[MF] Fucking my way out of – and then back into a rut

I really don’t want to come off as too self-absorbed in this story but I suppose the way I live my life is pretty self absorbed so fuck it. I know it got a little long, and got a little too self-pitying, but man the sex was fucking amazing, and the chase wasn’t half bad either.

I’m 6 feet tall on the dot, decently fit, tatted up, I have a look that works for me and some subset of the female population. I live in NYC, mid to late twenties, I work in what you might call “specialized” finance, and I’m miserable. I promise I fuck an amazing girl in this story but I also need to set the stage because if I don’t vent a bit this writing this out will have been pointless. This happened in the last few months.

I bet you’ve never heard this before, it’s a pretty startling revelation, but money doesn’t buy happiness. Who knew? Not me when I started down the path to the life I live now. I thought finance in NYC would suck but I’d make a lot of money and the odds would about balance out. But no, several years in and my hours are a nightmare, sometimes in excess of 100 spent in the office in a week. Morally, these days I feel like a fitting caricature for /r/latestagecapitalism, and I don’t even have the time to spend any of the cash I’m earning besides binging away my weekends like the precious resource they are.

For a while it was alright, like most mid twenties decently fit finance bros in NYC I lived a tinder heavy lifestyle, and if you want some meaningless sex with a social climber or to end up talking CDO’s over drinks with an equally miserable finance chick it plays, did great for ramping my number up post-college relationships, but besides that it’s a little bit empty. A lot empty. So after a particularly mind-numbing week of work when I couldn’t muster the energy to play the tinder/bumble/hinge game I decided I needed a break and deleted all my app bullshit. It was a Friday morning, that night I met Indira. Named after the prime minister. It means ‘beauty’ and ‘splendor’, I think both apply

My plans that night were to go out with some friends I knew from back when, four guys who bummed in FiDi all crammed into one apartment, I knew them from years back. They were all good dudes at heart and fun drinking buddies, but mostly they made sure to invite me because I brought nice coke on my nights out. I’m sure they still would’ve invited me even if I didn’t but I’m generous by nature and a little too loaded so I don’t mind. I swung through their place and it was a party, their ringleader, Brady, never could resist testing the capacity of the little two bedroom they called home.

I walked in and it’s a blast, there are some Columbia masters students there, a couple beautiful willowy girls who I’m sure have quite the instagram following who can also tell you all about Middle Eastern Politics. Some of another roommates restaurant friends are there and they’re comparing kitchen tatts like they’re prison tatts, swapping warstories. There’s a whole collection of other bros at various levels of finance, and now that I’m there, we’re all blowing lines. I feel great, people want to talk to me, I want to talk to people, they’re interesting, and I’m interesting! Pretty soon we roll out to hit the bar scene.

We’re in some standard clubby bar on the lower east side when one of the Columbia students starts advocating for a change in venue. She and I have been chatting and I think there’s some chemistry, I’ve been trying to flex my knowledge about the Arab Spring and undoubtedly making a fool out of myself but she’s laughing so I’m game. I don’t remember her name. She wants to go to a cool Latin bar she knows in Chinatown. Brady wants to stay. Everybody is snowed up and suddenly it’s a whole drama, Columbia student calls Brady an asshole which is totally fair, her friend starts crying, another apartment bro [Justin] comes by with an armload of beers and shots and gets bumped; disaster. I make my exit.

Fuck life is empty. I’m still coked up and there’s nothing worse than being miserable on a coke high. I feel myself slipping into that miserable night out rut, but I can’t sacrifice my one free night this weekend like this, Uber back to my apartment alone, having spent my money on things that are bad for me without even that little dopamine kick to help take the edge off my next week of hell. So fuck it, I’m going to go to that Latin bar in Chinatown Columbia girl was talking up. She seemed cool, if its worthy of her insta I’m sure it’s a good time, and I’d already queued it up in my Uber app back when we were chatting. She’s gone now but I’m not giving up.

I get to Chinatown and it takes me 15 minutes to find it, wandering around my GPS isn’t quite working and it’s tucked into some back alley. The street reeks of trash, it’s strewn everywhere. Finally I find it and the bouncer tells me they’re at capacity, I give him $50 to let me in, it’s the coke talking but I’m determined to have a good night. It’s in a basement and walking down the stairs my heart is racing (for a number of obvious reasons), the stakes are fucking high for whether this place is good or not. My life feels a little banal and ridiculous but goddamn I hope its fun.

It is. The place is packed, they’re blasting Latin music, specifically Rosalía, who’s one of my favorite artists, and I’m feeling it immediately. People are actually dancing, not just jumping in the club, but actually dancing. I fight my way to the bar for a Corona, and like a NYC vet I have cash in hand. I manage to sidle in to a space where I can make eye contact with the bartender, and all of a sudden notice I’m pressed up against this girl.

She’s about 5’7, in heels, and draped in what I guess I’d call a bohemian dress. Her hair is up and I can see a tattoo, vaguely hindi looking, spiraling down her back, pulsating along with the lights of the club. Her skin looks so soft, a gorgeous shade of brown, and her lips, fuck, full and her neck is graceful and… she catches me staring and raises one eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. I laughed sheepishly and leaned in to talk over the music.

“Sorry for gawking, let me buy you a drink.” She just wagged her finger at me.

I pointed at the card in her hand and then gestured to my bills. “Cash is easier, then I’ll go away” and gave my best winning smile. She shrugged and then stood on her toes to speak into my ear.

“Margarita.”

As soon as the bartender comes back I get our drinks and press the cash into his hand. She gives me a little smile and we cheers. I lean back in.

“Find me later if you want to dance?” She looks skeptical.

“I can salsa!” And I give her my best little demo crammed into the corner of this bar, at that she giggles and looks over her shoulder at her friends, who seem to give her an approving laugh.

“Come on then!” She says halfheartedly to me, before taking a big quaff of her margarita and handing the rest of to her friend, who gives me a suspicious look and mouths ‘I’m watching you.’

I’m still thinking fuck it, what have I got to lose? And we stake out a little section of the dance floor, close to the speakers. Some Reggeaton I don’t know is now bumping. Years back before my whole mess of an NYC life I spent a while in South America, where every bar is a salsa bar, and every innocent blue-eyed gringo gets asked to dance by a parade of pros, so I’ve got some background.

I’m not as good as her though, she can actually dance, she’s fluid. I can’t help but let my eyes run all over her, the dress she has on is low cut and my brain is trumpeting an urgent need to stare at them every time she moves. Her hips are silky and sway perfectly in time. At first she laughs as I try to keep up, with a genuine smile for the first time, and starts to gently try to correct me. Her hands playfully push at my chest, adjust my forearm, she squeezes, so I squeeze her hip back and pull her towards me. She flits away effortlessly and I smirk.

We dance to another song, then another, and then I see her wordlessly wave her friends off. There’s a lull in the music and I lean in.

“What’s your name?”

“Indira”

“You’re a very good dancer Indira” She laughs.

“You aren’t a bad student!” At that I bow facetiously.

It’s sweltering in this basement, we’re both sweating. I tugged on her hand a bit. “Do you wanna get some air?”

She tilts her head appraisingly, and then nods. Pretty soon were holding hands, walking away from FiDi, aimlessly towards my apartment. She’s pulled out a pair of flats from her bag. Turns out she’s a dance instructor, ballroom, and tango. She likes contemporary more but can’t get a class together. She has a masters in biochem and freelances on some projects. I catch myself thinking ‘I bet she could model if she wanted to’ but I keep it to myself.

Were walking and the night is crisp and clear, I ask if she wants to take an Uber or taxi and she says she’d rather walk, so would I. She leans into me and rests her head on my shoulder, smiling up at me.

“I should text my friends, they’ll be worried you’re a creep.” I wince a little.

“It’s good to have friends looking out for you, I promise I’m not a creep though.”

“I know, I can tell.” And at that she sticks her tongue out at me.

It’s a long walk and by the end I’ve sobered up off just about everything, some hints of the nights earlier shots are still buzzing warmly through my veins. It’s 3:00 in the morning when I swipe into my building. I open the door sweepingly and step in before looking back at her.

“I just want to make sure you’re comfortable with everything?” I ask, and she smiles at me and it’s so warm and true.

“I think I can get more comfortable.” She steps in the door and kisses me. Earlier when we were dancing I wanted to pull her against me, grab her neck and aggressively draw her into me, but instead this kiss is gentle. We step back into my lobby and she kisses me again, more forcefully, grabbing my collar and pulling me down to her. One hand runs up my neck and dances around my ear before she breaks away.

“Come on hurry up!” And all of a sudden she’s running off ahead of me towards my elevators. In a flash we’re in my apartment and again she’s taking the lead. The second we’re in through my door she starts tugging off my shirt and we end up pressed against the wall. She briefly pulls away to run her hand over my tattoos and I take the opportunity to grab her fully and pick her up, carrying her to my couch.

She’s straddling me when I finally manage to pull her dress off, she gracefully raises it over her head, grinding her hips against me, as if she’s giving a little performance, then before I get the chance she undoes her bra in one motion, it was lacey and black and I barely saw it. It gets to be that part in the hookup where for the sake of efficiency we’re both tearing off our own clothes, there isn’t time to make each step sexy, and I throw her off me to deal with my socks and shoes.

Then I’m atop her, kissing down her body, taking it in and letting my tongue trace little paths. She has another tattoo running down her hip, and I pause to admire it. Then I pause to stare up at her, smirking, her eyes are heavy and filled with lust.

“What, are you in a rush or something?” She gives me that same unimpressed look from earlier.

“Alright, alright, so impatient.” She squirms and her fingers are taught in my hair, I’m surprised how strong she is as she forces my head lower.

I let myself enjoy tasting her, in long slow strokes. She’s smooth and supple, and her moans are ever so soft and breathy. I pick up the pace, letting my fingers probe inside her, pretty soon her soft moans turn into pants, and “Oh my gods!” She grinds against me demandingly, soaking my poor beard, before finally tensing up, her fingers nearly tearing my hair out.

I look up at her, she’s collapsed back onto my couch exhausted, spasming. “Better than my dancing?” She slaps my face halfheartedly but I see her grinning. I get up and grab her a glass of water and quickly wipe my face off before returning to the couch. I pull her ragdoll body so she’s lying up against my lap. Gratefully she gulps down the water.

She looks hesitant for a bi before saying “Hey I don’t want to be a bitch, but is it cool if we just chill now? I promise I’ll rock your world in the morning, but I’m honestly exhausted.” She looks almost ashamed but I laugh right away.

“Of course no worries you’re welcome to.” Secretly this is a total win for me because after all the drinks and coke earlier I was sure to put in an absolutely half-hearted performance.

She gives a cute little smile, “Ok, night then” and curls right up on my leg. I give it a minute or two before carrying her to bed.

—

I woke up the next morning to the covers being adjusted. I did my best to feign sleep as I felt her hands sliding down my body, I was already rock hard. I felt the tingle of her tongue licking slow from base to tip, at first barely there, before the warmth of her mouth took me. Moaning I opened my eyes and began shaping her hair to get it out of her face. Her eyes were huge staring up at me, making direct eye contact before taking all my length into her throat, then slowly releasing me.

“Good morning.” I tried to think of something witty to fire back but my mind went totally blank. Instead I grunted out “Fuuuuuck.”

“Ok, where are your condoms?”

Quickly I grabbed at my night stand and got set, before lying back underneath her. With the same energy she had last night undressing, she slowly gyrated herself over my cock, aligning me with one hand, before descending steadily.

I can’t say I’d ever fucked a dance instructor before. I’ve been sitting here trying to describe her riding me and I’m coming up empty. It was good, really good, the best. Fuck she was confident, in control, knowing her body looked amazing and her ass was perfect, grinding herself into me and rubbing her clit, so tight. Digging her nails into my chest and shoulders. I came fast with all the energy I had pent up from the night before, and at my climax I thought I might black out. After she released me she kissed me lightly and said “Now we’re even.”

We spent the morning, and then some of the afternoon, in bed. We fucked more, and talked more still, I ordered us sushi and had my doorman bring it to my apartment door. We ate, we fucked again. Swapped numbers with a promise to do it again and she left.

We had a date, then another. Her dad was Cuban and her mom was Indian, she was named after the former prime minister. She had a passion for dance, and culture, and human rights, and little quirky biomechanics facts. She liked that I was witty, and attentive when she talked, and into making her cum again and again. She didn’t like my coke problem, or my 80-hour work week, or my self-loathing over my job, or the emptiness it bred around the edges of my life.

And like so many chance encounters and brief moments that bubble up to the surface world from the light life of NYC, it faded. Good things come and go, but I’m having a hard time getting back out of my rut again now, and so I figured I’d write it out, maybe put an end to reflecting. Also encourage all of you to go seduce a dance instructor.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/cb2b6a/mf_fucking_my_way_out_of_and_then_back_into_a_rut