Compulsion

I am no stranger to the dark, seamy underbelly of compulsive, driven sex.  For years, I was not at all joyful, or honest - with myself or anyone else - in pursuit of the next orgasm.  Today?  I'm lucky.  My wife is a true partner in exploration, and my compulsivity has, thankfully, been contained to realms such as this (writing).  I truly enjoy sex, and am free to do so in ways that are joyful and connected, not miserable and lonely.  But once in a while, my catholic tastes bring me into contact with women who are much like I once was:  zombies, floating from one orgasm to the next, looking for something that no sexual connection EVER can provide.

There's no greater turn-off for me.  Because this was me, because I know just how dead-ended that road is, because I know how much misery and how little happiness lies that way, I want no part of it.  Which is why, after my second date with LB (whom I met through OKC), I resolved that I was through.


On our first date, we had a lovely lunch.  I was pleasantly surprised:  her photo had suggested she looked a bit like Christine Quinn (the Speaker of New York City's City Council).  Which isn't necessarily a bad thing.  But in fact, she was considerably cuter, her hair a bit darker, her skin a bit paler, her body a bit less stocky.  We clicked nicely - had a good conversation about her recently ended marriage, her general sexual tastes, mine.  Seemed like a good fit.  Before we parted, I sent her to the ladies' room - told her to play with herself a bit, not to wash her hands, and to return with her panties for me.  I would hold them, I said, until our next meeting.

This, she did.

I smelled her cunt on her finger, licked it, and pulled her head close to me as we kissed goodbye.  When our kiss ended, I whispered, "I'm going to enjoy fucking you."

So all seemed headed in a good direction.

The following Friday, we were to meet at a busy intersection around the corner from a hotel that rented rooms hourly that she knew (but was new to me).  It was pouring.  I texted her that I was to be a few minutes early, and would be waiting in the bank on the corner.  We made some text-y joke about her getting wet, and in no time, she was on my shoulder, our umbrellas crowding one another, as we made our way the last block to the hotel.  We checked in, and walked up the stairwell to the room, stopping once to kiss on the way.

Once inside, I threw her on the bed.  She gave a little squeal, and lay back, as I hiked her skirt up over her waist, and ripped her panties off.  I dove down, licking her cunt ferociously.  Quickly, she was cumming.  I had her get off the bed and kneel before me, and I fucked her face a bit, though she seemed to be receding from me.  From there, I had her bend over the side of the bed, spanked her ass, and fucked her from behind, and then moved her to the front of the bed, where she could be fastened to two of the bed's four brass posts.  This allowed me to spread her arms and legs wide while spanking her ass some more, while pounding her hard.  All indications were that she was, well, if not exactly enjoying it, at least getting what she wanted.

But there was no affect, no enthusiasm.  I felt almost superfluous, like I could have been anyone.  It's funny, right?  I mean, I'm a huge slut.  But I want to feel special.  When I'm fucking you, I want to feel like your whole sex life has been leading up to this moment, like MY whole sex life has been leading up to this moment.  And when sex is good for me, that's how it goes.

In this instance?  I felt dirty.  I came quickly.  (If I cum quickly, it's a pretty sure bet that either I haven't cum in weeks or I want to get out of there.)  We dressed and left.  I think we both knew we wouldn't see each other again, but we both pretended we would.

When sex is like that, I'd rather not have it.