A learning experience
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Posted:Aug 27, 2020 6:39 am
Last Updated:Apr 27, 2024 9:49 pm
2328 Views
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She sat in the chair in a hotel room, her long brown hair shining slightly in the sun. I sat on the edge of the bed as we talked. We had been lovers for a few months at this point so we discussed everything...or so I thought.
We had just had an excellent dinner at the Spaghetti Warehouse and were planning our next adventure when the unexpected occurred during our conversation. She made an off-the-cuff remark about how most men, especially on this site, display an inability communicate beyond "Nice tits. Wanna meet tonight?" I laughed and told her that it's good as long as she didn't expect them know where her G spot was. She chuckled, and spoke so softly I almost didn't hear it. "Well, I don't know where my G-spot is, either!"
Instantly, it made sense. Whenever I stroked her G-spot, she would shudder in a very loud, expletive-ladden climax, however I never made the connection (typical man). Shocked, I began speaking in a voice slightly higher than usual, "But you're in your 40s! You've been married! You have ! Hell, you're even in a triad with an older guy and a woman now!" She sighed and responded with one word. "So?" It take several moments for that register, the idea she has been this site for years, had so many experiences and not a single person told her this?! I swallowed my disappointed in the male gender and asked her if she'd like show her where her G-spot is. She was clearly nervous...but excited. She gave consent, and as she freshened I went in my bag.
Now, I always bring a few things with whenever I meet a playmate - as a man, I feel like it's be prepared, right? Since I'm a non-smoker, I bring an oil diffuser so instead of smelling weed from other rooms or industrial cleaner, I had the room smelling like Sandlewood blossoms. Though we were on the 2nd floor (again by design), I drew the curtains block out the noon day sun. Finally, I turned on my bluetooth speaker...celtic music seemed appropriate for this occasion.
She came out of the bathroom already undressed, and I allowed my gaze to explore her for a few moments. The features of her face were beautiful and clearly reflected her Puertan Rican ancestry. Her breasts were heavy, but full and her large, thick nipples were pierced with tiny, studded hoops - necessary to get feeling back after breastfeeding , she had once told . I suddenly felt over-dressed, and after resolving that I gently took her hand and guided her to the bed.
Everything in wanted dive right in...but I told myself that's exactly how she got in this situation to begin with. Ignoring the protests of my stiffening member, I kissed her. Slowly. Again and again and again. As our tongues played with each other, my hands explored her body...but nothing too invasive and no penetration. I told her to relax and I would take care of her, and with that, I began kissing my way down her body.
Her neck, shoulders, breasts, stomach...they received attention, and I noticed that she sighed deeply and moaned when I began licking underneath her breasts. I wondered if anyone had bothered ever explore underneath those impressive 48 DD orbs..then figured it was probably better not ask. I kissed my way that sensitive area where her thighs met her hips and she moaned approvingly. I could smell her arousal, and by now my 9 inched was nearly at full attention...but not yet.
I began exploring her womanhood with my mouth, kissing the outer lips and tasting the warm sweetness that came from deep within her. I felt her hand on my head, inviting my tongue to travel her wet tunnel again and again. Her sighs turned to moans, and her moans turned into gasps...but she always enjoyed receiving oral. I wanted her to cum...however, I had a serious wrong to rectify and this was the time.
I told her that her G-spot was behind her pubic mound, that is she touched her clit and went inside about 4 inches she would find it. After telling her what I was going to do and warning her that it may feel intense, I inserted a finger. I stopped for a moment on her public mound (telling her where that was) before moving deeper inside and finding the little bundle of nerves. The moment my finger brushed against it, her hips moved and she cried out in pleasure. I told her that was her G-spot and I began to gently stroke it. She was already wet, but became even more so...and I noticed my fingers were becoming covered in a milky-white cream.
I told her that I was going to explore her G-spot with my fingers...as well as her V-spot with my tongue. Her reply was breathless and to the point, "DON'T FUCKING STOP!" With no further words, I lowed my head to her felinity, my fingers moving in and out while making sure to hit her g-spot on every stroke. Her moans started building and she draped a leg across my bare back as she cried out how good it felt. My tongue found her v-spot and I felt the hand that was guiding my head tighten and become insistent. I quickened my fingers and my tongue and my tongue just a bit.
The insistent hand on my head became needy; pleading. Her hips were moving in time to my movements and her cries became strained words. ", my God...that...feels so...good...you're gonna...make ....GOD I'M COMING!" With that, her body exploded and I could feel the trembling deep inside her. I sped my fingers a bit more and as she cried out, I felt one, then two squirts splash against the back of my throat...with a surprise, I realized that she was a squirter! I swallowed - both because I enjoy her taste and keep from drowning as she grinded her hips into my face.
Eventually, the movements and her cries subsided. I withdrew my fingers and she laid there, body heaving; breathless and sweating. I showed her the cum literally dripping my fingers...before slowly licking it off. Turns out she didn't realize she was a squirter either and right when I was going to say something, I felt her hand grasp my still erect member and thought my words could wait for another time...
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Is it hard to be black?
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Posted:Jul 30, 2013 8:16 pm
Last Updated:Jul 27, 2020 4:12 pm
1776 Views
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Tom is my best friend, one I've known for almost 20 years. He's also an extremely arrogant cuss on account of him possessing genius level intellect and a 6 figure salary without any (he was married once, but divorced long ago). We were discussing current events, and the recent Zimmerman trial came up. After we both expressed our opinions, he spoke told me and told me that I was one of the few people he respected (which is a big compliment from him) and then he asked me was it hard being a black man.
My first reaction was to make light of it. At first I was going to use some appropriately black hand gestures and vocal inflections and say something like, " Shee-it, man! Being black is harder than making three Jaguar payments on a Sunday afternoon!" Cue the Sambo smile and the canned applause. That's when it hit me how easily I went into that mode - the grinning, funny mode I use to deflect uncomfortable situations or to avoid making whites nervous. Instead, I only said yes and we moved on, but I think I want to answer a little better now.
As a young , I once asked my mother how she picked my name. Without missing a beat, she replied that she wanted a name that "people cannot tell if you're white or black on an application". Back then, I was too young to understand what she meant, but I thank her for her foresight now.
My mother understood something that I believe all black men come to accept eventually - and that is we will never belong and will rarely be accepted. For those who want to understand where I'm coming from, I'm enclosing a link to a powerful and short article:
http://FriendFinder-x.com
I want to start with another story. Japanese steel - katanas, for example- do not break. The steel gains it's legendary strength from being superheated, folding the metal over itself, being hammered down and having the process repeated over and over. Only true masters can achieve this: otherwise the steel breaks. That folding technique cannot be duplicated by any technology known to date.
I am superheated every time I walk into a professional building and security stops everyone else with a word, but physically blocks me until my identity is verified. Every time I hear about Trayvon Martin, Kamani Gray, Kendric McDade, Timothy Russell, Amidou Diallo, Oscar Grant, Victor Sheen, Orlando Barlow, Timothy Standbury, Wendell Allen, Alonzo Ashley, Patrick Dorsimond, Shaun Bell or the dozens if not hundreds of other black men killed by cops that for the grace of God could have been me, my rage threatens to consume my heart and ignite my soul.
If I break, I lose everything and becoming a statistic. So I fold over instead. I remind myself that I am a father and a contributing member of society. I tell myself that not everyone feels that way, and that there are good and bad people in every society. I use humor and laugh to avoid crying.
Then I am hammered down by the woman in the elevator who tries a little too hard to not look nervous. Or the co-worker, who during a typical conversation assures me that she did a genealogy search and that HER family never owned slaves. I think my personal favorite is the white woman who thought having sex with me made her an 'honorary sista'. The fiercest blows, however, come from other black women. The ones who have filled the holes left in their souls by fathers, boyfriends and husbands that did not stay with bitterness and hatred. The ones who decide on one day I'm too black, and the next I'm not black enough. They are victims who have become attackers.
But wait…didn't I say something about finding joy? You see, I find joy in love and I love this country. I served honorably in the World's Finest Navy and that fills me with pride and joy. I am fortunate to have two jobs I enjoy, and I watch people transform right before my eyes. Despite the odds, I have no jail record, I don't live off the state and I have an improving credit score. I've learned the world is more than just this society I live in, and that world is a beautiful place.
So why try? At the risk of sounding indignant, I believe that as a black man, I have a right to this country. Black men helped lay the railroads to build this nation. Blacks picked the cotton, tended the fields, took care of and sometimes even nursed the white babies…this is my home; my land. That is why I continue to contribute to the same society that rejects me, because maybe I can create for my the world that did not exist for me.
Being a black man, a REAL black man means learning how to find joy through pain and above all, never losing hope. It means possessing a strength that is beautiful and rare - that's why I lament that most women who profess love or hatred towards black men have never actually met one. It means enduring, sometimes for it's own sake and the audacity to be happy and successful anyway.
Just don't mess with my . I will go katana on that ass.
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Just being honest
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Posted:Jul 28, 2013 10:20 pm
Last Updated:Apr 27, 2024 9:49 pm
1532 Views
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I had nevet that night, but I'll only say these things: first, if you 'beat' me in skee-ball in the very beginning, I'm probably hustling you! Second, when she said she was full-figured, she was being modest - I didn't need to check her bra to know she was damn near an E cup. Finally, it'r even heard of Bay City until her profile, so when we agreed to meet, I was excited! It took me a little over an hour to get there, but when I saw her, she was worth it. After opening her car door, we decided on some pizza, and found a nice non-chain place to eat.
We laughed, talked and flirted...just had an all around good time. After that we took a very scenic walk along the bay where we enjoyed flowers and old bridges on a beautiful sunny day. Before we knew it, time had elapsed, but neither of us was ready to say goodnight, so I went outside the box and invited her to be my guest for the evening. To my surprise and delight, she agreed.
There is much I could say abous rare to have my face covered in a woman's ejaculate, but a pleasant experience nonetheless.
Despite all of these things, it pains me to say I will probably not see this person very often. Things are difficult financially for her, her live at home with her and she doesn't drive right now, so I have to make (and pay for) all arrangements. Sadly, I can't afford to be more than an occasional friend to her.
I truly hope we see each other again.
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How very curious
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Posted:Jul 17, 2013 10:48 pm
Last Updated:Jul 28, 2013 9:47 pm
1671 Views
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I admit I was intrigued. Her message to me said that she was not attracted to black men, but because of the verbiage in my profile she was 'willing to set aside her personal feelings' to speak with me. My first thought was 'Damn, she's arrogant.' After that, I figured she had no other plans, and wanted to simply pass time with me while waiting for the type of men she prefers to contact her. I figured what the hell, and after a few conversations, we decided to meet. I asked her what to call her, and she said to call her 'sexy'. I thought 'Wow.'
If her words intrigued me, her appearance shocked me. She was black! Not only was she black, but she wore a dress that was African-esqe, had long braids that hung past her shoulders and wore a headband. While she wasn't ugly, but she definitely wasn't cute, and I figured the only way someone would call her sexy is if she asked them or if it slipped out during sex. We greeted, and then sat down to eat. The first thing I noticed was her conversation. She was obviously educated, but things felt forced...like she wasn't used to speaking with intelligent people. I sensed she had a really high opinion of herself, so I began looking to see what I was dealing with here. As we ate, I began to study her. I noticed she had worn some loose athletic socks and some brown house shoes on our date. My interest began waning, and I think it was then I decided no way I was taking her home, but since I was out here, I was going to do some things that I enjoyed!
Our meal finished, and after I picked up the tab, I asked if she'd be open to one of my favorite past-times: skee-ball. She said she was, then told me she didn't have a car (another red flag). I told her she could ride with me - but I wanted a kiss from her first. When she asked why, I told her that I wanted to see what she kissed like (although honestly, you really think I'm gonna let this chick ride for free when I know it's not going anywhere?) and her kiss was surprisingly passionate. If she wasn't attracted to black men, her kiss sure didn't betray it!
We hung out in a popular place when she told me that 'I was taking a chance bringing her here'. I asked her what she meant, and she said she was attracted to white men with long hair, and that they typically hang out in places like this. I thought that in addition to being low-class and arrogant, she was also tacky. I icily told her that if she met someone she wanted to speak with, she was more than welcome to hang out with them, and I would not take it personal. After thinking about it, I thought there was no way I was gonna let her insult me so blatantly, so I told her it was time to go home and I figured I would take her where she wanted. Even if I didn't want her, you don't leave people stranded, and the buses had stopped running by this time.
She had the nerve to seem surprised when I asked her where she wanted to be dropped off. I took her there, and she got out and told me she had a great time (which genuinely surprised me). She then told me her real name, and said she wouldn't mind seeing me again. I grinned and told her it was a definite possibility. In my mind, I thought 'Only if your bus happens to be passing my car' as I sped off.
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