Rating: NNNNN
breaking up is hard. real hard. Hard in ways I never knew. Hard. For the first week after my most recent break up, I couldn’t sleep or eat. I became a walking anorexic zombie.
The following week I slept a little, but cried a river and still couldn’t eat. I wanted to go to Mexico and drown my sorrows, lose myself in a bottle of tequila and never return. But I didn’t have any money. I couldn’t even afford the tequila.
I contacted my spiritual adviser, who told me to envision something better for myself. Visions flooded my consciousness. But every morning I’d wake up with a pall hanging over me, a dark cloud, a scum of sour relationship clinging to my skin and bones in the humid days of August.
I’m not a religious person, but I took to praying for deliverance from my living nightmare. It had been a particularly fucked-up split after years of (I see now) a particularly fucked-up relationship. I began to pray that I’d find bliss. But mostly I just prayed that I’d survive the hell-ride that was turning my world upside down and inside out.
In my fourth week, just when I thought I wasn’t going to make it out alive, I met a man. A vision. One of those tanned construction-worker types who work on the site half-naked and yell, “Hi baby!” at you when you pass. Only sweeter.
I was exiting a store on Queen East when I saw him: big and tattooed, with a thin layer of sweat on his shirtless muscles. He was leaning against a post and I couldn’t help staring. I said “Hi” and kept walking.
He called out, “How are you?”
I said, “Good. And you?”
He answered, “Better now.”
I certainly felt better — I was smiling for the first time in weeks. I kept walking. He caught up at the corner.
I tried not to be too obvious as I was checking his body. I could see he was somewhere in his 20s. I’m in my 40s and have never been afraid of playing Mrs. Robinson. Koo koo ka choo.
He told me he’d had a feeling he should walk a certain route that day coming home from work, one he doesn’t usually take. He happened to see me through the window of that store, but he felt shy about talking to me. Then I walked out and said hi.
“Can I take you out for dinner?” he asked. I could smell him now: sweat, sand, heat, sex. I hesitated, so he said, “Lunch… breakfast… a drink?”
I ended up giving him my cell number, and he called a few times and left messages in a soft low voice dripping with sex, like velvet soaked in Drambuie. “Hi, beautiful,” he’d say, and with every syllable he sounded like he was making love to me. I was scared of the intensity of my attraction, but at the same time realized I wasn’t thinking about what’s-his-name any more.
We couldn’t get together for a while — days filled with this or that obligation passed — and our phone messages and conversations took on a hot I-need-to-fuck-you-now quality. I felt like I’d found my bliss yet we hadn’t even gotten together yet.
Finally we met one sunny Sunday for a beer. Afterwards we strolled the streets of the Annex and got to know each other a little. We sat on the steps in front of Central Tech High School and talked. After a while he kissed me. It was fitting that we were on the high school steps, because I felt as horny as a teenager when I kissed him back.
The kisses were hot, wet and biting, and through them he murmured, “Can I tie you up and go down on you for hours?” He made me woozy with desire and I straddled him right there on the stairs in broad daylight. I was wearing a skirt and I wanted so badly to unleash his raging erection and ride it to the rescue. Only the thought of an obscenity charge deterred me.
So we went behind a pillar and he brushed my g-string aside and fingered me. “Blond,” he mumbled. “I’ve never had blond pussy before.” Holy, a blond-pussy virgin!
Although my fleece is actually light brown, this was no time to split hairs, so to speak. “Dirty blond, ” I mumbled.
He mumbled back, “Sticky wet hot blond,” and then directed my own fingers down there, pushing them as far in as they could go, then yanking them out and bringing them up to my mouth. He joined me in the finger-sucking, while teasing my cunt with the head of his cock. Then he fucked me against the pillar until I came and he came — hard.
Yes, breaking up is hard. Amen and koo koo ka choo.
He made good on his promises of tied up cunnilingus. And other rapturous stuff. So if you’re going through a nasty divorce and can’t make it to Rio to get over the asshole, why not visit a construction site instead?
