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Every day, I’m baffled by how Manhattan shrinks and expands itself. This morning, I was one insignificant body in a sea of corporate commuters, stuffed into a subway car with backpacks and briefcases and heavily cologned men. Now it was 10:15 p.m. on a Friday, and I’d managed to run into an ex. I had no plans but it was Friday and I needed some, so I decided to partake in my favorite no-plans weekend activity: reading at a bar. I chose a new bar this time — a tiny, dimly-lit one in the East Village, with leather-cushioned barstools and extraordinarily poor airflow. Somehow, Logan chose this bar too.
Let me tell you about Logan: we dated briefly a year ago, after meeting at a Mexican food truck. He was behind me in line and offered to pay for my buffalo cauliflower tacos; I was very grateful. Even the food trucks in New York are ridiculously overpriced — especially the ones that sell buffalo cauliflower tacos. So I gave him my number and we went from there. He wasn’t my usual type: I tend to prefer disheveled, artsy, dark-haired men who look like they shower approximately once a week. Logan looked very clean, and blond, and worked at a crypto startup that I made him promise to tell me nothing about. I refuse to have conversations about cryptocurrency.
We had lunch together a week later, and I decided to fuck him that same day for two reasons: it was clear our values were radically different and would make a real, long-term relationship impossible; and I found myself hopelessly attracted to him. Yes, he was conservative and actively hated children and planned to accumulate as much money as possible — but he was so funny. And self-assured. And had these broad shoulders, thick arms, expressive eyes. I wanted to see him naked, so I did: we went back to his 19th-floor luxury studio and sealed the deal on his kitchen counter.
Then, we began one of those situationships, where neither of us wanted to commit but both of us enjoyed the other’s company — and body — immensely. I’d learned through much trial and error that it’s very important not to let situationships last longer than two months. So after one-and-a-half, I sat him down at a cafe and explained that I needed to move on; he was very understanding about it; and I never saw him again. Until 10:15 p.m. on a Friday.
Logan was on a date. Probably a first date: I could tell that he was in full performance mode, gesticulating with vigor as he told his first-date stories. He hadn’t spotted me yet, so I basked in my temporary anonymity and observed. The girl didn’t seem charmed by his funny anecdotes the way I used to be. She was doing a lot of nodding, a lot of tight smiling, not much laughing. I saw Logan reach out a few times to touch her arm — dutifully initiating that first-date physical contact — and she seemed to shrink away from him. Can’t win them all, Logan.
Then he noticed me. We locked eyes for a moment; I saw the flash of recognition in his gaze and he waved at me, smiling widely. I waved back. I didn’t think he’d come over right away and abandon his date, but that’s exactly what he did. He gave her some brief explanation — “That’s my cousin / coworker / strictly platonic friend,” I imagine — and made his way to me. I found myself pleased to see him.
“Hey, I think I know you,” he said, pulling out the barstool next to me and planting himself down. “You’re that funny blonde girl I dated for a minute.”
I laughed. “And you’re that trust fund boy I dumped at a coffee shop.” He didn’t mind being teased for his trust fund; I think he was a little pornolar proud of it. Plus, he had an unshakable self-confidence that made all types of mildly insulting jokes fair game. Including references to me dumping him. I hope.
Logan grinned at me, leaning forward. “I’ve been thinking about you, actually. I was on a date the other day at the MoMA and neither one of us could think of one smart thing to say. And I thought, huh. This date would be so much better with Calla. She loves this shit.” I did; one of my most pretentious qualities.
“Aw. You’ve missed me. Were you with the same girl?” I motioned to his date at the other end of the bar, who was scrolling away on her phone. Swiping away, rather; I saw the unmistakable pink flame logo, the rightward sweep of a thumb.
“Nah, it was a first-date-then-ghost type of situation. As is this one. Fucking boring.” I felt a twinge of guilt about my participation in the shit-talking of a woman sitting 20 feet away, whose date I was currently making intense eye contact with.
I broke the eye contact, looked down at my hands. “I think you should go back over there, Logan. You’re on a date. Even if it is fucking boring.”
Instead, he put his hand on my thigh. I looked at him again — he was giving me those eyes. The ones he’d give before grabbing my ass and sticking his tongue down my throat.
I shook my head at him. “Disrespectful,” I murmured, but we both knew I didn’t mean it. That’s how it was with Logan: he gave me permission to be a shittier, more impulsive person, and it turned me on. The temporary immorality was a rush — and, for that reason, I could never pass the two-month relationship threshold with him. No, I’d go back to being good.
I cleared my throat. “I’m serious, you need to go talk to — ” I looked over at the table where his date was sitting and realized she was gone, along with her coat and purse. Jesus. I hadn’t even noticed her leave, but she must have walked right by us. My shittiness was growing exponentially by the minute.
Logan looked over at the empty table and raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s convenient,” he said, and then he was snaking his hand behind my head, and then he was kissing me. I couldn’t help it: his lips were so soft and met mine with such hunger that I let a moan escape my throat. Public place Calla, my God. He reached down and pulled my barstool closer to his, then put a hand on my lower back — tantalizingly low. I pulled away, searched his gaze for what was to come, and found it: I was going to fuck him.
I stood up, tucking my book in my purse. “Here’s the plan, Logan. I’m going to pay for my drink. Then I’m going home with you,” I said, all nonchalant. Maybe the tone would mask the wild, rapid heartbeat, the horny desperation in my eyes.
Logan laughed, then stood up next to me. “No, I’m going to pay for your drink. And then you’re coming home with me.” He walked off to the bartender, wallet in hand, and I giggled to myself.
And that’s how I found myself back at his luxury apartment, marveling at his giant marble bathroom and its incredibly high-tech bidet. You could wash all angles of your ass with that thing. I freshened up a little — water under the arms, between the legs, the usual routine — then stared at myself in the wall-to-wall mirror. “This is a mistake,” I whispered to my reflection. She didn’t seem to care.
I rejoined Logan in the living room, stretching out on his L-shaped sofa. He put his arm around me, kissing me long and slow until I was fully engulfed xhamster in some kind of lustful stupor. He pulled away, walking over to the balcony’s sliding door. “Wanna come out?” he called, stepping outside. “We can smoke if you want.” I’d forgotten this about Logan: he got bored easily. Liked to spontaneously switch locations, and friends, and hobbies — women too, I imagined.
I met him on the balcony; we stood, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, gazing out at Manhattan’s jagged skyline. I attempted to engage in some small talk. “So how’ve you been for the past year?”
He smiled. “I’ve been alright. Working, running, traveling. Making a shit-ton of money, then spending it. The usual.” I nodded along — sounded like Logan. “Although my sex life has been much worse.”
I looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah. I haven’t been inside you all year. It’s been torture.” He had a note of sarcasm in his voice, of course, but there was some real conviction there. And it fucking got me; I felt the throb of desire, the flood of moisture below.
Small talk over. I held his gaze, giving him my roundest, sluttiest eyes. “Today’s your lucky day,” I murmured. “I’m not leaving here without feeling you inside me.”
He shook his head slowly. “Shut the fuck up Calla, or I’ll start fucking you right here on this balcony.”
I grinned. Then, without breaking eye contact, I reached down, massaging his boner over his clothes. I unbuttoned, unzipped, slid his pants down. Then the briefs, exposing his thick, rock-hard cock. I stood, facing him. “Tell me what you want me to do,” I said, stroking him slowly as I spoke.
He groaned, then brought a hand up and wrapped it around my throat. “Get on your knees and suck my cock,” he said in a low voice.
“Uh-uh.” I loved responding to his sexual commands with bratty disobedience. “Say please.”
Logan brought his face closer to mine; I felt him pulsing under my hand. “Suck my fucking cock,” he whispered. “Now.”
I did what I was told; I wanted to, so badly. Kneeling down, I took just the tip in my mouth, swirling my tongue around the perimeter. I gripped the base of his cock with one hand as I worked, using the other to lightly touch his balls. We locked eyes, and I licked him slowly from top to bottom, tongue flat. Then again. Then I took all of him in my mouth, and he tossed his head back with a groan. I moved back, forth, out, at a languid pace; he swore under his breath. I was addicted to the power of this very moment. I had him, completely.
I began to move faster and Logan helped me along, gently pushing my head back and forth on his cock. His groans increased in frequency and I could tell he was close — my cue to stop. He couldn’t come just yet.
I got to my feet, running my fingers along his toned chest, his biceps, his upper back. “Let’s go inside so we can fuck properly,” I said, with an evil little smile.
“Great idea,” he said, then picked me up in one swift motion. I wrapped my legs around him, feeling his hard cock — still soaked from all my diligent work — pressed against my crotch. Logan carried me inside, murmuring filthy things in my ear as we approached the bedroom: “I’m going to fuck you until you scream. And fill you up. And watch my cum drip out of your tight pussy.” Et cetera.
He threw open the bedroom door and slammed me down on his silky duvet. God, I loved being manhandled by him. I started to sit up but he pressed me back down and, grabbing my legs with both hands, pulled me close to the edge japon porno of the bed. He undressed me hungrily, almost ripping my linen pants as he slid them off, until just my underwear remained.
Now it was Logan’s turn to kneel. He got down, pressing his mouth to my panties and inhaling. Pervert. Hooking one finger under the lacy fabric, he slid them down my legs, then tossed them to the side.
I needed his fingers on my clit, curled inside me, plunging in and out, immediately. And he knew it. And he gave me what I needed, brushing my clit gently at first, then hooking two fingers deep inside. His tongue explored my folds as he finger-fucked me; I squirmed helplessly under him, erupting against his hand. The pace was slow, for now: two curled fingers in, then out, then his tongue tracing lazy circles around my clit. He took his time, and it sent waves of shivering, animal anticipation through my body.
“Logan,” I gasped, trying my best to find words through the haze of desire. “Faster. Please.” He looked up at me, eyes blackened by wide, hungry pupils. I looked back. He picked up the pace, plunging fingers in and out with frenzied determination. I punctuated each thrust with a throaty moan. God, I missed him.
“You’re so wet,” he breathed, spreading my moisture up and around my glistening lips.
“That’s because I want to fuck you,” I said, flashing him a slutty little grin. “I can’t help it.”
He liked that. In a second, he was on top of me, drawing my hands up above my head and holding them there. “You want me to fuck you?” he murmured, lips against my ear.
“Mm hm,” I whimpered. “Now.”
Logan sprung up, grabbing a condom from the bedside table; I watched him wrap himself in it, almost giddy with anticipation. He reached an arm around my waist and tossed me onto my stomach. “On your hands and knees,” he said, almost a growl.
“Yes sir.” I eagerly complied. He brought his cock up against my hole, flicking my clit with one finger as a warm-up. Not that I needed it; safe to say that I was sufficiently warmed. Then, the moment I’d been craving: I felt him, all of him, slide inside me.
Fuck. He held himself still for a moment as we felt each other, groaning in unison at the relief. Then, he began to move, hands firmly planted on my hips, rocking me back and forth to the rhythm. “Keep touching me,” I breathed, and he brought a hand back to my clit. I missed that about fucking Logan: he welcomed, and enthusiastically followed, my guidance.
He matched each stroke with a two-fingered caress, threatening to reduce me to a wet, quivering mess. All I could do was moan, grind my ass against him, show him exactly how much I loved this.
The intensity grew. Logan’s groans were guttural now, his pace frenetic, and he began teasing the outer edges of my asshole. He remembered my weakness, clearly; I felt my eyes roll back as he lightly brought a finger inside. The finale was rapidly approaching: I felt ablaze with pleasure from head to toe, utterly taken by this man, his thrusting cock, his adept fingers pressing slyly into my ass.
The shuddery, seismic wave grew until it overtook me completely. I cried out, then released, my body convulsing with the aftershocks. “Oh fuck,” Logan moaned, “I’m cumming too” — another thing I loved about fucking him. How my orgasms brought him over the edge. Then, he collapsed forward, his heaving breaths in my ear as he emptied himself into me. “I’m cumming,” he said again, a whisper this time.
I slept over that night, a first in our relationship. In the morning, I slipped out early; better to get out quick and avoid the temptation of a wakeup fuck. On my way to the door, I turned to look at him — face down, arms outstretched, naked, completely irresistible — and I knew. I’d submit to the temptation again.
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