God, I worked that piece. In-out-in-out. Innnnnn. Oooooout. Jesus Christ!
I dripped lube, Ocean Sensuals, onto my clit with my free hand. Just a few drops were required, I was already dripping wet. I touched my pleasure button as lightly as I could, swirling my finger around it--teasing myself--and contrasting the thrust of the rigid glass with my finger’s feather-soft touch. I felt a sensation inside of me that I'd never quite felt before.
Hard-soft.
Fast-slow.
Breath-exhale.
The contrasting sensations drove my pussy nuts.
I held my breath at one point until I realized I was getting dizzy. I squeezed myself around the glass like a clam shell shutting tight and then pulled the brightly colored toy slowly out of my clenched snatch...then I pushed it in as far as I could take it, gasping and moaning. I repeated the motion and gasped again, Holy Christ, the rise to climax was taking me to another place.
I wanted to caress my nipples and grab my ass, but I only had two hands. The thrill of multiple partners flashed through my mind, no wonder that's such a power fantasy, I wanted everything sexy on my body touched simultaneously. I approached the edge of the cliff.
The glass had knobby thingies. I clinched it in place, freeing a hand. Nirvana. I worked my nipples, my fingers wet with my own essence. The action on my clit was going to send me over the edge of the world as if I was a ship sailing to the brink of the world. I worked with deeper pressure, and a fast, vibrating stroke.
"Oh, God. Oh, Shit. Fuck me, Kirk! I want your cock," I shouted towards the ceiling above my bed.
I let out a long moan and a gasp, imagining Kirk inside me, his cock, his hands, his scent. For a moment we were together in my mind, my climax short circuiting reality and sending me into an out of body experience.
I laid there. Breathing heavy, my body still, I caught up with my need for oxygen and opened my eyes. Inside me, the glass felt like a motionless, but hard and willing cock. I squeezed gently.
The glass slipped out of me, and that started up my motor again like I'd pulled the rope starter on a chain saw. I flipped over onto my stomach, and then pulled up onto my knees, ass in the air, and I squished my tits into the sheets, my dark tips responding to the soft friction of Egyptian linen. I worked the dildo with both hands, using the tips of my fingers to tease my swollen clit. I squeezed my love muscles together, tightly, bearing down, and I could feel the muscles in my stomach tighten, and the muscles in my thighs burn. I was approaching another wave; it's crest promising to be bigger, stronger, and higher. I rammed that fantasy dick into my pussy.
Come you bitch! Come, come, come, come, come, come!
Harder, harder, deeper. I panted again, like a jungle cat fucking its mate: primal, visceral, animalistic. I could sense the sex in the room, the sweat, the sweet aroma, the heat lifting off me. I invited Kirk, again, into my mind. Come with me, I summoned. I imagined him in the room, watching me. I'd performed for him, a goddess of lust and passion, once before, and the idea of a man looking at me--while I fucked myself--had never been so goddamn insanely hot.
I moaned, "Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me!" And I came with a thunderous roar of pleasure as I shouted.
I owned it, created it, and bathed in it.
The world was right when I finally slid into the warm water and bubbles in the bath I'd drawn before getting deliciously side-tracked. The water surrounded me like a nest. The candles flickered. I shut my eyes and entered a primordial state of bliss.
Sometimes the best love is what you give yourself.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Poker is a lot like sex. Everyone thinks they are the best, but most don't have a clue what they are doing.
~ Dutch Boyd
It's not that poker players are degenerate fucks. It's that poker attracts degenerate fucks.
~ Jessica
POKER PLAYERS AND VAMPIRES have a lot in common.
My Uncle Harry Potter wasn't a wizard. He was, however, one of the best poker coaches available in Los Angeles. When I was still in my teens, he took me to Las Vegas a few times, when he was still doing traveling classes and seminars. I'd help him set up his tables and books; then I'd sit quietly and absorb his lessons.
When I was seventeen, Uncle Harry got me a fake ID. No, I'm not recommending this, but if you dress up, and you're confident, and especially if you sit at the higher stakes tables, you can usually gamble in Vegas without harassment. I was there for poker.
My first big tournament in Vegas, when I was just eighteen, cost three hundred dollars to enter. Uncle Harry paid and spent a few hours coaching me about how to play off on my youthful good looks.
"Flirt like a whore," he'd said.
"What's a whore flirt like?"
"Use your imagination."
The tactic worked. If I knew I had the winning hand--the nuts--or at least the most likely winning hand (when only a rare monster would beat me), I'd flirt like crazy with whatever guy was still in the hand with me.
A couple of times I got lucky and flirted with two such guys.
Curiosity is a bitch.
If you can tease and flirt with a lonely guy, he'll often make little sacrifices to keep you engaged. So the trick in a poker game, like in life, is to get a guy to forget about anything except your eyes, breasts, face, hair, smile, and make him think, even if only subconsciously, that he has a chance to fuck you.
Sure, it was a bit creepy, I was barely out of high school and flirting with old men (even a thirty-year-old man was an old guy to me then). But hell, I looked and felt twenty-one, and it was fucking Vegas, after all.
If you ever want to feel like a new and different person: spend a little time finding a fuck-buddy from somewhere far away from where you live. Meet them in Vegas. Take a stack of cash. Play games, attend shows, eat like a Roman Emperor. Fuck like you're gonna die soon. It's all pretend, but in small doses, it works like any good anti-depressant.
All I needed to accomplish with my flirting act was a few extra bets here and there. If I could get a couple of bad calls by guys that wanted attention, I'd have an advantage.
I made it almost to the bubble in that first tourney I played. The bubble in a tournament is the point where the last guy to get knocked out before players are 'in the money' and getting part of the prize pool. Nobody wants to be the bubble-boy. Or girl. It's like being on the cusp of orgasm when all-of-a-sudden a phone chirps and the call is an emergency you can't ignore.
UNCLE HARRY greeted me at the door of his studio with a hug and a peck on the cheek.
Dave "Dirty D" Carlson was gathering up his notes.
"Fuck you, Dave," I said.
"Yeah, fuck you back. Loser."
"Asshole."
"Lying, slow rolling, bitch."
"Card bender."
He laughed deeply from the belly, walked to me--his notes in hand--and smiled.
"See you at the tables, dead money." I winked at him. Dead money is a term for a player that has no chance of winning. Their money is considered dead. These are the hobbyists and wannabe circuit players that float the industry. Without them, poker would consist of good players exchanging money while the house bled them to death with the rake.
"Anytime, weak sauce," he said as he left.
Dave has been a good friend of my uncle for many years, so we've played each other countless times in small, friendly-type home games. These games are fun and don't have a casino rake, but we all end up knowing each other, and there is little (or no) dead money. Occasionally someone will bring a friend, and we'll all bleed him like a stuck pig. But that doesn't happen often, and maybe it's not very nice.
My uncle and I sat at his home poker table, and he shuffled the cards.
"What's the lesson today?" I asked.
"Button play."
I blushed.
He looked at me strangely, and I blushed again.
"Are you here to learn or do you need a moment?"
Uncle Harry's Life & Poker Tips
Always know your stack.
Know your financial situation.
Even if it's bad. Especially if it's bad.
Know the pot (what's at stake).
Don't bluff weak players.
Weak, inexperienced players, will call your bluffs. The expectation of winning is low.
Run bluffs on good to expert players, but only when you've told a convincing story.
Good bluffs, like good novels, are convincing lies.
Relationship advice: Don't lie. If you must, do so convincingly (undetectable ones are best).
Never show fear. Unless you're doing it on purpose (acting).
If you're seen as a weak, scared player, you'll get free looks at the flop far less often.
You'll get raised and put to the test more often.
Establish yourself as dominate (or at least an equal) at the table and in relationships.
In dark alleys, foreign countries, and when dealing with cops: Keep your head up.
Know the game.
Read books. Study.
Relationships are also something you can study: read psychology.
Don't have any brothers? Befriend an older guy friend/relative (who will keep his dick zipped).
Understand probability: How likely is it that he's a player or a potential boyfriend? Invest wisely.
Know yourself.
Some people shouldn't play No Limit Poker. There are other games.
Some women shouldn't date anyone until they've had four years of therapy.
He's not your dad.
You're not his mother.
Sometimes, you're going to lose.
Everyone, even champions, suffer losses.
Losing can be beneficial. It can also kill you. Understand Darwin.
Make losing count. Become a better player. Poker or fucking: they're nearly the same thing.
Bitterness will destroy you. Let him, or her, go if it's over. Don't rewind bad beats over-and-over.
Sometimes, you're going to win.
Winning can ruin you faster than losing can.
Always have an exit.
Enjoy the victories in life. Like any orgasm, it could be your last.
Avoid arrogance. One: It's unattractive. Two: Your opponents will use it against you.
Take care of your body and mind.
Decent people don't want to fuck skanky whores. Don't be one.
Poker, sex, and first dinner dates are mentally and emotionally draining. Be Prepared.
Sleep, eating well, and exercise are not overrated. Avoid them at your detriment.
Kegels are for real.
AFTER TWO HOURS OF INTENSE PRACTICE, I headed home. You might not think poker exercises are hard work, and admittedly it's not the same as running full court drills at the gym, but they are taxing.
Uncle Harry pushes me hard.
Tonight's lesson was all about aggression on the button.
Something that works at the poker table and in the bedroom.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power.
~ Oscar Wilde
Never have sex with a man you know is a puppy dog, unless you want him following you around, whining at you, and peeing on the floor. Of course, if you're into that kind of thing, knock yourself out.
~ Jessica
I SLEPT IN ON SUNDAY MORNING.
Kirk had sent me another engaging email, and I needed to get back to him. He was a romantic, and he liked to write. I like both of those things.
I also had about six hundred messages in my collective online dating accounts. Luckily, I could eliminate the vast majority of these as fast as mucking 7-2 offsuit (the worst starting hand in Texas Hold 'em).
Here's a list:
Ugly (or a bad picture -- which means no common sense).
Can't spell (I'm not a grammar Nazi: but writing sometime like: 'there going their' is a deal breaker for me).
Not attractive (to me, someone will love the guy, I'm sure).
Ex-wives, a brood of children, unemployed, working to find himself, and many other personal pet peeves about people made eliminating people easy. However, I couldn't eliminate everyone, or I might as well pack up my bags and move to Hartford. Not that Kirk and I were serious, but I knew we could be.
I was exchanging messages with a dozen men, some were more intense than others, but as long as they hadn't tripped a 'no deal wire,' I was willing to remain in communication.
I love to play the hot sexy slut, but only with a man I trust. So one of my rules is this: if a guy sends me a dick pic, a description of how he's going to fuck me, or anything explicit before we've met and have actually fucked like normal people, I instantly block him and move on.
Life is too short.
If I want a dick pic or some Skype sex chatting, I'm sure Kirk would be up for it. Maybe I should ask?
In the meantime I had the following four guys on my radar:
Peter Gray. A doctor who lives in Los Angeles and works in a highly lucrative specialty, especially in this town: cosmetic surgery. I wasn't a big fan of fake tits (mine are real), but I'm all for being completely supportive of women that want (or need -- or think they need) something extra.
So, like in all things, no judgments.
Peter was similar looking to the hottie waiter I'd flirted with in Brentwood: although I'm reasonably sure he was as straight as an arrow. But you never know for sure, do you? I usually use the term African American, wanting to be respectful, but Peter told me he preferred black. 'You call yourself white, don't you?' he'd written to me. Yes, I do.
I'm trying to broaden my horizons here.
Pablo Sanchez is a Mercedes mechanic in San Diego. These guys can make good money, I checked. Not that I'm all about the cash, but I like a man that is dedicated and hard working at whatever it is he does. I was a little unsure about Pablo, not that being a mechanic is anything bad, but I wasn't sure what we'd have in common or talk about. I typically date professional men. But it turns out he's an intellectual and has reading interests similar to mine, so I figure: what's the harm in meeting for a drink? There's a tribal casino close by, so I can write off my travel expenses and look to fleece some Charger fans (who are born losers).
Next guy is a businessman (a store owner, although he hasn't told me the name of the place -- I get internet privacy concerns -- so it's not an issue for now). His name is Anthony Burton, his father is English, and his mother is Italian, and I can tell you this: it's a goddamn sexy mix. Imagine a Jude Law and Al Pacino combination.
I'm also a bit intrigued by a journalist, Barry Campbell. He's a tall red head. I think he's Irish, but we haven't talked about that. What we have discussed is the horribly exploitative nature of American journalism. He seems like an idealist and a decent, honest guy. Well, we'll see, won't we?
I almost need to hire a girl Friday to help me with all this.
Don't be judgmental.
Tim Ferris, the internationally known best-selling writer, investor, lifestyle design expert, and blogging juggernaut, once outsourced (and offshored) his dating.
I'm not making this up.
He hired online teams (through a company called eLance) to create online profiles on dating sites and screen women for him. Their task was to pick the best-qualified chicks and set up short coffee dates.
Tim could then meet twenty hotties in a day, choose the creme de la creme, and go then go on a real date with the winners. Or losers, as the case maybe. The guy might not be the best boyfriend as he's practically running a marathon seven days a week. Although, hell, I'm not opposed to a coffee date. Anyone have his number?
I'm kidding.
If a man can do this kind of thing, and be considered a genius, why not me?
I'm doing my own screening, however, so don't bother asking me for the job.
I'm a hands on girl.
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GLEN BURNS emailed me. (Guys, don't do this).
If I were interested, you'd know. Honestly, I'm not exactly shy.
Even the shyest chick will send you a sign. A green light. Signals.
What are you up to?
How are you?
Netflix and chill?
Something. If she says she's not interested, take her at her word. If she's lying about that, well, do you really want to be with someone with those kinds of manipulation issues in the first place?
My policy: Nice (at first) but firm.
I emailed him.
Glen,
You're a nice person. I enjoyed meeting you. However, as I told you, I'm not interested in seeking a relationship with you. Please respect that.
Sincerely,
Jessica
If this type of message is ignored: block and under no circumstances do you ever engaged once you’ve blocked someone. Period. I wish I could deal with my sister with the same black and whiteness, but with family, especially when innocent children (whom I love dearly) are involved, it gets a lot messier.
I had to be at my sister's place in two (or three) hours, so I went looking for Olive's leash. I needed a quick walk and some puppy time to get myself psyched up for dealing with whatever family drama was going to be stuck to me like dog shit on brand new Reeboks.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
People are never so completely and enthusiastically evil as when they act out of religious conviction.
Fifty-Two Pickup: Aces (Jessica Rogers Book 1) Page 9
