Bass guitar

This is another memory of a boy from my past.

J. was hard to get to know. He was an even better flirt than I at that point in my life. Still, I managed to get his attention, and even better, I got him to want me. This was a messy relationship; we alternated between power.

Once day, I wanted to see a movie I knew none of my friends would see with me. So I went, and did one of the first activities I ever did on my own. It was a version of a romantic comedy, so by the end of it, all I thought about was J. J. and I in that movie, living out the happy ending. I drove to his house.

I was allowed down to his basement bedroom. I was giddy; full of girlhood excitement about the possibitilies of relationships, and about him. He was still in bed. He pulled me to him as I chattered about the movie. He silenced me with his mouth. Oh, his kisses; I have known none better. J. knew exactly where to place his lips (exactly over mine) and where to run his tongue into mine.

J. ran his hand down my left side, with touches alternating between soft and tight, depending on which part of my body he wanted nearest to him. He picked randomly, so the places I expected were ignored. He did this as he ran his left hand over my breast, over, and over, as I love. I unbuttoned my jeans before he got anywhere near my hips. With a few moves, I had the jeans near my knees, and I took his right hand from my side and started pulling his hand toward my clit. Oh, god, I already was so ready from him, from his kisses, from his touches.

He pulled his hand away and made a gesture which I knew meant for me to complete take off my jeans. As I did this for him, he removed my shirt and bra. He was still clothed. He looked down, observing my body, and pulled me over him. I lie at a angle over him.

He took his right hand and put it over the top of my thigh. His left hand went to my ribcage. From there, in that position, he began to play me. J. was a bass guitarist, and he wanted to show me. He played slap bass.

He played the top of my thigh. As he changed strings, he moved closer to the inside of my thigh. As he changed chords, his left hand moved closer, again, to my nipple.

J. was a consumate player. And because of him, I can play as well.

I Want To Write

I've been hinting, well, more than hinting, about this, on my Twitter, about something that happened over the weekend. I really want to write out this fantasy. But even thinking it disturbs me. It crosses a line of which I've never had to consider. I feel so guilty for the thoughts and the feelings I have. Yet, I know that if I write it out, it would be out of my mind and onto this virtual paper.

I degrade myself as I make myself come with this fantasy. I think of the names I'll be called, and the names I call myself as I imagine this person with me.

While I consider the pros, cons, and (considerable) repercussions of writing about what's on my mind, know this: I have fucked myself over and over again with these thoughts. It's so wrong, but it makes me feel so good.