I gazed at my naked body. I had meant to clean myself up a bit, but instead I was shaved bare.
I’d slid my pink Daisy razor across my pubes, hoping this would result in a neater, more trimmed me, but instead it’d done what razors do and removed all my hair. I felt my hairless pussy. The skin was tender and soft and smooth, though the texture was slightly pebbly, like a plucked chicken. Huh.
Well. I guess it looked OK. I got dressed and climbed upstairs.
In the bedroom Dean was getting dressed. “I like your shirt,” I said. It was hot outside, but he was buttoning up a long-sleeved Oxford shirt, and wearing jeans. He looked really cute; I wasn’t used to seeing him in long sleeves. Most of the time he wore an Onion t-shirt that read The Sports Team in My Area is Superior to the Sports Team in Your Area.
“You do?” Dean turned to look at me.
“It’s a nice color.” It was pink.
“Yeah,” Dean deadpanned, “I’m secure in my masculinity.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
We were on our way to a wine and chocolate tasting party. The combination seemed a little unusual, but I like wine and I love chocolate, so I was game. The party was hosted by Elaine, a friend of Marc’s (and mine, too).
At the door to the apartment we were greeted by Elaine, dressed, no joke, like Vegas showgirl minus the headdress. She wore a cropped, flimsy top and a ruffled asymmetric skirt that just skimmed her knees. Her long, straight hair hung halfway down her back. Elaine is about eight years my junior. She works as a financial analyst and likes to know how much everything costs. Her goal is to marry a managing director. She’s kind of endearing, though. She’s completely artless, and doesn’t seem to understand that not everyone wants to talk about what they paid for stuff.
Elaine was co-hosting the party with Paul, who is her ex-boyfriend. We were at Paul's apartment. According to Marc, Paul is weird. Looking around, I didn’t doubt it.
“This is the apartment of an old person!” I hissed at Dean as we each poured ourselves some white wine. Dean looked at me quizzically. “Look at the way it’s decorated!” I couldn’t quite explain. The walls were covered with a stiff royal blue fabric, and all the dark, wood furniture matched. It just looked the apartment of an elderly couple, circa 1948 or something. It did not feel like an apartment you would or could relax in.
Nonetheless, people appeared to be enjoying themselves – drinking wine and eating chocolates (there was also cheese and crackers for the less adventurous). I knew a bunch of people here – many of them were Marc’s co-workers.
Then I spotted Marc. Ah. I clutched Dean’s hand and dragged him over. “Marc, this is Dean.” They shook hands. I looked from one to the other. I wanted Marc to like Dean.
“Nice to meet you,” said Marc. “Lily mentioned you, but all she said was that you were tall.”
Oh, Christ. For a second I'd been afraid he was going to say something else. Because when I’d told Marc about Dean I’d said, “And I think he’s really rich!”
“Hey, you match,” said Marc, looking from Dean to me. I was wearing a pink top.
“Well,” I considered. “I guess his shirt is kind of a soft rose,” I don’t know where I got that phrase.
“Soft rose?” Dean looked pained. “I can handle pink, but soft rose?”
Eventually we said our goodbyes and headed out to the street. It had gotten dark, and we ended up at a sidewalk table of an Italian place for dinner. When the bill came, I excused myself. “Ah,” said Dean, “You always disappear when the bill comes.”
I felt really bad. I never pay for anything when I’m with Dean. “I’ll pay,” I said.
“I was kidding!”
“No, I’ll pay!”
He drew me to him. “Lily, who’s the trustafarian here? I was just deliberately being an asshole.”
“OK,” I said, cause I decided he was right. The thing is, I like being treated. I don’t mind the fact that I can’t contribute cash to the dinners, cabs, movies, etc. I don’t mind being poor or being indulged by a rich older man, which is what Dean is. I mind that he might think I’m greedy, or using him. I don’t think he does, actually, since I’m not. But we took the bus back to his place.
Back at Dean’s we climbed upstairs to the roof. I was dressed, Dean was in his boxers. We lay in the hammock, my head on his chest.
After a minute or so I slid my hand over his groin. I rubbed his dick lightly through the cotton, and then I scooted down and started to blow him.
“Come on,” said Dean hoarsely. “Let’s go downstairs.”
We made it to the lower deck, where he sat in his lazy-boy lawn chair and pushed my head between his legs before suddenly getting up and going inside. He came back with a long deck chair pillow and a cord, with which he tied my wrists behind my back. I slid onto my knees and took him in my mouth. He moaned.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. I was so eager. I deep throated him, gagging as he thrust his cock down my throat. After a minute or two he stood up and motioned to where he’d put the cushion. He untied my hands and I lay down. He spread himself on top of me and, after struggling with the condom, pushed himself inside.
He smelled good, and his weight felt strong and solid. “I don’t want you to forget me,” I said fiercely, apropos of nothing.
“I wasn’t planning on getting rid of you,” he said, pausing between strokes.
I clutched at him, desperate to hold his dick tight inside me. “I’m just drunk and maudlin,” I panted. Well, I was.
In the morning I woke up before Dean, and I buried my face in his arm. This is the position we have adopted: him on his back with an arm around me, and me on my stomach with my face in the crook between his shoulder and upper arm.
“You didn’t notice,” I said when he woke up. “I shaved my pussy.”
“Oh!” He examined me, sliding a finger across my smooth bald pussy. Then he bent down, and touched his tongue to my clit. It didn’t feel noticeably different, or more sensitive. Oh well. “Kiss me,” I said, and he obeyed, before going right back to my pussy.
He tongue swirled around my clit. I groaned and shook, and then I came. That was a turn up for the books: I never come during oral sex. Suddenly it occurred to me that I’d been mistaken: shaving my pubes had given me some extra sensitivity. But I wanted more. “Fuck me,” I said.
“You’re so demanding,” Dean grinned. “Young trollop!”
“Ah, you love it.”
He undressed, and then put Bob Marley on the CD player. I shrugged out of my bra.
He put on a condom, and then a buzzing cock ring we’d spotted a few nights ago during a tour of a sex toy shop downtown. We’d tried it that night, and the battery had burned out after 10 minutes. Dean had since replaced the battery, but this one died almost immediately, too.
He pushed himself inside me and lifted my legs so that they were around his back. “Look at me,” I breathed.
He kissed my forehead and grimaced as he fucked me, staring at a point beyond my head. “Was that the first time you fucked outside?” he asked suddenly.
“That deserves a blog entry, don’t you think?”
“Uh huh.” I struggled up against his cock, pushing back against him. I remembered what it had felt like last night, being on my knees on the deck, frantically sucking Dean off, with my hands locked behind my back. “I liked being on my knees for you,” I muttered, “And having you moan my name and shoving your cock down my throat...” I started to shake.
“Did you come again?”
“Yes.” I had. I rarely come in missionary position. This bare pussy was really something.
“Stir it up, little darling,” sang Bob Marley.
Dean rocked back and forth on top of me, breathing heavily. Now it was his turn. “Are you going to come for me?” I raked my nails down the side of his torso.
“Oh!” Dean cried. He jerked, and came to a shuddery halt in my arms. “That’s two for two,” he rasped after a moment, looking right at me. “We’ll have a rematch later.”