“YYYOOOOO, get out of here! Really? Today is your birthday?” He exclaimed.
I know I had mentioned it to him the last time I was at his apartment. And even before that, when we were—
Well, when we were…together. But I guess in the last few weeks or last few days, he didn’t remember and unapologetic, he even said he doesn’t remember everything I tell him. But on the other hand, complains that I have a selective memory– that I choose to remember the things about us that… I guess isn’t the whole picture.
“Yeah, I told YOU! What, did you forget? I want a present!!” I teased over my cell phone while standing on the platform for the train to bring me downtown.
It is the night of my birthday, and my best friend took me to dinner at one of my favorite restaurants. One of the very few places where we eat and everything on the menu that we try always tastes great; it’s always crowded and tonight the live entertainment ended early for karaoke. So we left, buzzed.
And I called Jon. It’s not fair that he could wake me up drunk-calling late at night. My friend, who had already met Jon at a dinner decided to step away and take a mental and physical distance from our conversation.
“Yyyyeeaaahh…I’ll give you a present alright…a birthday fuck!” He replied.
“Fine! I enjoyed the other night, I’ll see you tomorrow.” I stated.
I have been creatively thinking the last few days what would happen tonight. The other night was fun (when things finally happened)…BUT, I definitely do not want to make a habit of being around Jon like this…especially since he has become so foul and bitter. It was only a few weeks ago that being around Jon and talking to him made me feel that the earth could set on fire and explode and I’d still be so happy if his eyes were the last thing I see.
Now, it seemed that he is always defensive, always looking for a reason to fight. I can’t explain it, but I feel that Jon hates me. It’s something that he said when I met him for lunch. About how it’s all about the sex and he could have sex with someone he hated. Maybe he hates me…..
But Really!? I can’t imagine loathing a person, even one who is very physically attractive and still muster the energy to have intercourse. Is sex really that different for our male counterparts? Or…is it desperation to just take anything that comes their way?
But yep, Jon hates me. I can see it in the eyes with pupils as small as pins that don’t look at me…they don’t show me anything anymore. He seems more comfortable with yelling at me then talking with me; and cursing every fucking chance he gets.
I’ll show him. Even if it’s the last fucking thing I do.
He’s looking me up and down as I stare impatiently at the mattress on the floor.
“Jon, It’s going on two weeks…I’m here now, and as your friend—I can help you put your bed together!” I repeated. I have been bugging him about it the last few days. I mean, how long is this boy going to sleep on the floor and what about his furniture?! Come on, get it together!
“I know I know…fucking A!! — It’s Neil! He’s such an asshole!! He gave me this frame and mattress — all the parts and he was supposed to come by this week and help put it together!” He screamed.
“So you mean your best friend hasn’t come to see you since you guys moved out?” I inquired, “What happened between you two?”
“Nothing.” Jon replied as he walked past me.
“So why did you two split up?” I asked.
“It wasn’t really planned like that Sabine, Neil found a job in another borough and wanted to move; but I work here and want to stay, so I found a place in my coverage area.” He explained.
“Well I dunno…my best friend wouldn’t just dump me in a new place and let me sleep on the floor with furniture in a box, without coming by to help.” I stated, “Come on let’s just do this.”
I am also trying to avoid physical contact with him. Since I entered the door (actually, before I walked through the doorway) he is already kissing me, and not just a hello kiss; as well as trying to wrap his arms around my waist and bring me in. I swear I can’t figure him out and I’m tired trying to. Thus, I’ll keep emphasizing the word friends.
So I get to work putting together the bed frame, which is easy enough to figure out, in a few minutes Jon joins me in the room, looking more than exasperated and begins to help with the beams. We’re stuck after ⅔ of the frame is set; then Jon goes on his laptop and I check in on him.
The instructions for the bed frame are available online, as long as you knew the model name! He could have done this by himself last weekend, if he got his lazy butt off the seat (and bong)! We throw the mattress on the bed, and I help him clear the living room space a bit.
“Hey did I show you my backyard?” He asked, and we were soon outside after toking on the glass device. But this time, things were a bit different with my mind, slower. I had a thought, and it would dissipate, making me struggle with what I was about to say. The feeling that it’s right at the tip of my tongue kept lingering.
“You know, we used to call cigarettes “bogies” back in school…” I began,“Oh! …And you can take the leaves and mix them in brownies…and you have black cake! Have you had black cake before?”
“What? What are you talking about? What the fuck is a “bogie” and no, I’ve never heard of black cake!” Jon responded.
“Oh really? I think that’s what they called it…” I continued.
“Well that’s stupid, why do people here come up with dumb shit like that? You and your little closed-off island of people, they’re just called brownies” He retorted angrily.
“Jon, I grew up here in New York City…it’s pretty diverse and not exactly isolated, while you came from a small town out-of-state” I explained. I don’t think I was yelling as I remember smiling a lot and being in a good mood, but he sounded angry at the idea that locals would give a delicacy a different name.
Back in front of the computer, I am still laughing and teasing him for not knowing the term “black cake” and I said to him, “Why don’t you just google it and see what comes up!” as I playfully reach over and try to type on the pad (he always hated me touching his computer while he’s on it… ); and as he pulled my flailing arms back, he seemed to lighten up for a moment as the playful teasing continued and he finally agreed to type it into the search engine.
But what caught our attention was the Swedish Cultural Minister eating a slice of “Black Woman” cake with a male artist in Blackface. Jon thought the idea was stupid and horrible, NOT JUST the act of minstrelsy but because there exists a “primitive culture” that undertook such a bizarre ritual. I countered (since I had published academic work in this field) that some of our surgical modifications of breast implants and cheek and nose jobs…etc would be seen as bizarre and disgusting…and I asked him what would Dr. Campbell have to say about the subject since he is influenced by Cultural Anthropology and Comparative Mythology and Religion? Perhaps we should have watched this video instead, but as usual Jon wanted to drop the subject immediately.
“ENOUGH!!! I’m sick and tired of talking about this. WHY ARE WE talking about something so stupid?” He screamed.
I thought Dr. Campbell was one of his favorite topics, and instead of engaging in the intellectual conversation he proclaimed to desire: he shut it down. He never countered back with any argument other than the ritual being stupid and the people being stupid or barbaric for creating a body modification ritual.
(Sigh) Give him what he wants and he shoves it back in my face.
Again…it took a long while before anything got started…and I wanted to get things started before the effects wore off and Jon would want to go to sleep. I participated in his foreplay ritual and made my way into the bedroom to his newly set up bed. This time, I allowed him to undress me and I undressed him . So far pretty smooth, but it wasn’t like the night before. It didn’t feel the same. I didn’t get the same sensation. Instead, I’m feeling the pressure of the hard mass in my lower abdomen as Jon thrust his appendage into my vessel. And then he rolled over to the other side of the mattress and I calmly waited what I thought was 15 minutes, but I would soon get impatient.
I went into the kitchen to get a glass of ice and upon returning, I hinted that I needed to moisten my mouth. It didn’t even register with him.
I spread his legs and kneeled in front of him, and I can see that he was already fading away. I gently tapped him, “Jon, Jon…come on let’s go at it again…” I said succulently, then began to caress his thighs and pelvis.
“Oh god, I’m tired….” He mumbled. Barely 25 years old, and I still could not understand his extreme fatigue after only 15 minutes of exertion.
I had to smile. Maybe because I knew that this would happen, and the poor asshole fell right into my plan.
He wasn’t going to fall asleep so easily this time. I kneeled over him and his fully exposed genitals. I pretended that I was “getting to work with the romance,” as I reached under the pillow to find where I hid it, making sure it was secured. Tonight, I am more sober and clear-minded than the night before last, and could focus on adding pressure, swirling the seam around the testicles (can’t forget the berries at the base of the branch ), and oh–the frenulum.
I could hear gasping and dare I say–a moan! And his body began to physically respond as I could sense the blood rushing to his semi-hard member. And when I deemed it to be just the right amount of thickness, of blood flow rushing to the head, of Jon enjoying these rare moments—I engulf his member and breathed rapidly to heat the area and quickly took in an ice cube and worked it around the tip.
“OH!” He yelped, and I quickly showed mercy by lapping my tongue, but it too had cooled from the effects of the ice.
“OH…OH!!! OK!! OK, SABINE!!” He yelped.
I smirked as I spit out the ice, “Weren’t you enjoying that?” I asked.
“Yeh, sure…you always did enjoy torturing and finding different ways to put me in pain.” He retorted as he rolled over, denying me access to his private parts – physical and emotional parts.
“Just giving you the romance, Jon” I stated unsympathetically, leaning next to him. “How about a massage?” I offered.
I straddled his back; Jon loves my massages from what he would later tell me. And this would fulfill part two of my plan as I began with his shoulders and slowly worked my way down…. I began to apply more pressure as I thought in silence about the events over the last few days.
I was determined to show him, how I could fuck. Still riveted by his sneers, I had an arsenal and a plan to teach him a lesson. I began to massage his butt, which is not unusual when I give him full body massages; and reached under the pillow to grab it and gently began to penetrate him and a few inches in, I stroked against the walnut shaped mass.
“HHHHhhhmmmmm…..” He moaned. He’s relaxed and so far has not resisted.
The male G-Spot, or prostate gland could be felt through the walls of the anal cavity and be stimulated to provide pleasure and even orgasmic relief. Half the battle is getting the partner to relax and let you stimulate him.
Thus, I was half-way there, or so I thought, because abruptly Jon said, “Stop.” And he sat up, walked to the window, and secured a sheet over it. Although, it was past midnight on a weeknight in a sleepy neighborhood; paranoid, Jon stated that some little kid could peer into the bedroom window from his backyard and witness what would take place. Or worse, his neighbor would come out for a smoke, and look into the tiny window which was about 6 feet off the ground.
He walked into his living room and grabbed something and soon returned to lay his arsenal next to the bed.
“Here, wear this.” He instructed.