Then there was that. We were in a restaurant. The back room wasn’t so crowded, but we weren’t alone. Servers walked about. As he held my head between his hands, held my wrists on the table between us. Leaned in close and I wasn’t used to kissing, like this. Not—lips that brush, tongues that are shy but teeth and so little and so much left unspoken, unkissed.

He tasted like something. I couldn’t place it. Still can’t. It was distinctive. Like what? Like instinct. Like desire. Like seven deadly sins.

Sometimes, the stories that don’t necessarily go anywhere will travel the furthest.

Well, that, and I adore the title “you fucked the suburbs out of me.”

“Stay,” my eyes tell him.

My mouth finds his neck, the soft spots under his extended arms and trails wet kisses around his nipples, down his torso, between his thighs… His cock is just as I want it, strong, hungry and oozing a bit at the tip. I gaze upon it with greedy eyes, my fingers tracing light circles along his low abdomen and the manscaped area surrounding his genitals.

He is being a good boy. Hands staying where I put them, cock bobbing greedily. A puddle of precum shines on his belly.

This is the kind of control I’d give up. Willingly and frequently.

Today, however, almost every 15 year old has watched porn to one degree or another (and many watch it regularly). So guess where your child is learning how to fuck. In many places in this country, the totality of what children know about how to have sex comes from watching Sasha Grey get slapped, throat-fucked, sodomized, and gang-banged on video.

She’s making a very good point, here.

The balancing of gender equality is easily effected in law and employment, but much, much more difficult to construct in the cultural values and internally generated definitions of self. It will, in my opinion, take centuries.

In the meantime, I’m going to write things that make some feminists angry. I’m going to eroticize things that they feel are inappropriate. Because this is a part of my sexual dynamic, a product of my history. I’m being honest about what turns me on, or what fascinates me from an erotic viewpoint. That, I think, is my most important role as a writer of erotica.

Excellent, as always.

Before, they would wander and grasp desperately for any sort of positive reinforcement but I couldn’t offer it. There was no sensitive spots screaming or even whispering “Yes” for me to echo. Now, I crave them more than any other part. If I said I don’t know what happened, I would be lying. What happened is that I have come alive, experiencing sensations like never before. Now, I find myself wanting his hands more than ever. I desire the pressure, stronger than his tongue or cock. The way his fingers can curl this way or that and the variety in their touch.

Being a “hands-on” kind of person, reading this is quite… good.

I was besotted, completely immersed in thoughts of her as I clutched at the sheets and strummed my own flesh. I thought about how wet she became around me, how hard her nipples grew, our flirting evident in both of our bodies, the need to satiate the other at the very surface. I thought about the first time I tasted her, slipping my fingers in between her delicate folds, opening her slowly with each gentle thrust as my tongue flickered over her clitoris…

A delicious slice of fantasy.  Sometimes you don’t need the person— the mere thought alone (or in this case, scent) can be just as powerful, if not more.