The last man I pined for was a drip. Gorgeous cheekbones, although he kept shaving off his beard, and that made him look disturbingly like a little boy, but not worth my time. As the song goes, “if you don’t want to fuck me, baby, fuck off”.
If I’m being honest, I was actually more like that man from The Office who says “if you don’t want to date me, that’s fine, I get that, but you’re wrong and I hate you”, but it was a different time in my life, and that time has long since passed. I have not pined in FOREVER. Let us move on and forget.
I met Leonard (’s penis) when I had been moping after this other gentleman for an embarrassingly long time (particularly embarrassing when one considers the fleeting nature of our affair). I was on a local radio show at the time, where we discussed my love life in a weekly segment. Eventually my co-host grew sick of the endless updates on my romantic non-event, and one day bluntly said to me, “You know Leonard? You fancy him, don’t you? You should have sex with him.”
I did know Leonard, and I did fancy him. And yes, dear reader, I did have sex with him.
Perhaps I learnt this lesson rather late in life, but it was a valuable one nevertheless: when you don’t give a whit about someone, you don’t need to have any qualms about hitting on them. If they are utterly repulsed, you haven’t lost anything! Although, that probably means you’re repulsive. Still, it’s better to know these things.
So the next time I saw Leonard, I asked him for a drink. Being a staunch believer in the power of pants, I wore some rather naughty underwear which, as it turned out, he never got to see. Not that afternoon, anyway. The liberation from giving a fuck had me on top form; I was funny (NB gentlemen, I am always funny), I was sexy (NB gentlemen, I am always sexy), I was interesting and profound (NB gentlemen, etc). I touched his arm a lot, and his knee. I twinkled. We left the pub and walked round a local landscape garden. I wiggled my assets in an excellent moment of convenient-stair-placement as he walked behind me (the combination of my thong and VERY tight dress gave an impressive rear view). And yet I was not ravished by Leonard that day. Nor was I ravished on the next. This, I now know, is exactly what happens when you don’t ask for what you want. We flirted and dallied around each other for about two weeks, and I weighed up the pros and cons of my gaining another friend.
I don’t need any more friends, you see. I already have so many.
(See above NB about being funny, sexy, interesting etc.)
He came to see a play I was involved with. I lived nearby, and he’d brought wine – so we adjourned to chez Chandeliere and drank wine. It was one of those miraculous nights when you don’t get red wine teeth, and Al Green happens to come on the stereo, and everyone takes their socks off without really thinking about it. Nothing is more horrifying than fucking someone – doing it really dirty and hot – and realising afterwards that they had their socks on THE WHOLE TIME.
We finished the wine – I was sitting on my bed and I said, “Come and sit next to me.” I like to be physically near people I’m talking to, if they don’t appall me. He did as I asked, and there was that pause – the quietly thrilling one when you know you’re going to lean in. The pause where you skip a beat wondering if your vulva is still in the tidy condition you left it in. The pause full of potential, before you find out they’re toothy, or they kiss like they’re actually trying to eat you.
Leonard didn’t kiss like he was trying to eat me (he still doesn’t). I remember he was wearing a very starchy shirt; the buttons were stiff, but my shirt was off in a second. The delicious feeling of bare skin on skin… the skin you don’t usually share. Pressing my torso up against his was a gift of trust: I believe in fucking you.
He pushed me down on my back – gently – and started kissing me across my collarbone, down the side of my breast, along the slight swell of my stomach. He ran his tongue up towards my ribcage. He knew what he was doing, and he knew what I wanted. And then he gave me the best head I had ever had.
When someone wants you – when they really want you – they devour you. There’s no wasted time, no half-hearted stocking-filler caresses. I have always loved the sight of a man between my thighs, my legs over their shoulders like the sweetest burden. He pushed back at me, pushed me up until I was supporting myself only with my upper back, him bearing down on me, eyes flicking towards my face with a mad gaze.
I think it takes a real writer, not just a horny lady with a mild labial complaint, to adequately describe the blissful relief of the orgasm. Needless to say, I came hard, and I fucked him harder.
Afterwards, he curled around my back, legs against mine, kissing my neck and shoulders, grazing my skin with his beard. It’s one of my favourite feelings in the world.
Originally published at The Erotic Memoirs of Crystal Chandeliere