Photograph property of Breath-Takers. Of course.
“While I’m here,” she says to me afterwards burying her ass in my crotch, harboured there while we spoon, “I need for you to fuck me a lot.”
“OK,” I laugh.
“No, listen: I need you to do that because I cannot be falling for you, Callum.”
“Of course.”
“You do understand, right? I can’t afford to fall for you. Too many complications. Even thinking about it gives me a headache.”
Silence.
“So I need you to fuck me a lot. To make sure I don’t. Fall for you.”
“OK.”
“I’m serious.”
I love pussy.
I mean, sure; what straight man doesn’t? But I’m not so much talking about fucking pussy as eating it.
And though I love gettin’ in there, really tongue-fucking a partner, or digitally-fucking her, what I’m talking about is mauing.
Feasting on pussy.
Vulva.
Labia.
Clitoris.
Vagina.
And bush.
It turns out that Mai loves being eaten.
And we know already that she loves being anally adored.
So is it any surprise at all that we spend an inordinately long time locked in cunnilingual/analingual bliss?
“How did you get my number so fast?!?” she cries, slamming her fists on the mattress.
“I care,” I reply, executing more of what’s clearly working.
Lovers vary. Lovers’ needs vary, lovers’ capabilities vary. Sometimes things line up, sometimes they don’t.
Mai and me? We line up. Nicely.
How long did it take me to figure out ‘her number’? What she likes, dislikes, dreads-the-intensity-of-yet-craves-more-then-anything-else?
About ten minutes.
Is that because I’m such a wonderfully instinctive lover? Probably not. I’m just really, really good at observing.
Because I’ve watched her masturbate. Both on film and in-person. That’s sorta like having the answers to exam questions beforehand. (No, masturbation ain’t the same as oral sex. and there’s nothing to replace being told what works and what doesn’t. But there’s no doubt that if you watch how a woman masturbates...with her hands...that you can pick up some clues as to her ‘topographical preferences’.)
And unlike with men, who, while undoubtedly love having a good blow-job extended, still love the crescendo most...and then have to wait a while to have another, if in fact he’d still want another, and not move on to penetrative sex...women aren’t nearly as limited.
Especially Mai.
Not that she’s counting orgasms, of course.
“I love the spaces you leave.”
I have to laugh; what she’s said reminds me of the notion that it’s often the space between words, or the spaces between lines where the magic happens in fiction-writing. But I still play dumb. “Oh...?”
Mai grasps my head, swishing my face around on her pudendum. “It’s not an endless race!” she laughs. “So many guys seem to think that it is.”
“Unlike a blow-job.”
“Whatever!” And with this, Mai lets go, throwing her arms over her head, and allows me to return to my mauing.
She has-
Well, first off, her pussy lips are meaty.
They’re the perfect ‘puff-pastry’ delights.
A delicate collection of wrinkles and folds, a rainbow of colouration...
Then there’s her vaginal entrance. It’s got its own complexities attached to it, all shades of pink, from rubescent to ochre to florals in-between, not to mention how intricate the flesh-carvings are, its shape, the particulars of place.
And her clit.
Oh, how we’ve become super-close friends. Her clitoris, my mouth, my fingers.
