Tag Archives: sexytime

The First-And-A-Half Baseman

I’ve made some difficult choices in my life. I’m sure we all have. But I’ve stood by my choices, and believed in my convictions, believed they’ve shaped into the man I am today. You can judge me all you want, but I know that in the end, I made the right decisions. I lived my life the right way. The only right way. And I think it’s important to put these down, and stand up as the voice for all the young men who were faced with the same decisions I was. These young men need someone to tell them, “Yes, it’s okay. It’s important.

“It’s the only way.”

Some people choose to wait, while others leap headfirst into it. But no man should regret his determination to experience, to explore his life. I truly believe that every man should experience the all-consuming thrill, the tremors and nerves of inappropriately trying to cop out at the wrong — no, at the right time. No one should live a life devoid of fumbling fingertips nervously tracing the babysoft curves of her belly, the tentative indecision that rifles through your nerves as your hand creeps up the bottom of her shirt — or wait, but maybe —  no, I shouldn’t — okay yeah I’m doing it — wait does she want — yeah yeah okay I should definitely go for it. The way that hesitant hand hums along her underdeveloped hips, and that momentary albeit momentous devastation which is immediately followed by elated titillation when she starts to swat your grabby little appendage away but suddenly changes gear and lets it happen. And you breathe a sigh of comfort as you realize that she’s just as sheepish and scared as you are. But now the decision has been made together. The threshold has been crossed, and there’s no turning back.

So you slide your sneaky palm up across her ribs, groping for her vibrant mounds, a fleshy, fatty feast for your fingers — and then you feel the padded lace and sturdy underwire of her brassiere, which I mean, kind of counts, right? And your sweating, shaking digits search sensuously for the clasp around the backside, discovering instead some complicated conundrum, a well-guarded barrier for which you hold no key. But that’s not enough to defeat you, and so you slowly pull your hands back around the front and press against the padding of her undergarment, filling yourself with a false confidence that this is indeed the Holy Grail of manhood, this guarded bossom, and you caress them with uncertainty but still with dedication. You latch onto bra like a handhold on a rock wall and squeeze as if lifting yourself up, climbing towards the greatest heights of adolescent ecstasy, using your vast upper arm strength to push yourself higher than any man has ever know before you, besides that kid in your gym class who says he lost his V-Card in a threesome with three pornstars.

Soon enough you will realize that the harder you squeeze, the closer you will get to heaven.

This is basically just my response to this asshole.

The Morning After

When the daggers stabbed my eyes, I knew
the blinds had all concaved, allowing light to roll
around their curves and permeate
through the smallest cracks, dragging me
to consciousness. My dry lips
parted, peeled off duct tape
and breathed that putrid air,
thick with sweat and some other
taste that burned the whole way down,
down,

Down the hatch.

My natural response was to lick the outside
edges of my mouth, moisturize the desert skin around
it like I’d been told so many times
not to do. As my tongue drew circles
all within its reach, my eyes fell
towards the ground; my muscles weren’t
in shape to hold them up. I made a mental note
of all the labels, clothes that littered
the hardwood floor like debris from
a plane crash, still smoking, left for dead.

I tried to sit up and give
my spinning head perspective,
but my arm was pinned down
by the weight of the porcelain,
glass, smooth and hard, that screeched
like nails on chalkboards every time
I wrapped my arms around her curves.
I conceded, I exhaled a stale breathe,

held within my steaming cheeks so long
that it fermented, stained with the sweetness
of artificial fruits like chapstick smacked,
smeared, and shared from one mouth to
another. The shock hit me hard
once it reached my head, but
it was my gut that churned first.

My head spun quickly around the room
once I gave in to momentum, kept vertigo.
Go.
Going.

Gone.

I mumbled some excuse below
my breathe, found my underwear,
and limped to the bathroom to survey the marks
and battle wounds that I’d received the night before,
cleansed my palette, and finally crawled
back into that strange bed. Hard and small
though it may have been, it wasn’t
a couch, and I wasn’t alone.