Under The Awning
Or Fantasizing about fucking strangers outdoors (plus a sexy pic from the park)
I'm hiding under the awning this morning at the coffee shop, and it's lovely. The music tent is set up, and it's cool in the shade next to the old brick building. Quieter as well. The barista asked about my little writing machine, and so I got to show it off and chat, which is one of the things I like about getting out of the house again.
Those mundane social interactions that I haven't had in so long are beginning to feel like oxygen. Being out and socializing feels different than it did, but maybe my body is still getting used to it, and that's okay.
I'm trying to keep my mask off while walking outside unless I have to put it on. For some reason, that's starting to feel important—at least a little. We'll see if it brings about a change in me, even if only a small one.
But despite getting out more, I haven't been fantasizing. At least not much. And even though I'm starting to see how people on the street and in the cafes and bars, I have yet to let my mind wander. I wonder if that's from all the quarantine and general lack of sexiness or if it's something else. It might be some newer political sense of right and wrong that I might have to ditch to survive.
I'm generally against sexualizing someone against their will. But that's only assuming they know about it.
Maybe permission will help, so get after it, Guy. Let your mind wander without guilt and see where the fuck it goes. Nobody is out here listening in on your thoughts, and you deserve it. It's been too goddamn long.
What goes on in my head is my fucking business, and the same goes for everyone else. So if I want to picture the girl next to me in the white leopard print skirt bent over the sink in the bathroom as I fuck her with a hand covering her mouth, it doesn't hurt a soul. I can hear her moan as she pushed back onto me, neither one of us knowing the other's name. I can picture her stretched around me as the light flickers overhead and someone bangs on the door.
I can smell her and taste her, and my god, how glorious is that?
It's even hotter because I haven't seen her face, and I don't know what she looks like other than a vague shape and size. Maybe that anonymity is what's doing it for me. Maybe letting myself go and feeling that old bit of vagrant lust rise up isn't so terrible after all. Let's keep going and see where it takes us.
Could I be the kind of person who fucks a girl whose face he's never seen on a Thursday morning at the cafe? It's doubtful but not impossible.
The truth is that even before the pandemic, I mostly saw people I know. Friends, exes, partners, acquaintances, etc., etc. And it was fun and often blurry, but it didn't instill in me any desire to fuck. Maybe variety is a cliche, but fighting something because it feels politically obnoxious isn't a great idea for personal enjoyment. Enlightenment? Acceptance? Growth?
I don't know what the fuck you call it when you start accepting yourself for the way you are, but I want to see ten new hot people a day and ideally make out with more than a few of them.
But if somehow, for some reason, I turned into some unspeakably attractive person who drew every goddamn pretty motherfucker in like moths to a dick, then I'd hit my limit pretty quickly. I'd kiss and make out and grope and whisper, but fucking would probably be another thing altogether.
Do I have it in me? And if not, why the hell not?
Fuck, maybe it's still that fear from growing up in the 90s and dealing with 90s sex education in the middle of the AIDS crisis that taught me sex equals death even though I know it's not true. Nothing like a good fucking education.
Even just now, in that little fantasy world, it was hard to imagine myself letting go and fucking all the hot people that I ostensibly want to fuck. Even if they threw themselves at me, I might say no thank you and step back into the shadow where everything is safe.
Some old patterns and thoughts stick around long after they're needed. I'm sure they're trying to protect me from one thing or another, but they don't realize I can protect myself just fine without them.
So, let's get back to those hot afternoon street fantasies. Maybe the bald guy over there with the beard and the tattoos. What it would feel like to see his evil grin as he spins me around and presses his hard cock against me, telling me he's going to fuck me until I pass out? What would it feel like to kneel and get him hard in my mouth as he calls me a good boy?
Or I can go back to the cute girl in the white skirt and what her lips might feel like as she drools on my cock, begging me to use her. Her eyes are so pretty as she looks up and forgets to ask my name.
What difference does a name make on a hot summer morning with a stranger?
And let's go back to those sweaty dreams and memories of fucking in the park, this time with someone I love, as we forget the rest of the world and dig our claws into the dirt and fuck like nothing else matters. I love her eyes and her neck. I love her breasts and her stomach, and I love her cunt and her ass. I love the way she clenches around me with dirt ni her nails as we fuck to the sound of crickets.
And if I'm honest, I can love them all. The new girl, the strong man, the old flame, every single one of them gets my love in that singular moment, and that's a habit I'm going to leave alone. I have so much love to give and fuck it if I'm not going to spread it around.
At least for now. At least in these fever dreams as I sit at the cafe, letting my mind wander further and further away.
My nervous system has been fucked over the last year. It has learned new patterns and new ways of being that assess risk quickly and often poorly. It's obsessed with personal safety, perceived goodness, and an unfortunate habit of thinking and expecting the worst.
Taking my mask off on a walk is a good step. Breathing fresh city air is a joy. Talking to the barista is a step as I bring back those tiny social interactions that makeup life.
And letting my mind wander and return to some of the filthier places it likes to go is a good step. So, excuse me while I put on my glasses, close the typewriter and drool over the girl in the tight jeans and the bike messenger in the khaki shorts.
There is no going back, and there is no new normal.
But I write about sex for a living, and I'm certainly not going to stop now.
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