The Inner Slut

A couple, sometime lovers, sat opposite each other over cups of coffee. After an extended silence, the man asks, almost to himself, "What are we?"

The woman stirred, shifted in her seat, and answered, "Strangers."

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The woman asked, "What are we?" The man, almost startled by the voice, answered, "Shouldn't we be getting along?"

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The man asked, "What are we?" The woman answered, "Strangers," but her voice was so soft that the word dissipated in the cool evening air before it reached the man's ears.

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The man asked the evening sky, "What are we?" The woman made no reply but said to herself, "What 'we'?" and smiled at the cool night breeze, flipping her hair back.

I'm not only back on track, I'm back into it as well.

Cliff is Dale five years ago. Short and stocky, thinning blond hair, very bright blue eyes. The difference is that Cliff's very much in touch with his intuitive side. That is what sets him apart from all the rest of the men I've met so far.

We met for coffee and talked for two hours. I found myself telling him things I don't even tell my friends. He has a very open and honest face, and a quiet manner that just make you feel secure and comfortable. We talked about personal philosophies, politics, the war in Iraq, and sex, of course.

The next time we met, we had dinner at his hotel room and, again, talked. This time, we realized that we shared the same principles, viewed ourselves in practically the same light, lived life as one adventure after the next. We thought alike; yet, not so alike as to be boring. At one point, I was getting worried that his intuitive nature would be a problem, sexually. I was worried needlessly.

He didn't make the first move; I did. Another surprising thing. All throughout the evening, I had moved from the couch, to the dining table, to the bed. Still, he didn't make any initiatory moves. It was when we reached that moment of being all talked out that I moved into his arms and kissed him deeply.

That was all he needed.

His cock was not as big as that of some of the guys I've had, but what Cliff lacked in size, he made up for in passion. There was a lot of kissing and petting and hugging. And this is not to say that he didn't feel good inside me; he did. He was hard and hot and just right. The first time I took his cock in my hand and rubbed the head on my clit, he just moaned in pleasure.

That first round, I didn't squirt. Just a lot of cream and small orgasms. The second round, I got that familiar tingling in my clit and stopped Cliff from fucking me. I got him to just stay on his hands and knees above me, took his cock and rubbed the head on my clit. That did it. I squirted. He was so amazed and turned on that he pushed his cock in while I was still squirting cum, and fucked me long and hard. I thought he wasn't ever going to stop but he finally pulled out his cock and came on my tummy.

Tired out, we laid back on the bed, too exhausted to even talk. After a while, we had some wine, talked a bit more. I was relieved. I thought that all this stupid depression was getting in the way of my reaching explosive orgasms; apparently not. We were at it for forty minutes.

Saturday morning, I saw Cliff again and, after an hour of sharing life stories and realizations, he took me in his arms and started kissing me all over. The next forty-minute round. This time, my clit didn't need any more stimulating.

Cliff was fucking me doggie-style. When I felt that tingling start, I pulled away and, while on my knees, rubbed my clit and squirted cum on the sheets. Cliff gently pushed me back down and fucked me till he came on my tummy. But this time, while he was squeezing the cum from his cock, I rubbed my clit again and squirted so much more than the first time. He loved it. What's more, I was in awe of myself. This was one time that I was control of things. I controlled the way I was pleasured; how and when I was going to cum; when I was going to leave. Ironically, it was Cliff who made it happen, as he allowed me to be in control.

I don't think it was because he didn't know what had to be done. He knew that I needed to be in control to gain a complete sense of self. He recognized this need in me. But he needed to remind me of his importance in the whole thing, and he reminded me very gently. At one point, he told me to look at him as I sat on him, riding his cock, enjoying the sensation of tightening my pussy muscles around his cock. He took my face in his hands and held it, and we fucked face to face.

What made it so sexy? The intelligence, the openness, the warmth, the sharing. We shared on so many levels, professional, personal, sexual, spiritual. I was all talked out and all fucked out. Sex is, truly, not physical; it is more an intellectual act than anything else.

Yes, we have to stick to the rules in this game; otherwise, we get in too deeply and come up with illogical expectations. The rules of this game ensure that parameters are set and respected, and that emotions don't get in the way of pleasure. Take it or leave it; that's the game The Inner Slut plays.

Tom knows the rules as well. Just because I "dumped" him for Cliff doesn't mean that he's sulking all alone in his hotel room. Far from it. He has two or three other women trooping up to that room for the duration of his stay here. Let's not lose sight of the fact that he plays the game, too. The paradigm is, indeed, different. I didn't create this paradigm; I entered it. I chose it, and entered it. If you're looking at the game from an entirely different paradigm, you're bound to misinterpret things.

The Inner Slut wants to be feted and waited on hand and foot, and doesn't want to be bothered by a conscience that keeps reminding her that the guy's money is better off supporting his business. When it became apparent that Tom couldn't even afford to buy me breakfast at his hotel the morning after, I had to end it because it was pitiful. I could feel The Inner Slut cringing, deeper and deeper inside.

How's this: we sit at the breakfast table, with me nursing a cup of coffee. He asks me if I wanted anything from the buffet and I decline. So he goes to the buffet and eats a breakfast fit for four, perhaps to tide him over till dinner time as it was already ten in the morning, anyway. I sat there, feeling sorry for this guy. Reality hits. It's not working anymore. I'm in it for the fantasy, and reality bites me in the ass? Game over, folks. Time to go.

Yesterday morning, I said goodbye to Tom; that evening, I said hello to Cliff.

I've become so involved with Tom that I lost sight of what I was looking for and focused on his own particular needs. Meeting Cliff for the first time last night reminded me that this is all about me; that I wasn't looking to get too involved; that I wasn't going to entertain men who were "on a budget."

Becoming involved in Tom's business wasn't a good idea. For one thing, I'm no marketing person as I have no patience. For another, I got involved for all the wrong reasons: looking for someone who would focus on me, make me feel good, etc.. As I was feeling depressed about the whole thing already, and not feeling especially special with him, we said our goodbyes.

The sex was getting boring, too. He just wanted to have his ass played with. I spent Saturday evening with him, meeting him after the family dinner. He just fucked me hard and deep, which was good, but there was no effort at foreplay for my sake. The sex was all about him, not me.

We did a 69 on the bed, him sucking on and playing with my clit and finger-fuckihg me, which felt good, and me, playing with his asshole with the finger sleeves. I loved watching my fingers disappear up his asshole and how he moaned and groaned with pleasure at this, though, but after that, I felt so empty and hanging. I was waiting for something that I was never going to get from Tom, unconditional and undivided attention.

Another lesson learned, then. Tom, in his 50s, struggling to recoup his business losses due to 9/11, living on credit, staying at some budget businessman's hotel. How I could have gone on with this is an embarrassment. I don't like having to go hungry because I know the guy I'm with can't afford this game at all. I don't like being chaperoned by my conscience on a date.

I don't regret having met Tom, though, nor spending time with him. He's taught me a lot about many things, including myself. I shall remember him with fondness but I don't expect to hear from him again.

Cliff, on the other hand, another American management consultant for another local telecom company, is staying at this very posh, very 5-star hotel -- nearer to me. He has a very open face and looks and sounds very intelligent, but very unassuming. He has the same hands as my Dale so I'm hoping he has the same good-sized dick.

I'm meeting my Dale tomorrow. I've missed him so much.

I know that social and political topics are relegated to my other, dry and boring blog, but The Inner Slut and I believe that Randy David's article on the recently concluded US elections is a must-read for the intelligent life on this planet. I've reproduced the article in my other blog but, in any case, you can access the article here.