannounced bearing my favorite arrangement (sunflowers) ready to whisk me away for to dinner. 

Little did he know I had moved on and left the city to enjoy dinner with another man.  A man who was able to handle his emotions and admit that friendship was not enough.

So I had to snap out of nostalgia land and focus on the now.  Focus on the current Eric who is just fucking me.  Our time spent involves no walks around the lake, no trips to his mother’s house, no cooked meals, no flowers, just good ole sex.

There exists a horrible potential to care.  To want more, but settle for less.  But this time I know I can handle it.  I expect nothing more than his dick to be inside my vagina, his head buried in my pussy, his lips engaged with mine.  My legs are open; shit, they are spread from each corner of the bed, but this time my eyes too are open to the fact that this ain’t no love thang, we just kickin’ it.

What Kind of Slut Should I Be?

Slutty nurse.

Slutty geisha.

Slutty fairy.

Or just a slut.

Maybe slutty Palin.

Or a slutty die-hard Republican.

With only a few hours away and probably no costumes that can cover my wide hips and plump ass, what the fuck should I be for Halloween?

Hearsay With No Exceptions

My classmate was ubberly excited to accompany us to the basketball game last night.  He found great joy and probably caught a boner from listening to my Strident pick up line.

If you don't know, it went a lil' something like this, "How about I sit on your face so you don't have to chew on that gum all night."

So dude went and told another classmate about the evening and completely fucked up my line.

Yesterday, the dude he told approached me talking about, "Damn, Fran, I heard you be saying some reckless shit, man."

Reckless.  I already knew what he was speaking of, but there was nothing reckless about my oral invitation. Perhaps forward, but never reckless.

So I asked dude to qualify what the fuck is so reckless about being concerned for another's over worked jaw muscles and soliciting my pussy rather than offering another stick of Strident.

He replied that telling dude to chew on my pussy rather than chew on his gum was reckless.

Chew on my pussy?

WTF?

I corrected dude and told him hell yea that is some reckless ass shit, that offering my clit as a chew toy is some reckless ass shit, but that it wasn't what was said.

I have never, do not ever, and will never solicit to someone the option to gnaw on my clit.  Chew and eat in the context of oral sex have two entirely different meanings.  How the other dude confused eat my pussy:sit on your face as chew on my clit is baffling, and makes me wonder does he consider the act of eating his dinner which hopefully involves chewing as the same type of eating my pussy desires.

Because if he does, women beware.  Like, dude please.  If you're going to use the line or repeat it, get it right or else people whose faces I really do want to sit on will think I'm some sort of sadist masochist who likes getting her clit chomped on as foreplay.

????

Why is it so easy for a dude who treats your friend like shit, who she labels as a heartless dog, a “nigga, that don’t deserve shit and won't amount to shit,” to turn 180 degrees in your direction and be the sweetest man imaginable?

I’ve noticed that men, some men, do more for their lady’s friends than their own lady. 

Why?

Why do more for the next chick, when the one you have is fucking you and keeping your bank account out of the negative?

Is it because they want to fuck the friend more?  Or do they act in an attempt to create a rise of jealousy in their lady?

Or worse, men, some men, fuck a chick and dog her out, yet proceed to play cool and drop covert sexual messages to her homegirl.

Why?

Maybe it goes back to the principle of men wanting their cake, pie, cupcakes, and a glass of milk to wash it down with on the side.  One, two, shit five is never enough.  And if they don’t cheat and fuck numerous women, they still do their current chick wrong by availing themselves to other women.

Its as though having their main squeeze is all great, but why not also do for her friends or others and mentally have them too as your own.  

It’s all a mind game.  By helping me move into my apartment or buying me lunch while your lady can’t even get a free double cheese burger out of you, you have not only fucked her over but have fucked me over into believing that you’re a decent guy who just wants to help.

I see it all the time, experienced it with the ex, and I’m still baffled.

Why?

You Inspire Me To Co-Write

So I’ve developed a horrible habit of not writing except once a week, and when I do, I create several entries about randomness and have nothing more to say for another 5 days.

I feel horrible, so I’ve been attempting to write during my breaks or while my professor drones on for an hour about the relationship between attorney and client, but the shit just doesn’t work.

I write, review, delete and stare at the screen.

I don’t have writer’s block per se, but I need more than a boring lecture to inspire me to describe, with some level of substance, my weekly sexual rants.

So I asked myself, “What inspires you to write?”  And myself was silent.

Silent until today…while watching Lost with Eric, I became increasing aroused by him kissing my neck and was overcome with the urge to fuck him, whip out my Apple, and detail the entire episode minus the cum in my hair (just joking, it was caught by the reservoir tip) for everyone to read.

It makes complete sense that the thought of sex, or even better, actual sex inspires me to write considering the nature of this blog.

Sex is my inspiration (well not just sex, but you know what I mean).

So if I need sex to bust entries upon entries out, if I can only write and actually enjoy what I write after getting fucked (or getting fucked over), what does the future hold?

Looking back, the only time I wrote a poem during my relationship with my ex was after our final night of horrible sex.  After he boned me and fell asleep, I lay looking at the smoke detector as tears streamed down the side of my face.  That green light placed me in a trance.  I got up, went into the living room and wrote about his lame ass dick; printed it, tacked it to the refrigerator, packed my shit and went home.

My tears dried and I vowed to never subject my body to him again.  Seven months and a few orgasms later, all I can do is write.  It ain’t poetry, it ain’t my usual fictional tale, but its me and it feels good.

So if sex is my inspiration, I hope I get some on the regular.

Oh yea, and to qualify that…GOOD sex is my inspiration.

I'm Horny, Wanna Cum Over and Fuck?

Last night around eleven o'clock, I was overcome with a tingle in my clit.  I told Lisa that I was horny (as though she cares or can assist me).  I told her that I wanted to see Eric.

She supported my demand and urged that I call him.

So I dialed his number, waited, waited some more, and was greeted by the delightful sound of his country twang  featured on his voicemail.

I was pissed.  Absolutely livid.

Why wasn’t dude answering my call?!?

To cover up the fact that I felt rejected and might care (oops), I told Lisa that I forgot he might be fucking his other bitch and has his phone on silent.

I went to bed tingling.  Well, not actually went to bed, more like got into the bed tingling.  My handy bullet and K-Y (for a realistic effect) took a slight edge off the tingling sensation and allowed me to sleep comfortably as though Eric and his beautiful, thick, long dick were pressed against my ass.

He explained that he did have his phone on silent but wasn’t fucking the other bitch, because well quite frankly, I’m the only bitch on his team and he went to sleep early.

My unanswered call made me think and reconsider my current plan.

I’ve only drafted one person and am in the process of scouting another, but I need more than a team of qualified players. 

I need a team of on call specialists that will reply instantaneously to my most random page for sex, rush to my house, fuck me and leave without trying to raid my pantry for snacks and Capri Sun.

J.D., Bar Card, HUSBAND...In That Order

This dude told me today, with half a turkey sandwich in his mouth, that women in law school are focused on obtaining two things: G and H.

I demanded he chew and swallow before elaborating.

“Grades and husbands, in that order,” he replied.

I was stunned.  Not because he accidentally sprayed my t-shirt with processed turkey meat, but that he was repeating the same load of bullshit another friend had told to me weeks prior.

“Huh, grades and husbands?” I asked.  He confirmed my question as though any other reason for females enrolling in law school was asinine and a complete and utter fallacy.

Tonight, my homegirl’s ex bust it baby confirmed the theory that most women in law school ARE there to find husbands. 

Wow.

I was quite unaware that when I purchased my first LSAT study aid book in Borders, that I was also studying on how to search, track, wound, and trick a man who aspires to obtain a bar card into marriage so that I will acquire a property interest and be set for life (or until I give birth to his children and then demand a divorce and half his assets plus alimony and a ridiculous amount of child support).

Well, duh!  How can I ignore the logic?  What woman wants to be self-sufficient by expanding her knowledge while attempting to shatter the glass ceiling and do better for herself and those that admire her?

Apparently, it makes complete sense that my fellow female classmates desire, yearn, want nothing more than to find a husband since their biological clocks are ticking and will abruptly die in less than five years.  “Its natural that women want to get married now because they have to start making babies soon.”

Natural.  Makes sense.

So you’re telling me that in five years, at 28, when I’m barred in the state of New York and fabulous as hell, when I’m trekking my way through my career trying to carve a place for myself in the firm’s yearly consideration of new partners, that my eggs will shrivel, die, and fall into my panties after I sneeze too hard.

That at 28, it’ll be too late to have children which ultimately means I’ll never get married and be featured on an episode of Platinum Weddings, and will be forced to submerge myself in briefs and motions and live alone with a cat and a vibrator wishing that I’d taken the male advice given to me years ago that I MUST focus on getting “G and H, in that order”.

So before I’m infertile and not worth marrying, let me put away my next victims list and pull out a sheet of paper and figure out who the fuck I’m going to marry and procreate with by 2010 before its all too late and I’m just another female with a J.D. and a bar card whose title is worthless because my name isn't proceeded by the word MRS.

Queen Elizabeth Has Found Her Throne

I haven’t messed around with a professor in years and have no intentions of ever doing so again.

LMAO.  Ok, that was such a lie, but at least not with this particular professor.

This old white man with thick calves who dyes his hair this awful brown color and rocks floral shirts every other day is fucking a student.

Chick is a complete bitch, but when I first met her I at least respected her “bitchiness” because chick was on point.

Now, all the Louis in the world (or on Canal street) can’t conceal the fact that she has gained an enormous amount of weight and is fucking our married professor.

Dude is tenure, so you know his ass ain’t going no where.  So much for “at will” employee of the month.

They have been allegedly fucking for almost a year.  When I knew her she was skinny.  The gap between her thighs was evident.  She was married and happy.  Now I realize, she was happy because while her husband was in New York and on business each month she was playing T.A. with the professor. 

Oh no, not Teacher Assistant.  Tits and Ass.

The bitch follows him everywhere!  She’s always in his office; always answering questions posed in class as though she is running shit.

Bitch, just because you sucked his wrinkled pink dick last night does not mean you can explain to me the copyright duration of a piece of art created in 1945!

So word in the program is, chick and professor are official.  Like tenants official.  Like living together official.  Like what the fuck official.

Now, I’m not in the position to judge her hustle considering my past, but WTF!  It’s just so weird to see them together.  All you can do is squirm as they play mental sex games with each other during class.

And unlike my one night professor, this dude is actually going to leave his wife and probably impregnate his new young trophy. 

All I can say is, chick better cut out the carbs, lose her triple chin, and get that two inch gap between her thighs back before the next tenderonie enrolls and takes her tenure-can’t be touched-I bet you won’t fire me-lover away form her.

Iceland and Greenland

My 10^th grade teacher was married and expecting his first child when he touched me.

He was white, yet surprisingly attractive.  His wife was black.  She was beautiful.  He coached football and taught geography.

He was an avid traveler and loved to vacation in Italy.  Fuck Italy, I wanted him to vacation inside my pussy and explore my recently devirginzed body.

I spent countless hours after school pretending to be confused on the difference between Iceland and Greenland.

“Iceland has no ice, and Greenland is never green," he would remind me.  He bent down close to my neck and pointed to their location on the map in front of me.  His scent was sweet.  I quickly turned my head towards him before he could pull back.

My lips grazed his cheek.  He smiled.  I continued to play overwhelmed with confusion and began rubbing my shoulders.  He took the bait and placed his strong hands upon my shoulders.

He told me I was tense.  That I needed to relax.  That the football trainers always massaged the players before games to ensure quality performance.  That I’d never get Iceland and Greenland until I could relax and focus on something more important.

Focus on what makes you happy, he advised.  I focused on him and how replacing his wife in the picture on top of his desk would be a pleasure.

He whispered the classic line, “So, whatcha thinking about?” near my ear.

Him, I responded.

He accepted my mental invitation and allowed his hands to travel down my back over my breasts unto my thighs in between my legs and inside my pussy.

I never told anyone. 

I never replaced his wife.  She gave birth to a beautiful girl.  He continued to teach at the school, and I got an "A" in the class.

So, I Absolutely Have No Title for This One

Eric came over today to watch reruns of Lost.  We watched two episodes before making our way to the bedroom.  We cuddled as I tried to psych myself out and ignore the wetness forming between my legs.  My clit overpowered my mind and before I knew it the Magnum was on and the pillows were tossed unto the floor.

Eric is awesome.  Now being 23, I know many a victims will be added to the list (well hopefully not many), but for now his dick is the best dick I’ve ever had in my life.

I caught him watching my ass ripple from the dresser mirror while he fucked me from behind.  Dude loves gazing at his reflection; thing is I love gazing at his body.

So out of nowhere, my arm begins to vibrate.  Good, I thought, dude wants to tag team my clit with a little battery-powered stimulation.  Turns out it was the Berry; Lisa was calling.

I was meeting her in the 30 minutes to catch a basketball game, so I beckoned for Eric to pause while I lied to Lisa that I was dressed and on my way.

I had to catch my breath and release the moan captured in my lungs before answering.  I don’t think she could tell dude’s dick was inside of me because she responded with no hesitation or questions and told me to hurry the hell up.

Eric took care of me, but I felt bad putting his orgasm on hold.  As we have learned together, there is nothing worse than being told to press pause (Deondre’s fuck ass) but Eric seemed to understand. 

We kissed, showered, kissed some more, I sucked his dick, he came, I swallowed, we left, kissed some more, he said goodbye, I told him to drive safely and we parted.

While driving, my right leg did this twitching thing.  It returned while Lisa and I walked to the game.  I grabbed her shoulder and told her Eric came over.  She looked down at my hip and laughed.

I also told her that he was fucking me when she called.  She laughed again.

I qualified my statement and explained that when she called he was fucking me and when I answered he was still fucking me.

She screamed.  For a quick second I felt as though she was judging me.  I wanted to press rewind on my revelation, but as her scream transformed into laughter followed by a smile I knew she was ubberly excited that I was still getting fucked and was finally loving every moment of it.

And His Name Is Eric

Faye, Lisa, Deondre.

They are the only people named in this blog.

We had Awesome I.  He hasn’t called since I got him stif and stiffed him on what he expected to be a night of pleasure.

And now we have Awesome II.  

But after today’s orgasm, I’ve decided dude deserves a name.