An Old Favorite

Part 1 of a story I’m working on & currently revising. 

I was always kicking something as a kid. I’d find a rock on the sidewalk and stay with it. Half listening to whatever my friends were saying, I focused on kicking that rock. I liked rocks. Cans are too noisy and I didn’t like to litter. I was a kid who obeyed the rules. Rules made me nervous. I was too scared to try breaking them.

When I got older, it was the brass pole under the bar. Sitting there with my drink. Looking around. Kicking the pole or the wood with my boot. Or my heel kicking back against my barstool. My knees are always bouncing when I try to sit politely. I wipe the side of my thumb across my upper lip as a habit. I’m nervous. Jumpy. I’m never sure what I’m supposed to do. I like knowing what’s expected of me. Give me the rules. Give me a script and I’ll follow it.

Some of us need to be boxed in a little. Some of us need something wrapped around us a little tighter than the rest. I needed her warm hands on my face making me look her right in the eye. “Hush,” she’d say, “I’m here.”

I liked working hard and not talking. I worked in the yard. I hauled orders to the waiting pickup trucks. Bags of cement. Stacks of plywood. 2x4s. I came home smelling of wood. Sap stuck on the hairs of my arms. Early spring meant railroad ties and the smell of creosote. I hauled the loads and set them in the backs of waiting pickups. Laid everything out nice and neat. Stacked it all perfectly. Nodded to the customer when it was all there and walked back for the next load.

I didn’t have a girl at home. I didn’t have a girl waiting at the bar for me. I didn’t know how to find one. I went home alone. Ate alone. Opened a beer in the cockeyed metal chair outside my front door. And then another. The street light was right off my porch and shone too bright. I could see the raw skin on my hands. Too rough. “I look older than I am,” I thought, “I feel older than I am.” I didn’t mind. That’s just how it was. I felt old. I was pretty much done. And like I’ve said, I didn’t mind.

My story isn’t sad. Not to me. Don’t think I was sad. I knew what it felt like. Everything. All of it. I knew and that was enough. I didn’t want to bother with anything less. I’d tasted it. I would never forget that. She was everything.

I met her when I nearly ran over her kid. I was in my truck, cutting off work for the day. I rounded a corner and slammed on the breaks when I saw this kid, maybe 5 years old, standing in the middle of the road looking down. He had his back to me. I jumped out with my adrenaline racing, angry. I scooped him up roughly and tucked him under my arm to carry him over to the sidewalk. As soon as I let him go, he kicked my shin and ran back to the road. It was then that I saw the cat lying there. Dead. “Poor kid,” I said out loud. I walked over, more gentle this time. “Hey,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder, “That your cat?” He nodded. “Okay,” I said, “I can help you out. Go get your mom.”

He ran inside and I grabbed the shovel out of the back of my truck. He came back with his mom. She stood there with her hand over her mouth. She was already crying hard. Gulping air. “I’ll take care of this,” I said, “We can bury her in the back.” “Him,” her boy said stubbornly, “That’s a he cat.” She put her arm around her boy and they headed around behind the house. I waited until they were out of sight before scooping the stiff cat up with my shovel. I went back to my truck and found an old towel to wrap him in. I left my car there in the road while I carried the sad little bundle of dead cat around to the back.

It was quick work. A shallow grave under a half-dead tree in their back yard. I stood off to the side, out of earshot, as they said goodbye. The boy ran over and hugged me after. I stood with my hands up in the air like someone had a gun pointed at me, not knowing how to comfort him, not feeling right about it. He ran inside and his mom wandered over to me. “Thank you, stranger,” she said. “My name’s Cyd,” I answered, “Don’t call me a stranger anymore.” She looked me right in the eye for a long time after that and I didn’t look away. It was different for me right from the start. I’m taller than I should be and tend to shuffle my feet and stare off in the distance most of the time people talk to me. But not her. I looked her straight on that day. From then on, she always made me look her in the eye. It wasn’t easy.

I remember that first day in crisp detail. What follows gets a little blurry. And the end is totally lost to me.  But that first day swims in front of me like a movie sometimes. An old favorite.


eLust #76

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Photo courtesy of Charlie in the Pool

Welcome to Elust #76

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #75? Start with the rules, come back November 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Sex and the post-birth vagina

Lonely Things

Just the two of us

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Tiny, shiny, bity snaps of steel…

I have fallen in and out of love with myself

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

I had An Abortion

Erotic Fiction

The End of the Run
Ladies Who Lunch
kink of the week: dirty panties
Brutal Nights
Because I Knew I Shouldn’t
Erotic Fiction: “Everything”
Look, Don’t Touch
As one night ends…
String Quartet
Unmasked: Part 1: The Gift
The Secret Rolls

Erotic Non-Fiction

The lick of love.
Tickle & Tease
Oral Sex, Don’t Forget Oral Hygiene – Whoops!
Feed my senses
Camming With A Foot Lover
Finding the Edges
Word power
The Mail Room
Doing It Herself

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

I Had An Abortion
The 7 Dimensions of Cock

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

When I Thought the Scene Was Done
Introducing the Abject Kitten, Part 2
The Joy of Fear
Talking About BDSM With Your Therapist
On Denial (and topping from the bottom)

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

I Did It My Way
Fuckin With Fuck Boys Part II
You don’t need my permission to fuck my lover

Writing About Writing

The Hunt for Adult/Sex Friendly Businesses


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Stare Hard

Go ahead and look. Stare hard. I take dirty pictures because they turn me on. I take dirty pictures when I’m jerking off, or fucking. When I like what I see. Each one tells a story. Or more than one story. Real stories. Made up stories.

stare hard 1  My fingers on her panties, pushing between her lips, feeling the wet lace between her legs. My own wet fingers on my belt buckle. Feeling like there’s no time. Not enough time. For hours, all night, not enough. Her skin is so soft. I stare down at her as I trace the outlines of her body with my fingertips. Sliding my fingers down each leg and back again to her pussy. “Spread your legs wider,” I say, bending over, “Let me smell you.”

stare hard 2The room is so hot, we’re sweating. It’s cold outside but our apartment has radiator heat. Steam. The windows are wet. Naked in bed all day. Napping. We take turns. I lie back and watch her kiss my belly and my thighs. “Suck me off slow,” I tell her. She teases me with the tips of her fingers.

stare hard 3I booked us a hotel for the night. One night downtown. “Let’s stay out late. Wander around. Stumble back to our room.” We checked in late afternoon and I undressed her, peeling off each layer. I pulled her panties down, exposing her perfect ass, and jerked off straddling her thighs. We were late for our reservations. My cunt still on my fingers.


If you like my photographs, get a deck with 54 of them and make up your own stories.


Get It Harder

I don’t get to jerk off again until I write this down. Rules. I am typing as fast as I can.

I pushed my chair back from the table and closed my eyes. “Make a wish,” she told me. I could smell burnt sugar mixed with smoke from the blown out candles. The words came out shaking. What I wanted. She put her fingers on my lips, “It’s okay, baby. You don’t have to say any more.”

I heard her pull her chair next to me and I squeezed my eyes more tightly shut. I would not open them. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to see us right there at the table with the dirty dishes and the cake. I was already lost inside my head. A boy getting hard in his pants. Always getting hard. Never at the right time. Always getting caught on the bus or standing in line. Always.

She put a hand on my thigh and pressed her lips to my ear, “What’s that?” I jumped a little at the jolt. How real I felt. My dick twitching in my pants. She flicked it hard with a snap of her fingers, “Did I give you a boner?” I covered my lap with my hands and she grabbed my wrists, dragging my hands across my growing hard-on. “I want to see it,” she whispered, “I stare at you sometimes. I see it all the time.”

She lifted my right arm up and placed my hand on my belt, stroking my fingers until I did what she wanted. I unhooked my belt buckle. Leaned  my head back. Felt my neck stiffen. My eyes still squeezed shut tight.

I reached both hands into my pants. I pulled hard. She moved. I felt her lean over me. She pulled my pants more open and shimmied them down, making me shift in my chair. I felt myself exposed. My hands in my underwear. My thighs strapped together by my pants.

“You’re not hard enough,” she said, sounding surprised. “You couldn’t keep that soft dick inside me,” she laughed, “Get it harder.”

I worked my fingers. My hands. I pulled until it hurt. She kept talking, “No, baby. Are you scared? Do I make you nervous?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t say a word. I felt the sweat in my armpits and on my chest. I pulled harder and grunted my frustration, my self loathing, my disappointment in myself. I know I’m not good enough for her to fuck. I know it. Not good enough for any of these girls. They laugh when they catch me staring. I’m always staring.

“I want to put it inside me,” she said, “but I need you hard. I need more than that, baby.” Her tone was half encouraging, half annoyed. I worked harder. I wanted her on me. I imagined her thighs wrapped around me. Her hands on my shoulders. Smelling her sweet breath in my face. Feeling her pussy squeezed around me. My hands on her hips. Or her tits. The lace of her bra on the backs of my hands, cupping her soft breasts. Feeling a girl. Feeling her.

“Let me help you,” she said and scratched her nails against my thigh. Then I felt her hand on the back of mine. I felt it through my underwear. She rubbed my hand. My hand pumped up and down. Squeezing. Pulling. My muscles started to burn. She kissed my forehead. “You’re going to come for me just like this,” she said, “Come in your underwear. I want to see it.”

I jerked my hand back and forth. So close. I was so close. The front legs of my chair kicked back and she caught me. “Next time,” she said, “Maybe next time you’ll be ready for me.” I curled over my thighs, coming so hard. I lost my breath for a moment and felt dizzy.

“You’re sweet,” she said and shifted off her seat to the floor. She rested her head in my lap. We sat there like that while I calmed down.

When I opened my eyes the sun had gone down and we ate the whole cake between us in the dark.