TEMPTATION - A Bad Boy Romance (114 page)

The strangest thing about connection is in order to find it, you really have to let go of your preconceptions. If I had spent all of that time looking for the ideal mate, I would have never found Stoker. In fact, I doubt I would have thought of him as my ideal mate at all. The truth of the matter is, I’m incredibly glad that we found one another. At present, I tend to believe that while who we choose to connect with is important, it might be more important to simply be available for connection; any other approach just doesn’t seem receptive enough to really gain what life has to offer.

I’m not sure there is a way to realize a purely passive form of spiritual perfection. Life is messy, and human beings are probably the number one contributor to the chaos that we call society. Everyone has a theory on how to make things better, that’s what I see as the primary goal of spiritual perfection. It’s so easy for me to get depressed, and want to find a reclusive hideaway -- some place where I can be in the presence of some eternal peaceful energy. Frankly, I’m not certain that exists in reality. From my point of view, it looks like we may be able to glimpse those moments along the way, but in between, there are going to be a lot of times that feel like getting fucked in the ass in front of a crowd of drunk people. I figure I might as well learn to enjoy both experiences, and maybe do a bit of the fucking myself.

Stoker showed me that both dominance and passivity require responsibility. Just being passive means that I am letting the world act on me, and my only job is to be receptive. The problem with being exclusively receptive is that it can be so easy to paint oneself as a victim. As soon as victimhood hits, I am no longer being receptive. I am engaging within a complex power game. All of the sudden, shame, guilt, and obligation rear their ugly heads; once that happens, I seriously doubt that humans have any ability at all to keep the larger picture in perspective.

On the other hand, much of the suffering we experience in life has to do with dominance. I’m discovering over the course of our relationship that dominance can also be a way of expressing desire, and showing appreciation. It can actually be a firm, and helpful gesture that allows other people to really let go in the moment and enjoy themselves. The inherent responsibility of dominance has to do exclusively with cruelty. When dominating others for the purpose of serving myself, I am certain I am only being an asshole. Cruelty may not be the root of all suffering, but it certainly seems to be the primary contributor.

Together, I think we discovered that life is a lot more complex than either of us had previously considered. I know for a fact that before I met Stoker I was afraid to assert myself sexually. Now, I feel much more comfortable with my sexuality. I’ve found that being more confident in my sexual expression has lead toward a greater level of confidence outside of the bedroom as well. There is absolutely a difference between being confident and being prideful or cocky, but I think that those mistakes are simply errors that I will have to make along the way. Pride can be incredibly useful, as long as it doesn’t trample all over others in an effort to assert itself.

Humans are much deeper than we give ourselves credit for being. Honestly, I feel like for the longest time, I was afraid of that depth. Since I’ve allowed myself the possibility of being more than what I imagined myself to be, I’ve found an incredible amount of freedom life. Being gay in our society isn’t easy, but when given a choice to rebel against societal conventions or withhold the possibility of expressing love, I don’t have to think too hard about which choice I want to make.

The choice to continue forward in life, and live each moment to the fullest is a bit cliché, but it really is an opportunity that is available to each and every one of us. When we take a leap, we can’t know if we will fly upward into the sun, or fall down into the murky waters below. There is a chance, that neither will happen and we will actually know what it feels like to take flight. However, we need to be prepared for the fall, as an integral risk of knowing what it feels like to actually live.

Only the fallen ever really have a chance to discover what it’s like to really soar.

- THE END -

ROUGH

A Bad Boy Romance

By Gabi Moore

On the day I lost my virginity, I also lost my first pair of knickers.

A tired baby blue and white number I had had since High School, it wasn’t exactly a vision of sexiness, but I mourned it all the same. It had an obnoxious Snoopy print on the crotch from the days I thought that kind of thing was cute. But I was sadder to see it go, somehow, than I was to be rid of my virginity. My friends spoke about theirs as though virginity was a tangible thing, a precious, squidgy, lace-and-cotton thing that they were holding onto and waiting for that special day to fling it at a guy on a stage, or wrap up in white lace and deliver to some man wearing an obedient smile and a rented tux.

But me? I just wanted to be done with it already. I wanted to be fucked. I sat in my first year law lectures and zoned out, practicing the words in my mind, trying them on for size.
Fuck me
I said in my imagination, to an imaginary boyfriend who conveniently had no opinions.
I want you to fuck me
I would say, which seemed so scandalous on its own that I seldom bothered to flesh out the rest of the fantasy. My idea of sex had been badly pieced together from Cosmo sex articles and my own embellishments on stories I had heard from a handful of friends. In these classroom daydreams, I was a vixen wearing leather, or a Hot Babe in Victoria’s Secret with beach ball boobs and a drum-tight belly.

But on the day I actually lost my virginity …I was neither of these women. I was wearing my blue and white Snoopy knickers, and a cotton dress, and my hair twirled up in a messy bun. Looking back, I can see how this might not have been the crime I thought it was, but at the time I felt myself to be an awkward mix of hormones and inexperience, and that it must be more or less obvious to every male within a 5-mile radius.

“Christy, stop all that studying would you? You’re making me look bad.” My friend Tara had blustered into our dorm room, and was furiously putting on mascara and changing her shoes at the same time, getting ready to go out. I grumbled something back but she stared at me. “I’ve got it! You should come with me. There will be boys there, but I think we can manage without adult supervision, can’t we?” she said, laughing and wiggling her eyebrows at me.

Twenty minutes later we were in a pretty suburban house crammed full with every flavor of teenage rebellion – somehow I had already finished one beer and mysteriously had another in my hand. Perhaps adults were no less awkward than teenagers, but just tipsy more often? I was enjoying myself, I realized, someway through the second (or third?) beer. I wanted to show Tara that
I
could have fun, too. I wasn’t some predictable nerd who studied too much. In fact I--

“Your life line is like, really long.”

A scruffy boy sat opposite me on the couch, my hand in his hand, examining the lines on it almost as hard as I did my law text books. He was cute, in a scruffy kind of way. Had I seen him around campus? It was hard to tell. There were probably a million scruffy boys just like him enrolled in classes in any one year.

“That means you’re going to have, like, a long life, you know?” he said.

It was getting later, the music was getting louder, our friends were getting drunker. I had read somewhere that pretending to read a girl’s palm was a great excuse to touch her …and hit on her. My head buzzed a little. Why not now? Why not him?

“You also have a really deep love line, which means…”

Here he locked his soft brown eyes with mine, smiling shyly at me. He flicked his eyes back to my palm, smiled and stroked my fingertips with his. I watched a small vein pulse in his neck. I had rehearsed tons of imaginary conversations with imaginary boys in imaginary situations just like these. In my own mind, I was like a female James Bond, unflappable, never more than a few seconds away from a devastatingly witty comeback. It was clear to me all at once, though, that James Bond probably wasn’t ever as drunk as I currently was. Ok, Christy. It was now or never.

I took a deep breath. “I want you to fuck me,” I said. The room buzzed.

Well, there it was. I said it recklessly, easily, but once the words were out there, hanging in the air between us, I realized that I kind of, maybe, might actually mean it. He immediately stopped stroking my hand. My cheeks burned.
Oh shit oh shit what have I just said? What if he thinks I’m an idiot? Oh shit.
We locked eyes again. It was something even more terrifying: he was grinning.

“Well, that was awkward!” he said, leaning back into his chair and laughing. I felt like I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. I flushed a deep red. He tossed a shaggy brown fringe out of his eyes and stood up tall.

“But yeah, nice and blunt. I uh, I like it.” He extended his hand and helped me up. “Come with me” he said, leading me out of the room and through a tangled clump of people who were standing around, drinking, laughing, being completely oblivious to the fact that I was about to…

There they were, being all civilized, fully clothed and polite, meanwhile all this time there was a secret world underneath everything, and I had accessed it easily with the simple, naughty words:
I want you to fuck me
. It was like abracadabra, but for sex. Turns out, you didn’t need witty comebacks at all!

I couldn’t believe this was happening to me.

Had I always been this close to it all along, nothing but these words between me and …”it”? I followed him up some dimly lit stairs, realizing with half-panic that there seemed to be something hot and warm moving down my inner thigh.

In an instant we were in a quiet, dark room, the thumping music of the party below seeming to become more indistinct and fuzzy. He leant against the now closed door, and pulled me closer to him. I was tipsy and fell into the pillow of his scent, nestling into his scruffy brown hair. He was so soft and yielding in some places, so taut and firm in others. Drunk, my mouth easily found his, and without really noticing, he had transformed from a shy, nervous boy into someone more forceful, each of his big hands firmly around waist. I relaxed into him, overcome by the distant memory of soap on his skin and the warmth my hands found underneath his shirt. His body felt so lean and tight under my hands; he seemed strong and animal, like the kind of thing you’d find on an ancient Grecian urn in a museum titled “youth.”

“You remind me of a horse,” I said. He burst out laughing.

Oh God, oh shit, I’m such an idiot, do I have to be such an idiot all the time?

“Um, ok? Christy, you’re a fucking weirdo. But I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, smiling cheekily, pulling me firm against his crotch. The ache between my legs was so strong I couldn’t help but instinctively move my hips forward to answer his.

“Say it again” he said.

“You’re a horse?”

He giggled. “No, stupid. What you said before.”

He said this pleadingly, and so quietly it was though he only wanted the nape of my neck to hear. This time it was easier. I rolled my body against the growing bulge in his jeans, pressing my waist against his chest.

“I want you to fuck me,” I said again. I seemed to mean it more every time I said it.

And the words
were
magic. The instant I uttered them his entire demeanor shifted. With a surprising urgency, he unzipped and dropped his trousers. His cock sprung out at me, hot, silkier to touch than I had imagined. His mouth was again on mine, swallowing any chance of me saying something else idiotic. He was kissing me deeper now, cradling the base of my neck in hands that started to seem so much bigger, so much manlier than they had a moment before, on the couch.

He stroked his hand down, under my dress and into the cotton of my soon-to-be-gone-forever knickers.

A single finger hesitated there.

“You’re so wet,” he said, and before I could respond his fingers were inside me.

I wanted to scream. The entire room faded away, leaving nothing in the universe besides us standing there, his hot breath against my neck and the feeling of my wet body responding to his fingers. My head was spinning. He stroked gently in, gently out again. His breath was growing more urgent. His cock pressed warmly against my belly, waiting; were all of them that big? How on earth was
all
of that going to fit in?

“Say it again” he said, thrusting his fingers deeper still, pinning me hard against his body.

Something delicious was radiating out from his fingertips, sending shuddering ripples through me. I felt incredibly, almost painfully hot. I leaned further into it, into him.

“Fuck me” I said, and this time it was me that sounded desperate. Pleading even. I wanted it. In my hazy mind, one thing was clear: I needed his dick, all of it, in me. Now. I squirmed closer to him, asking with my body.

“What’s that?” he said playfully.

“Fuck me” I said again, adding, “please” realizing for the first time how truly hungry my body could be for something.

And he did. Slowly, the head of his cock pressed me open, and as the length of him slid in, I threw my head back with a gasp, overcome with the sheer weight of it, with how limp and yielding my entire body became around him. He plunged slowly in, till the skin of our bellies met. He held me firmly like this for a moment, still, and I swear I could feel his heart beating through his cock, through me. The dull thudding of the music went on below us, my own heartbeat was pounding in my ears, and I felt my whole world swell and grow with each inhale of his, each exhale of mine. He moved slightly inside me, and I felt my pussy respond.

He was big.

It stung, but with a pain that grew and fanned gently out into my body, becoming a delicious, syrupy thick sensation of heat and pleasure. He moved again inside me, like something beckoning me to play. I moaned and grasped him tightly, rolling my hips and pulling him even deeper in. It was a revelation. I loved this. I wanted more. I wanted to
worship
this cock. I wanted to go the rest of my life with this glorious thing wedged deep inside me, I wanted this blissful haze to never--