“I just don’t think it would be a good idea to be in a virtual relationship,” she said through the phone. His heart sank, he knew she wouldn’t be able to make their planned night out…but he hadn’t expected this. “Don’t you think it might be a good idea to have someone to just…talk to through this?” The scent of the cocoa butter body lotion she applied to her mahogany skin wafted through his memories. “I don’t know how much I’m into you, and I think that’s too difficult to figure out without being able to meet in person.” His mind went back to a week earlier, the two had been splayed out on his silk upholstered sofa. They spooned while he scraped his teeth against the nape of her neck. She had seemed into him then, but perhaps he had just been projecting, interpreting her sighs as moans of ecstasy matching the arousal he felt himself when in reality they were just exhalations of comfort. “So, you don’t even want to keep in touch?” He could feel his pants tighten as he recalled manipulating her erect nipples with his fingertips. “I just don’t think it would be a good idea, maybe after this is all over.” He resigned himself to yet another disappointment that would mark the least of his or anyone’s troubles during this difficult time.
She had seemed one of the more promising prospects in a long line of anticlimactic trysts and one night stands. Love for him burned bright and brief. Women were often put off by the intensity. He thought maybe he had finally found someone who would see his passion as endearing rather than clingy. Unfortunately, it seemed it was not to be so. He was certain he had so much love to give the right person, but it would not be her. For now, he would just have to move on. He groaned in frustration. He always found it hard to let go but knew it would be extra difficult now that every man, woman, and child in New York City were under strict CDC guidance to enact social isolation. Without the normal distractions of going out and enjoying the city nightlife, he would be trapped with nothing but his own thoughts to lament.
The preceding week had marked rapid lifestyle changes that reverberated throughout the city like whiplash. All non-essential businesses were ordered to close, and non-essential travel was deemed forbidden. This was all in the name of “flattening the curve”, slowing the outbreak so that the precarious American healthcare system could deal with the onslaught of new infections. It seemed this would be a death sentence to the sex life of anyone who was not currently partnered.
To slip into a depression now would be the ultimate expression of narcissism and privilege. As a man of thirty in excellent health, he was at incredibly low risk of mortality or hospitalization should he get the disease. Furthermore, as a software engineer in the financial sector, he had considerable job security and had few hurdles to performing his job at full capacity from home. Even as his parents lamented the temporary closure of the family restaurant, he felt secure in the knowledge that should the need be, he could support them both. He was truly blessed, but at this moment could only feel despair.
An aphorism popped into his head. It was one frequently shared with him by the sinewy office manager he had often swapped pleasantries with throughout the workday back when they could still come into the office. The man was all discipline, unlike a certain engineer, and his work ethic was displayed on his Grecian body which he molded daily in the office gym. “People who don’t have problems, make problems.” He was speaking of the dramatic tendencies of their affluent colleagues. Sexual energy permeated the air at the firm, and even the two friends had found themselves unable to avoid its pull from time to time. Shitting where you eat always had its consequences, but human behavior can rarely be contained.
In the present, he could barely contain himself. The Coronavirus lockdown had only been a week and already he was a puddle of loneliness and sexual frustration. With a busy work schedule and no stable partner, he’d gone many months without intercourse before, but there was something more trying about the definitive nature of the lockdown. Knowing you definitely weren’t going to experience another person’s touch for months added exponentially to the usual dissatisfaction. In his normal life, even when he was going through one of his dry spells he could at least daydream about the possibility of an encounter. Whether it was the cute facilities engineer with the short skirts who sat a couple of rows down from him or the flirty administrator who delivered his lunch, he derived a modicum of nourishment off of the furtive glances and eager exchanges that helped him through each day. It didn’t matter whether anything actually came to pass, because sexual desire is frequently just the libidinal expression of the human need for intimacy and at least, in these platonic but sexually charged relationships, he was experiencing some form of closeness with another human being.
He was alone with his thoughts. Sitting on the edge of his kingsize bed he began to reminisce. About a month earlier he’d been on a Tinder date with a young art student. “I think I’m a sex addict,” his eyes grew wide over the shepherd’s pie he’d ordered on a whim. “Well…what are you doing here…dinner with me then,” he wasn’t sure if she was serious, or this was just a line to get him in bed as quickly as possible. “Ohhh…you’ve got me there,” she blushed…betraying a flirty playfulness. He wondered what the ethics were of bedding someone who claims to be addicted to sex. Surely this was a grey area, like tending bar for an alcoholic, the dealer can’t be held 100% responsible. He was definitely curious about what a proclaimed nymphomaniac would be like in bed…and he wasn’t convinced that he himself was not an addict. The bills he had run up at strip clubs the past year would certainly stand as evidence. Sex and sexual contact were a source of validation for him, one he needed to feel special. “Want to meet my cats?” he’d used this line numerous times, figuring it hit a sweet spot of endearing because he had pets he cared for, and somewhat mad because those pets were cats. It was also a bit of a flex considering they were in New York and few people had the means to care for two animals in an apartment by themselves.
The couple stumbled drunkenly into his one bedroom. She sat down on the far side of his couch, “So…what do you want to do?” She ruffled her red leather skirt. He accepted her invitation. His eyes trained on her lips as he leaned in so gradually that his movements were almost imperceptible. Just before making contact he playfully pulled back and looked her in the eyes crooking an eyebrow as if to say, “will I?” She smiled, momentarily accepting his game, before closing her eyes and pulling him in. Enough nonsense.
Some short while later the two were in his bed, lying side by side as he curled his fingers between her legs. She giggled, “You like my vagina?” He was aroused by her candor. Younger girls frequently put on shows, screaming like pornstars in a display that made him feel like they were trying to force themselves to have a good time. He always found this off-putting, preferring a more present lover. Truly grounded love-making often looks mundane to an imaginary onlooker…two people connecting emotionally…perhaps talking about their day…their life…connecting while making one another feel good, that was nirvana.
He did like her vagina and told her so. “You have an excellent pussy,” he said with genuine surprise in his voice. “Really? What makes mine so special? …is it tight?” She squirmed provocatively. Clearly she had mistaken his honestly for a seductive put-on. “No, I mean it…your vagina feels really good…it feels…healthy.” He did not actually prefer so-called “tight” pussy and couldn’t understand why anyone thought that was desirable. With a cock of five and a half inches length and average girth, he knew his bias had nothing to do with “being too big” and could only make sense of the myth of “tight” pussy as a vestige of America’s puritanical obsession with virginity. The sadder but wiser girl was always preferable. Vaginas actually change shape over time, they become more accepting and welcoming. Her pussy had the familiar contours that came with frequent pleasure and indulgence.
She was wet and he could easily feel her swollen g-spot. He knew the “come hither” motion he was making with his fingers felt really good for her. He shifted his position so that he was now crouched on his knees facing her as he rubbed the inside of her vagina more firmly. He placed his other hand over her clitoral hood and started to stimulate her clitoris without touching it directly. He made sure to randomize his touches, tracing replicas of Kandinsky and Basquiat on her aroused member.
She began to moan, “Where do you learn?” He picked up his pace and intensity, rubbing the horseshoe of her clitoris from the inside to the protruding tip. “I…it’s not me…when two people have chemistry…it just works,” he was trying to be humble, but he also meant it…not everyone responds as positively to his moves, not everyone is as tantalizing to touch. Her body was soft and smooth in all the right places. It begged to be conquered, taken roughly but with care. “Are you going to fuck me?” she asked with sweet anticipation. “Sure,” he was done playing games. He gave her a condom to open while he removed his clothes. He paused before slipping on his protective sheath. “Want to suck my cock?” She eagerly took his cut penis into her voluptuous mouth. “Fuck, your mouth is as nice as your pussy.” “Mmmhmmm,” she nodded with his member fully down her throat, her lips kissing his pubic mound. It took everything in his power not to grab her face and start fucking her, an act of domination she might actually like, but he wouldn’t give in, his goal being to receive her orgasm on his engorged member. He removed himself and slipped the condom on. “Do you want me to fuck you?” his eyebrow crooked in sadistic play like before. “Yes,” she whimpered. He could tell she was losing control. He carefully slid his member between her thighs using the same level of control with which he had first kissed her. “Fuck me,” she demanded. He didn’t need to be asked twice, her cunt felt as good on his cock as it had wrapped around his fingers. “Can you come from penetration?”, he asked in an attempt to appear thoughtful. “Sometimes,” the answer most women gave when they meant “no.” He asked her to turn over and get on her knees so he could fuck her from behind. She had a perfect bubbly ass and he could continue manipulating her clitoris from this position while grabbing her perky tits. “Do you like this?” he bragged, already knowing the answer from her heavy breathing. “Yess…this…is my favorite position,” she panted in ecstasy. Perhaps she couldn’t come, but he could tell she enjoyed sex.
“Can I…finger your asshole?” he bit his lip. He wasn’t sure where his fixation with asses and anal sex came from, perhaps it has something to do with his bisexual proclivities…after all…everyone has an ass. It would never be a dealbreaker for him if his partner wasn’t into it…but there was no harm in asking. She hesitated, “What? Oh…yes! I thought for a second you asked if you could fuck my ass.” His ears pricked. “Oh well…I wouldn’t have asked that…I know the answer would be no,” he was suddenly bashful…like a kid caught reaching for a cookie. “Why would it be no?” she answered with confidence in the fact that this answer would turn him into a puddle. He shrugged off the question. He wouldn’t be fucking a stranger in the ass tonight. Still, he was extremely aroused that this woman would even entertain letting him have her in that way in a one night stand. He hoped she’d answer his texts tomorrow, this one was a keeper.
After ejaculating into the condom he crouched over her again and began licking her clitoris. If she wasn’t going to have a vaginal orgasm, he was determined to give her a clitoral one. Again he invoked the images of expressionist paintings, this time with his tongue, mixing in programming symbols and non-phonetic characters at random. She tasted as good as she felt. It took some time but eventually, she began bucking her hips into his face as he struggled to maintain the same level of contact, careful not to change his movements. She grabbed his hair.
He loved it when a woman knew how to dominate him. He could feel himself getting aroused again but knew he wanted their lovemaking to end on her orgasm. He began to breathe more heavily as she squeezed his face with her thighs. Now was her turn to fuck *his* face. She squirmed as she got closer as if she was trying to shake the orgasm out of her body, like a demon that needed to be exorcised. She arched her back, up and down at first but finally steady with her pubes thrust firmly into his mustache. He grabbed her ass and held her to his lips, “Mm..come for mmme, mm..baby.”
The next morning he walked her to the subway and kissed her goodbye. He could see the color fall away from her face…a look that said, “You’re being too boyfriend-ly, I’m going to have to end this.” Sure enough, she did. Later that week he’d text her but she’d get back days later, eventually sending him something along the lines of “I think you’re nice, but I don’t think it’s going to work out.” This was how the overwhelming majority of his romantic liaisons went.
He tried not to get frustrated, NYC is a big place, Manhattanites are paralyzed by choice and wary of settling down. His forwardness often pressed the issue, placing his partners in a position where they felt compelled to cut him loose or else face the horrifying specter that is commitment. He was somewhat proud of this…knowing this rejection was not a reflection of him but of his surroundings. In his own mind, he was a hero on an epic journey to find love and perhaps get laid along the way. He was “The Hero Nutting in a Thousand Faces,” he chuckled to himself at the immature parody.
It seemed his journey would have to be put on hold now that it was impossible (or at least deeply irresponsible) to meet a stranger for a date, and surely dating was not a high priority for many who were losing their jobs. On the other hand, the masses of unemployed did not have much else to do but take to the internet and try to scare up a conversation with an unknown entity, at least for entertainment, at best for a connection. Perhaps he did not have to put his search on hold, maybe this was the *best* time to date. New Yorkers once drowning in a sea of possibilities were now confined to their own small worlds…desperate for optimism and intimacy. Additionally, you could not meet in person so there was no way to engage in any frivolous sexual pretext…or *was* there?
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/fvpjtz/social_distancing_part_1_nsfw_mf
Ooh I liked this, very immersive and well written