I’m close now.
The spasms in my left leg have already started, making it bounce up and down like I’m back in seventh grade and in the middle of a test that I haven’t studied for.
Deep within the calf of my right leg, the muscle fibers begin to knot themselves around like a small monkey reached inside and grabbed a handful, made a fist and twisted.
I throw my head back and I try to flex my right foot and stretch out the cramp in my calf.
My foot inadvertently taps the brake pedal, making the car throw red light from the taillights onto the trees that are 20 or 30 feet behind us.
Another wave hits my body and my ass rises up out of the driver’s seat and then slams back down into it.
The brake lights keep flashing their Morse code message against the tree line.
Causing all of this commotion is Daria who, at the moment, has her head in my lap, my cock in her mouth and one of her hands cupped around my balls.
Her other hand is working me over in concert with her mouth, causing enough over stimulation that my brain actually switches off for a second to the most non-erotic images it can conjure up at a moment’s notice.
Usually it’s baseball or long division.
It’s the same concept as switching over to another television channel when something disturbing comes on the channel you were originally watching. This happens a lot when children or older relatives are in the room when some kind of lurid or violent content comes on. Whomever’s in charge of the remote control at the time is also tasked with switching over to the ‘safe’ channel when something inappropriate comes on and then switching back a few moments later.
Gunfire? Click. Rachael Ray.
Rape? Click. HGTV.
Beheadings? Click. A documentary about ice cream.
It doesn’t eliminate the experience. After all, anyone in the room who is beyond the age of reason knows what’s happening on the other channel, but if they don’t have to actually watch it, they can cope with it. And if they can cope with it, everyone else in the room is more comfortable and not embarrassed on their behalf.
It doesn’t eliminate the experience, it simply de-intensifies it to a point where you can handle it.
My brain does this to me as well when I try and masturbate in the shower or with any kind of lubrication. The sensations become too intense and my brain won’t let my hand to continue and to push myself through that wall on my own.
Blowjob? Click. Game 6 of the 1986 World Series.
I’m pounding on the steering wheel with one hand and my other hand is wrapped up in Daria’s soft, thick, henna-colored hair.
She obviously knows what she’s doing but is very open to suggestion and guidance.
With a fistful of her hair, I set the tempo and the whole encounter becomes less about her performing fellatio on me than me jacking myself off with her head.
She’s not giving head…I’m taking it.
I start to speed things up because time is an issue. Daria is on her lunch break and I have to pick my son up from preschool in a little less than an hour.
I start to give her some encouragement: ‘Good girl…that’s it’, and ask her questions like, ‘You are a nasty fucking girl, aren’t you?’
Things like that sound so ridiculous and stupid that the only place they make any sense is while getting blown in the front seat of a car in the parking lot of a small scenic viewpoint.
These things get said to break up the silence, to make it sound more like a cheap porno flick so it doesn’t get confusing for anyone. The more stupid, hollow and vile it is, the less likely that anyone’s going to get the idea that we like each other; that we’re involved in any kind of relationship here.
Intimacy? Click. Fucking.
These things get said because a response might be just the trigger I need to hit that plateau. That split second when the tiny itch that began in the middle of the shaft has spread throughout my body and it becomes sensation layered on sensation until the instant before release comes and it’s the peak I’ve been pushing for.
It’s too late to turn back and it feels as good as anything is ever going to.
It’s as close to a perfect moment as I can ever hope for. It’s a singularity of thought, body and action. For that one pinpoint of an instant there is absolutely nothing else.
It’s as close to a perfect moment as I’m going to get and I’m almost to it, courtesy of Daria.
Daria, who I met in person for the first time 27 minutes ago.
Twenty seven minutes and she’s already risking arrest, fines, disease, embarrassment and divorce with me in a parking lot.
Twenty seven minutes and she already seems to know which buttons of mine to push and which triggers to pull.
Telling me that having another woman’s man’s cock in her hands and mouth gets her off harder.
“Single men are no good,” she tells me. “they get attached, they have nothing to lose.”
Twenty seven minutes and she’s already told me she does things like this because they’re wrong, because it’s bad. She wants to wallow in it.
Twenty seven minutes and she’s already told me about the 9-inch cock she had in her mouth yesterday and about they guy she’s going to fuck on her way home from work this afternoon.
Twenty seven minutes and she’s already cooed into my ear, “I’m a good little whore,” and the three sexiest words a woman can ever say to a man.
“I won’t tell.”
She tells me these things and I wonder if I’ve got some kind of turn-on checklist strapped to my back and she’s going through it item by item.
She tells me these things and I feel as helpless to my base and selfish instincts as a diabetic junkie in a room full of morphine-infused ice cream.
She tells me these things and it’s as if a series of switches up and down my spine flips from red to green.
Twenty seven minutes and the muscles around my anus and prostate begin to contract. The unscratchable itch had flooded throughout my body. My pituitary gland has started pumping out endorphins and from what feels like somewhere deep inside my hips, blast after blast of semen from my prostate, seminal vesicles and Cowper’s glands blasts into Daria’s throat.
My ass rises out of the seat again, so much so this time that I’m practically standing up inside the car and I let out a yelp with every contraction and with every thrust of Daria’s mouth.
For a moment, I remember learning in anatomy class that Cowper actually plagiarized someone else’s study and took the credit for describing the glands and getting them named after him.
Theft? Click. Random anatomical trivia.
I let her head go and settle back down into the seat. She holds me gently in her mouth as I slowly deflate and she collects and swallows every last drop.
Suddenly, after being so talkative before, I can’t think of anything to say.
Suddenly, after not being able to get her alone in a quiet spot fast enough, I can’t wait to be anywhere but here and far away from her.
She pulls herself back up into her seat and starts reapplying her lipstick using her reflection in the visor mirror as a guide.
She pats me on the leg.
“Button up,” she says. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
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