This is Not A Memoir About Sex With an Ex at the View
A completely made up story from your super reliable narrator Guy New York
I'm writing this series of letters like a memoir, but if I were you, I would be suspicious of that. I like to tell stories, and while some truth occasionally mixes with fiction, I'm not an incredibly reliable narrator. I'd suggest that the emotions may be more accurate than the movement, but there's no way to judge that.
So just remember, it’s all a lie.
But, now that we have that out of the way, everything I write here is true. One-hundred and ten percent.
I did fuck that girl from the rooftop party, and I did fuck that woman who hated my ex-girlfriend. I'm undoubtedly depressed, and that college story of a messy and awkward threesome came directly from memory. The threesome before that, with the little girl and the two mean men was even more honest, but you won't believe that.
This next story, on the other hand, is a complete fabrication.
I'll change people's names to protect the innocent, but that's not a necessary step, since as I said, it's all manufactured for your pleasure and my ego.
In this case, her name was not Susan. And she wasn't a brunette with bangs and a mouth so big she could have taken two of me. She certainly was not ridiculously adorable while simultaneously having a fetish of being come on, come in, and come on again.
But she was sweet for a particular definition of sweet. She liked cats and overalls, and while she went to Catholic school, she never fetishized it.
What else….
Since I'm making this up, it can take a minute to find the next sentence. I'll say that I broke up with her because I wanted to make out with a guy, which was super threatening to her, and besides, she wanted a baby. How's that for a good reason? A nice writerly reason. It would be too cliche if she wanted a kid and I was a stereotypical guy who wanted to keep playing the field, but you see, the character of "me" is bisexual, so it's more interesting.
So, yeah, we broke up a few months before the story happened. That sounds right. And then we met up at a bar, let's call it The Tavern. It's cliche, but if it was more cliche, it might sound too close to true. When I say we met up, I mean we bumped into each other after not talking for weeks.
And since I did some foreshadowing earlier, I'm going to tell you that she was wearing overalls and a cropped t-shirt under it that let me see her cute little tummy from the side. Her hair was the same, her smile still hurt, and her fetishes came to mind the instant she kissed me on the cheek and told me she looked better than I did.
I want to say we had a beer, but that doesn't sound right. Let's say, instead, that she asked if I wanted to go for a ride, and I said yes because I did miss her, and she was right: she looked amazing. So, we got in her car, and she drove directly to the view looking over the Hudson River from the top of the Palisades.
Shit, maybe it should be somewhere else.
How about the view looking over the valley instead? That sounds better. Yes, that was it.
We parked at a view looking out over the hills of Northern New Jersey, and while there were a few other cars, it was quiet and sleepy. If people were fucking in their cars, we didn't notice them. Not a single one.
I was most definitely the one to climb over the barricade by the edge of the steep cliff––I mean hill––and lean back against it until she joined me, her back to the stars and empty space. And I was definitely the one to pull her close, turn her around, and slide my hand inside her overalls where I could touch that cute tummy and quickly realize she wasn't wearing any underwear.
"You want to kiss me, don't you," she whispered. "I can always tell. You broke up with me, but now all you can think about is kissing me and probably a few other things. Like the things we never did."
If I hadn't been thinking about them then, I certainly started to. It began with a kiss, fingers everywhere, her mouth around me, and then her body against mine as she teased me with words she said a hundred times before. Words that told me not to worry, not to think too hard, and to do it. Wouldn't it feel so good? Didn’t I want to come inside her? Just imagine it.
I shook my head and she laughed. If I could read her mind, I would have said that she read my mind and knew that I was lying. Hell, she didn't have to read my mind. Susan knew what I thought before I did.
When I leaned in, her lips inches from mine and her breath so familiar I ached inside, she whispered in my ear.
"If you want to kiss me, you have to fuck me. I'm not letting you part way in."
"I don't have a condom," I mumbled as I wondered if she was serious. It was a stupid question because this fictional girl was always serious, especially when it came to what she wanted from me.
"Good," she said, lingering so close I could feel her breath on me. When our lips brushed, I tried to turn away, only to realize my hands were back inside her overalls and slowly moving down. I swear I didn't do it on purpose, but when I gripped her ass in both hands and pulled her to me, she laughed again, this time at how hard I was.
I want to say that when I kissed her, I still thought there was a way out. I want to say that I figured we could just kiss, and I'd get to remember her and feel sad and self-righteous, and that I was sure I could hold back and she wouldn't push me.
But I can only lie so much.
When I kissed her, I pictured the rest of it instantly. Her legs around me, her mouth on mine, and myself inside her as I gave in after so many months of begging.
The kiss, however, was distracting, which means that every thought I had, every doubt, every worry, and every ounce of hesitation vanished along with the rest. Susan had me out and in her hand a moment later, but now her back was to the wall, and I was the one hanging in the air as she undid her overalls and let them slip down to her thighs.
If anyone behind her noticed, they said nothing, and as I knelt in front of her, knowing it wasn't about me, I inhaled as I opened my mouth and prayed. She pulled me to her with a strong hand, but I was only allowed to taste her for as long as it took for her to get wet and me to get harder.
"You want it so badly," she whispered, rubbing me against her lips as I stood staring into her eyes. "You want to fuck me even though you don't think you should. And you don't want to pull out or wear a condom or be a good boy."
"You're cruel, Susan," I said as I kissed her again while she continued to tease me, wetting the head of my cock on her smooth pussy.
"I'm beautiful and a princess, and you still love me."
She raised one leg as I moved between her thighs, and she managed to sit back on the rail in just the right position. I closed my eyes, and since none of this is true, it's okay to tell you that I fucked her without a condom for the very first time two months after we broke up at the lookout while people gawked from car windows.
And since it's a story, I didn't cry or kiss her lips again and again as I felt all my love return. She didn't pull me deeper inside her, and she didn't move from teasing me to thanking me. Neither of us felt anything, most definitely not emotion.
When I turned her around and bent her forward, we didn't see anyone watching. There was not a couple in the car directly in front of us who sat up from their oral activities to stare at us, and no one leaned against a nearby tree, surreptitiously jerking off through his pants as I fucked Susan against the railing.
"Come in me," she moaned, a hint of her former self entering her voice. "If only this once, just come inside me, please."
I acted as if I had a choice. At least I kissed her neck and told her I wasn't sure before pulling her to me by the hips and letting go within her for the first time since we met. She cried and laughed in equal parts joy and satisfaction as she reached between her legs, and she clenched around me as she turned and kissed me again.
I held her for a long time before stepping back and letting her pull up her overalls, so she wasn't naked in front of an audience that definitely wasn't there.
When she turned to face me, I thought that she might say something sweet for the briefest of moments.
"I always knew you wanted to come in me. You were just too much of a prude to get around to it."
"I…"
She put a finger to my lips and I shook my head. I kissed her instead, and she held me tenderly as I tried not to think of our love as a competition. Her hair smelled the same, and her hands were intimately familiar. The only new thing was my cock, covered in her excitement and my mess, and I wasn't sure if I would survive.
Susan drove me back to the bar. And since this is a story and not a memory, she didn't tell me to come home with her. She didn't beg me to get back together with her, and I didn't cry and remind her that we didn't work.
Instead, we kissed again in the parking lot, and she said thank you. I drove myself to the diner and confessed to a few old friends what we had done, and they all told me it was about time and slapped me on the back. We drank coffee and smoked cigarettes, and everything turned out well in the end.
Because it's a story, and stories should have happy endings.
Just like this one.
If you want to read another totally not true story from yesterday about sex with a married woman, then you can always subscribe to the paid version for $7/month. But either way, thank you for being here!