HOW I SCORED MY FIRST SEEKSLUT FUCKBOOK GIRL

I saw her profile online at SeekSlut FuckBook last month. Melissa Cartwright. Her profile said it all: art student, poet, loves Spongebob cartoons, hopes to publish a novel one day, likes a good long screw against a wall….Hmmm. Definitely interesting. But what drew me to her was that she reminded me of a girl, Simone Ainsworth, who I used to follow home from Junior High for several months, but who I had never worked up the nerve to ask for the privilege of carrying her books. sexbook | Sex Book | www.sexbookin.com

She represented my second chance. So we chatted for a few days, then exchanged numbers, and finally, decided to meet in a Starbucks in downtown NewYork for a mocha cappuchino. It was a Tuesday when I met her, I remember that clearly. It was my day off from work, and she was in-between classes at NYU. It was a cold, sunless afternoon, the kind of day where if you breathe in the cold air, you can let it out slow, and see breath coming out like smoke. I had come all the way from the Brooklyn to see her even though I hated driving in snow, the fear that went into it, with you gripping the steering wheel, watching the other cars passing by, their tyres throwing up slop and shit on the windshield. So by the time I got there, I was keyed up and nervous as hell but I chose not to smoke a cigarette. Melissa hated smokers.

I went in and seated in the far corner were two girls. Melissa, looked about 21, with long blonde hair, and broad hips compacted into tight jeans. She had tried to lock her hair into a stylish bun but it kept stringing down around her cheekbones. Another girl, a mouse-ish looking, was seated beside her. Great, I thought. She’d brought along her ‘nerdy’ friend to screen out potential losers. Well, at least it wouldn’t take long.

I went over, and she gave me a big hug, her breasts mashing against my chest. I removed my coat and sat down. She kept smiling at me in that secret way, letting me know that she liked me. We chatted a while, exchanging jokes in a pointless line of chatter. The friend had a laugh like a rusty nail being crowbarred out of  a plank of wood. Ee-eee-eee. Eventually, the friend left, and it was just me and her, and I found myself, tumbling, tumbling into the blackhole of her eyes.

We left Starbucks and then grabbed a quick movie, that new Spielberg film, and then went back to her warm, softly lit loft for drinks. She offered me a drink, I asked her for a vodka cocktail. I sat down and surveyed the room. It was your typical loft with a lot of interesting paintings strung all over it. I skimmed through her CD collection, and fingerwalked through her collection of books. I saw a half-moon of old lipstick clung to the rim of a drinking glass on her armoire.

I smiled when I saw it. Sloppy, just like me. She came back and we sat down on  a ratty old sofa to talk. I kept thinking: Should I make the move, or just let it happen?

We had another round of drinks, and chatted some more. Then she made the first move. We kissed, carefully at first, then passionately. I kept wondering if I had condoms in my wallet. She led me to my bedroom, and I went willingly, the vodka had begun to take hold of the central nervous system, I felt pliant and mellow. She began to unbutton her blouse, working down from the top. She pulled the blouse off, hooked her thumbs in the waist of her panties and pushed them down.

I put my hands on her arms, and then let them slide around her, feeling her hands on my robs, and we began to kiss, moving our heads a little, getting in good and comfortable, feeling each other’s mouth and lips. Then she was all over me, her scent all over, kissing and touching and saying my name, “Delroy; Delroy” in an interrogative tender way I had never experienced before.

I reached for her breast, felt the nipple harden, sucked hard on it for a while until she moaned. I scrambled out of my clothes, my lips caressing her body. Eventually naked, we danced-walked over to the bed, and then entered her, closed my eyes, and moved in the darkness slowly finding her pulse. I could feel her pulling at my sex with the tightening muscles of her vagina, but I stayed slow, refusing to surrender control as she tried to quicken the pace.

Not allowed to have her way, she flipped me over, and slid me out of her.

“Now, it’s my turn to ride you,” she said.

Then, placing her feet on either side of my hips, she lowered herself onto me from a squatting position, still watching, still smiling, and then I felt her wet heat and pressed into her. We moved in a single rhythm,, her moans getting louder with each stroke.  Eventually, I rolled her over, and the sweat between us was slick and hot. Soon, we were clinging deliriously to the edge, and then a deep throaty moan escaped her throat, and I rocked hard, streaming into her, shaking, even as her calves locked around  the insides of my legs and held me tight until our spasms subsided.

I have been seeing her off and on (pardon the expression) since then, and each day, I have SeekSlut FuckBook to thank for that experience. So that’s it, that’s how I met my first FuckBook girl. Tell me about your experiences.

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