There are a few things you should know first:
A) He was sensual and creative. I think you can be sensual without being creative, but I don’t think you can be creative without being sensual. Fortunately for me, he was both.
B) He was my intellectual equal, something I had not experienced in a long time. I was able to talk to him without explaining myself, without clarification of what I meant. It was exciting and challenging.
C) He was older and worldlier. He wasn’t a frat boy. He did not have a frat boy mentality. He was interested in me as a person. He saw my large breasts, but they were not always his first concern.
D) He knew – and appreciated – that sex starts in the mind. He knew that foreplay is not just kissing and tweaking nipples. Foreplay starts with soft words and stimulating conversations. He was the Master of these things. Before he ever touched my body, he made love to my mind.
E) He was worthy of me. I do not say that to sound arrogant, or vain. The fact is that I gave up nothing to be with him. I didn’t have to explain my jokes; he always understood them. I did not have to police my thoughts or actions or speech; he was always interested in what I had to say, no matter how trivial. He appreciated me as I was and did not ask for changes or compromises.
F) Because of all these things, I would have done anything for him. As a matter of fact, I never once, in all the time we were together, ever denied him anything. I never told him ‘no,’ no matter how scary it was. I trusted him enough to know that he’d never ask anything of me that would hurt me. He cared for me and had my best interests foremost in his mind. He liked pushing my boundaries, expanding my horizons, but he never hurt me.
The way we met was so unlike us both. It was commonplace, almost clichéd. We met in the middle of the night, snowed in at O’Hare. It was crowded, but quiet. The woman sitting next to me, 350 pounds if she was an ounce, kept snoring her barbecue-chicken pizza breath on my face, so I moved out of the uncomfortable blue vinyl chairs and found an empty space in the corridor. I sat with my back against the wall and stretched out my legs. He was sitting to my right.
At first I didn’t even notice him. He was silent, compact, his legs wrapped around a duffel bag between his knees. Really, his duffel bag was what I noticed first, because Navokov’s Lolita was sticking out of the side pocket. I was intrigued, because I was the only other person I’d ever known who had actually read the book. Seeing the book made me curious to see the man, so I covertly checked him out, starting at the bottom and working my way to the top.
His shoes were Nike sneakers. They gave me no information; almost every man I’d ever known wore sneakers. But they were clean and well-kept and properly tied. His legs were clad in Levi Strauss jeans, which I knew because of the orange threading on the seams. They were clean and pressed, but like the sneakers, they were no help.
I twisted my body around toward him, bunched up my soft fleece jacket, and put it on my shoulder to use as a pillow. At first, I kept my eyes closed, pretending as if I were trying to fall asleep. After a few minutes, I opened my eyes. He was not asleep, but was reading the arrival/departure board, which was blinking ‘all flights delayed.’ Since his attention was diverted, I checked out the rest of him.
His shirt gave me no idea of what kind of man he might be, either. It was a plain blue denim shirt, with a Hensley collar and a left breast pocket, neatly buttoned. The shirt was also pressed, with neat creases down the arms.
His hands were across his abdomen and were much more interesting than his clothes. He had large, thick wrists, lightly covered with hair. His hands were wide, with prominent knuckles and long, thin, sensitive fingers. I could not see his palms. I did not know whether or not they were soft, or covered with calluses. But his nails were clean, and cut short.
My eyes traveled upward, I did not move my head. His jaw line and chin were strong and well-defined, as were his cheekbones. His nose was cute, and pert, not matching the rest of his aquiline features. His lips were wide, thin and very red, as if he’d been drinking cherry Kool-Aid®.
As I looked up at his eyes, he turned his head toward me and smiled. I was startled, because I thought he was still reading the board, but I returned his smile and whispered, “Hello.”
Seeing his dark eyes and white smile both at the same time made my heart palpitate for a minute or two. I was able to maintain my composure throughout our first conversation, though, because we made small talk about the storm, Chicago traffic and our books. I was holding Steinbeck’s Cannery Row, which he noticed and upon which he commented. He had read it, too, and was able to talk knowledgeably about Steinbeck, Salinas and the migration during the Great Depression.
Thus began our great love affair. Perhaps I should say Great Love Affair. It was worthy of capital letters, of a book, of an epic movie. We did everything together: ate, slept, lived, breathed. We liked the same books, the same movies, the same foods. I introduced him to new things, which he gamely tried, and conversely, he did the same for me. We were able to relax together, we found serenity in one another. We were able to just sit together, holds hands and enjoy our lives. Somehow, his presence in my life made the rest of the world more tolerable, less intrusive. His name was Julian and he was beauty.
He gave me peace. I miss him so much.
Our lives were not perfect. We were both strong people; strong-willed, opinionated and stubborn. We argued frequently. We had debates even more often. He loved politics and current events. I did not. We debated the importance of current events, of various political activities throughout the world. We discussed the importance of books, of movies, of American pop culture, sex. No topic was taboo, nothing was too sensitive to analyze. We did not always agree, but we both respected the other one’s opinion, and more importantly, the other’s right to say it and try to prove it.
We both loved music and spent countless hours not talking, just lying on the bed, on the couch, and even on the living-room floor, listening to every kind of music under the sun. I introduced him to Delta blues, and he introduced me to Irish folk music. We went to concert after concert. I think we spent more money on concerts when we were together than we did on any other form of entertainment. It never mattered what kind of music, what venue, or the cost…we just had to experience it.
That’s what I miss most about Julian, the experiences. We tried new things. It wasn’t about the success or the failure of the trying, it was the trying itself. We both felt that in order to grow, you must change. And you can only change through new experiences.
Our experimenting carried over into every aspect of our life, including lovemaking. We read The Kama Sutra together and tried all the appealing positions. Some we liked, and some we didn’t, but we always enjoyed attempting them.
Julian was a considerate lover. He was generous. Even when he was greedy, selfish, he was generous, because everything he liked, I liked. More than that, I liked it BECAUSE he liked it. If he wanted something that I really didn’t care about one way or the other, it still excited me, because it excited him so much. Nothing pleased me more than to please him…in every way.
We had marathon sessions of lovemaking. They lasted for hours. We would take breaks to re-hydrate and refuel, but we would not leave the house. We might stay naked for entire days, whole weekends.
It was during one of these sessions that I offered Julian anything he wanted. We’d been making love for hours, and the sun was just beginning to rise through the window to my right. He was sprawled on our king-sized bed, deep inside of me. I was riding him, as he squeezed my breasts and pinched and rolled my nipples. It had been a glorious night, as we worked our way through pretty much every position we’d read about in the Kama Sutra. I’d had at least six orgasms, and he’d had two, all of which had been intense. I was soaking wet, everywhere. My entire body was moist. Even my hairline was damp with sweat, and I was completely soaked from my waist to my knees. Our bodily fluids intermingled on our bodies and the sheets. The room smelled musky, and the scent was intoxicating.
Perhaps it was that intoxicating perfume that compelled me to lean forward, with Julian still deep inside of me, and whisper in his ear, “Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything.” Regardless of the compulsion, I was not expecting his response; he said nothing, his dark eyes holding mine, never moving, not blinking. We were still, staring at each other.
I was even further surprised when Julian lifted me up, and pulled himself out of me. As his hard cock slipped out of me, I felt a loss, as if part of me had gone missing. My surprise turned to astonishment when he adjusted his body, and moved me back until his cock was at my ass.
Neither of us spoke as he pressed my hips downward, and thrust his hardness up. I felt a great pressure, but no penetration. I was nervous and scared, which led to tight muscles, which prohibited him penetrating me. After a few minutes of trying, he lifted me again and set my feet on the floor. He raised himself from the bed and headed toward the bathroom.
“Get on your knees. Bend over the bed.”
He threw these words over his shoulder as he walked into our bathroom. He did not ask. He did not request. It was an order. He had no intention of being disobeyed. He expected complete obedience. Defiance did not even occur to him. Nor did it occur to me. I only knew that this was yet another new experience with him, a new experience that I was eager to have with him, for him.
I went to the other side of the bed, facing the window, through which the new sun was seeping. I got on my knees, against the bed, and watched Julian walk into the room. He was a large man (6’3″ and 230 pounds), and from my submissive position, he seemed even bigger. His body was covered with light, curly hair, which caught the sun and formed a cream-colored aura around his body. He had his cock in his left hand, stroking it with Vaseline. The light and the Vaseline made the veins and ridges and head glisten. I could almost see the blood pulsating in him as he stroked. He seemed a sexual god, his enigmatic eyes piercing mine as he walked toward me.
It was this sight that caused me to start gushing wetness again. Watching him, I could feel my pussy twitch and the moisture oozing out over my lips and down my thighs. I began to moan, wanting him, needing him to fill me. My hips began to move even before he reached me, rocking, which brought my clitoris into contact with the bed each time I moved forward.
As he knelt down behind me, and got onto his knees, his entire body came into contact with mine. I could feel his chest hair on my back as he slid down. His engorged cock dragged from my lower back down to between my cheeks. His hardness and the feel of his hairy thighs against the back of my smooth ones made me ache for him to be inside me again. As he leaned over me, he pushed me down over the low bed, and my nipples raked against the sheets, making me flood even more, with anticipation.
He started by reaching under me, holding my breasts in his hands. I could feel his calluses scraping across my soft skin, and his long fingers rolling my nipples, twisting them. He was rocking his hips back and forth, his cock coming into brief contact with my ass time and again. He was slippery with the Vaseline, and I was slick with my own juice, and he was sliding over my ass. He would crouch down, and allow his cock to lose all contact with my body, his hips lower than mine. Then he would raise up, and his cock would drag along my pussy lips, up between my ass cheeks, until his balls were grinding against me.
We were both aching now. I needed him inside me, and he needed to be inside of me. I began to beg.
“Please, Julian. Please fuck my ass. Please. I want you inside of me, fucking my ass. Please, Julian, please.”
I was mindless. I had never begged him before; not for anything. I knew that he was insensible, too. I could feel him groaning and grunting against my shoulder, his breathing ragged and uneven. He was squeezing my breasts now, hard, and his fingers on my nipples were rough, painfully good.
He scraped the inside of my thighs with his nails as he jerked my legs apart, opening me up for him. He was rough with me. He was driven by his need to fill me. I could feel his hands on my ass, as he pulled my cheeks apart, his thumbs on the sides of my waiting orifice, holding me open so he could stuff himself inside of me.
He placed himself just so, and then began to push. My body resisted, but my mind did not. I pushed back against him, and felt his head pop inside me. It was so painful that I gasped his name. He felt so big inside me there. I felt a burning pain that I’d never experienced before, not even when I lost my virginity.
He stayed still for a minute, and my body adjusted around him. Then he slowly began to ease inside of me, stopping every so often to let me adjust to his girth. He was shaking. I could feel his hips quivering against me, and his excitement began to build mine again, overcoming the pain.
Before I realized it, he was all the way inside me, inside my ass. I could feel his balls against me. He didn’t begin stroking immediately. He began to rock our connected bodies, moving us forward and backward with his hips and his hands. As he rocked against me, the pain began to dissipate, dissolve into pleasure. I was tight around him, but eventually his rocking turned into stroking, as he moved in and out of me slowly.
I began to visualize his viewpoint, seeing his throbbing, shiny cock pull out of my ass, the veins bulging, then slowly burying himself inside of me again. It made me want more more more, and I began to push back against him as he was stroking in, and away from him as he was pulling out. We worked out a beautiful rhythm, fucking slowly but deeply.
Then he pulled all the way out of me. I felt his head scrape against my walls as he popped out, and then a delicious twinge of pain as he pushed back inside. He did that several times in a row, each time submerging himself to the hilt upon each re-entry.
He began moving faster, fucking me hard now, pushing my breasts against the sheets and my hips against the side of the bed. Each time he pushed into me, my clitoris, hot and big and swollen, rubbed against the bed. I began chanting a mantra of his name “Julian Julian Julian Julian,” each time my clit came into contact with the bed.
Suddenly, he put his hand between my legs and pushed two fingers inside my sopping pussy, and began fingering me with the rhythm he was using to stroke his hot cock inside my ass. I was so full of him. My pussy was gripping his fingers and my ass was gripping his cock, and we were rushing toward that ‘little death,’ as the French so aptly call it.
He started moving faster, and my body was responding. I was pinching my own nipples now, and pushing against him, aching to finish, needing that release I was so desperately chasing.
I felt him tense, and his fucking become frenzied, manic. He was pounding into me now, slamming inside of me, with both his cock and his fingers, and my clit was throbbing. The rhythm was harsh, the tempo ever-increasing as we began to orgasm together.
With one last powerful thrust, he was all the way inside of me again, gripping my shoulder painfully with the fingers on his left hand, his fingers on his right as deep as they could go inside of my pussy, and he was grinding my clit against the bed with his hips. As my orgasm overwhelmed me, I could feel my ass and my pussy clench around him, my eyes screwed shut, straining against all of these feelings. Wave after wave of ecstasy flowed through me and into him. We were both yelling and groaning senseless words, in tandem with one another as we reached a plateau neither of us had ever experienced.
As the waves decreased in both intensity and frequency, he slumped on top of me. I was completely covered by his broad chest on my back, as we fought to regain our breath. I could feel the result of our orgasms slipping down my thighs, warm and thick.
We stayed that way for a long time, on our knees beside the bed. He put his arms around me, and we cuddled there, both of us too weak at the knees to rise. He told me things that night, kneeling there by our bed, that he’d never told me before….how much he loved me, how much he feared losing me, how he wanted to be with me forever, to take care of me.
That was not the last time we had anal sex, but it was the most intense, and the most special. Julian and I are no longer together, and have lost touch, but I shall never forget his influence on me: mentally, physically, emotionally, psychologically. He made me more than I thought I could be, simply because he thought I could be.
I miss him so much.