What happened next could be called a relapse. A relapse of irresponsible, foolish, potentially dangerous sexual behaviour; but worse than a relapse, in that my behaviour actually turned out to be arguably more dangerous than normal.
As my da turned away from me—unfairly and heartlessly, I thought at the time—something switched over in my head, and instead of being distraught, I was back to being furious. What I did next is unthinkable… but I did it, all the same.
Striding down the long gravel driveway, I managed to dial a taxi and find a pack of wipes in my bag (baby wipes, as opposed to the formerly ubiquitous make-up removal wipes) by the time I got to the end. 10 minutes later, I climbed into a taxi, giving directions for ‘the City’ and had the driver drop me off outside the first loud, glitzy-looking nightclub I saw.
It was barely late enough for a nightclub to be open, much less for me to have to pay to enter, and so, as I strolled into the club, my spirits were already lifting. Ah, spirits, indeed. On that thought, I headed to the bar, and in the loudest voice I could reasonably use, I ordered a Sex on the Beach.
“Hoping this is a good omen,” I said, again with more volume than was necessary, and favoured the bartender with a slow-motion wink. It was probably all a bit Page-3-Girl-Out-On-The-Town, and ludicrously fake I’m sure, but I didn’t care, right then. If you’re after a quick shag—and I was—the easiest way to get it is to proclaim, as loudly as possible, that you’re looking for one. Men, I’ve noticed, tend not to appreciate subtlety. Or maybe it’s just the men I know.
At any rate, just that one comment and the accompanying wink had 3 different men walking over and introducing themselves, and before I’d been in the club an hour, I’d had 4 cocktails bought for me. At that point, I decided I was lubricated enough to just start downing shots, instead.
“Tequila, because I’m half-Mexican,” I lied, smiling flirtatiously at the man whose arm I was on. It was a good lie, inasmuch as lies can be good—I could tell, he was more interested once he realized I was foreign, or sort of foreign, than he had been before. Happy to buy me my shot, he watched the whole lick, drink, bite ritual (the real reason I’d ordered tequila) with avid interest, and for my part, I did it at about half the standard speed, and threw in another lusty wink as I sucked on my wedge of lime.
Shameless. I have to admit, I am absolutely shameless when I’m like that, and after 3 shots of tequila, I leaned over, rested my hand on his crotch and said throatily, “Why don’t we head outside, handsome? I’m in a mood for celebrating.”
He was young, probably still a student, thankfully of the university variety—and I could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed with nerves and anticipation. A thought occurred—he’d been in a group of lads, he’d been one of the quieter ones, and I’d bet good money someone had put him up to this—but it was irrelevant, as long as he took me outside.
“Umm, okay,” he said, which nearly killed my enthusiasm, but he rallied. “Are we celebrating anything in particular? A wedding, maybe?” he said, indicating my dress.
I burst out laughing. “Yeah, my cousin Ricardo got married today, this is my maid-of-honour dress,” I said, giggling at the whole situation. It did look like a bridesmaid’s dress, in fairness. I could see him wanting to ask more questions (touching, really, when they’re sweet enough to listen to your drunken babbling) but we were outside by then, and I was helping him steer me past the bouncers and into the nearest alley, and once we were there, well, I’m not much of a time-waster.
Grabbing the back of his neck in a slightly-too-firm grip, I leaned up for a kiss—he was tall, good boy, I like them tall—even as I reached down for his flies. His gloriously rigid cock was out, in my hand, before he had time to protest; which he sort of did, by saying shakily, “Are you sure?” and as sweet as I found that, I laughed again, and in a surprisingly fluid motion, I leapt up into his arms, forcing him to catch me, and with one confident wiggle of my hips, I slammed myself down into the very member I’d so recently been admiring.
Now. Here’s where it gets a little weird. Being as I hadn’t had sex at all in, well, a little over a year, and the last time it had happened, it had been rape, even I expected myself to be somewhat less than thrilled to be in that position. I’d assumed, even in my drunken state, that I might panic, feel a bit queasy, or even bottle it altogether; that was part of the reason I’d let myself get so drunk, beforehand. That, and I’d been upset, but ignoring that for the moment, I’d expected to have some trouble jumping back in the saddle, so to speak.
Instead, I leapt onto one of the prettiest cocks I’ve ever seen (and that’s saying something) and, in seconds, I began to orgasm. Like Barbra Streisand, I’m a comer, and like a tube of Pringles, once I pop, I can’t stop, and, true to form, once I started, I just continued. Loudly.
“Oh, that’s it,” I said, gasping, only exaggerating it a little, because after all, men deserve some praise, when they’re doing it right, “That’s it, that’s perfect, oh yes keep fucking me, I’m going to cum again, oh you little star,” and as I said it, Mr. Shy University Boy surprised me, and reminded me why I love men so much.
“Actually,” he said, grinning even as he thrust so hard my head grazed the brick wall behind me, “You’re the one with the ‘little star’; you’ve got the tightest pussy I’ve ever seen,” and that was it, that was enough to bring me again, and as I convulsed around him, the little cutie pie looked me right in the face—and did a slow-motion wink. I erupted in a completely different way, and I was still laughing when he pulled out, blew his load all over my stomach and legs, and started apologizing for ruining my dress.