by Romi Hart
“Ummm…yeah this is me,” I say reluctantly.
“Rey! I’ve been waiting for your call.”
Lyndia pulls my hard cock out of my pants and quietly hums.
“Right…yeah…well, here I am."
She looks up at me while she begins to tongue my red cockhead. Oh God, I'm so hard…her soft tongue and wet steamy mouth are giving me no choice but to grow inside her mouth. Within seconds I am throbbing hard…
“So, let’s talk numbers. Are you willing to Lake Tahoe this summer?”
“Ummm…well…”
Lyndia sucks my cock greedily, without mercy. Like she doesn’t give a fuck about numbers or even my career. She sucks me like I’m a piece of meat. Objectifying my hot male body and treating me like a sex toy for her own amusement.
She even smacks my ass from behind while holding onto my cock through my pants.
“Ohhhh…” I grunt by accident.
“What? You don’t like it?”
“I…I definitely like it.”
“Good! There’s more where that came from.”
Just as I repeat, “There’s more?” Lyndia starts increasing the pressure of her blowjob. She opens her mouth wide and takes half my shaft down her throat.
“OHH God!”
“What?”
“Ohhh…” I respond, the room spinning as Lyndia deep throats my cock up to six inches, daring me to cum right into her mouth. “That sounds good, let’s do that.”
“Are you eating or something?”
“Yeah, we're eating something…"
“Who’s we?” Peters says gruffly. “Is there a mouse in your pocket or something?”
More like a woman’s mouth in my pants! Lyndia is determined to swallow my entire throbbing penis. She glares up at me like a mad woman. Like nothing else matters except my almighty cum shot.
Her wicked eyes taunt me as she swallows more of my shaft, reaching far back into her throat.
Jesus Christ, is this girl a cocksucker or what? I had no idea she was so…naughty. Perverted. Sick and nasty…a woman after my own heart!
Just as I try to shake off the feeling of a quick cum, Lyndia robs me of everything I got by deep throating me by even more inches. She swallows me down so far I can see my bulge moving around inside her throat like a fucking snake! What the fuck is wrong with her? Ohh sweet Jesus what a kinky slut. I’m definitely outmatched! Who’d have thought there’s a girl out there nastier than me?!
“Mmmmm” I reply to Peters. “I said…uh…yeah. Put me down for everything.”
My mouth pries open as Lyndia starts gagging on my cock, enjoying the slutty noises it makes when cock hits tonsils. Christ, even Peters probably hears it by now since it’s echoing through the restroom walls.
“Are you sure? Yes to all the scheduled appearances?”
“Uhhh yeah…look Peters, I got to be honest. Like brutally honest…”
“Uh huh?”
“I’m sort of getting a blowjob at the moment.”
“Yeah I figured, Rey. But I just need confirmation of the Lake Tahoe and Las Vegas appearances.”
“Yes! YEEES!” I pant, my balls tightening and my cum boiling over.
“Great, have a happy ending there, pal.”
“UH HUH!”
Just as I hang up the phone, my stomach cascades and my whole body spasms in ecstasy. Cum spurts out of my prick hole and there’s nothing I can do to stop it from flooding Lyndia’s mouth.
Ohhh my God I can’t stop cumming! I grab her hair with one hand and try to balance myself on the stall with the other. I can barely stand because she’s guzzling down my cum like a fucking vacuum!
“Oh Lyndia!” I scream out, loud enough to be heard by any poor soul standing in the same room.
My eyes roll back in my head and I gasp for air as the rest of my ejaculate oozes out and into her mouth. She gargles on it and sucks up every last drop. Her eyes are fiery…unrepentant. Dangerous.
Unlike any other woman I’ve ever seen.
And even now, with my balls emptied, and watching Lyndia discreetly stand up, exit the stall and then the bathroom…
I must say I still have absolutely no idea who this girl is and what she wants from me.
But dammit…I can’t get enough of it!
Lyndia
Sex is an addiction. Every bit as unhealthy as M&Ms and Mountain Dew. Every bit as damaging as alcohol and cocaine. And like really good Mary Jane, it impairs your memory and good judgment.
No one questions the almighty power of good sex, not during the obscenity, nor even in the afterglow. While the oxytocin is being released the world makes sense. Love exists. Life is so meaningful. But when we return back from the rush, we start to see the inconsistencies of the relationship.
Sex is not a coping mechanism. Love, if it exists, is not built on attraction. The relationship sexually fulfills me…I find myself running back into his arms. Even when we take a break, I still crave him. Even if we try to date other people, we find ourselves competitively, unwholesomely interested in each other.
Jealousy, insecurity, mutual trust built on suspicion. This doesn’t seem like a normal relationship. Aren’t normal relationships supposed to be boring? Fathers are supposed to be good workers. Mothers are supposed to be superwomen, capable of maintaining a home and working a fulltime job. We’re none of those things. I’m a self-centered dreamer and he’s a self-indulgent clown. We want each other so badly and yet we’re empty inside. What do we have to give each other besides such pleasant distraction?
My mother has her own problems. She’s dealing with my alcoholic father, trying to find a nursing home that will take them both in. I have too many father issues anyway…I don’t think I can confide in them. They’re probably too wrapped up in their own problems anyway.
But there’s one person I respect more than anyone else. My grandmother, Clara. She’s retired, wealthy and living in Oklahoma. She’s wealthy because she earned it through a lifetime of editorial work for a New York publishing company. She didn’t marry for money, unlike my mother. She worked her ass off for it. That’s the kind of woman I admire, the kind I want to be.
My mother lives alone in a great big house, one that was once so bustling with activity. Family members staying, relatives visiting, neighbors dropping by. But as the years passed, it settled into a quieter place, one of nostalgia and memories.
The furniture seems gloomy and the light minimal. The walls seem alive, with so many stories to tell.
Grandma hands me a steaming hot cup of coffee and welcomes me to sit on the dark blue loveseat. As always, she sits in her rocking chair, calmly evaluating all the people who come into her life, presumably with questions. Funny how she has some of the same facial features as mom, Reagan and I, even though her pretty face is decorated with wrinkles. Years of life lived and without regrets.
“It’s good to hear from you, Lyndia,” she says. “I haven’t seen you since the Christmas party last year.”
“I’m sorry…I’ve been busy working.”
“Still at the bank?”
“Yeah…unfortunately.”
“Why unfortunate? It’s always good to have a job. Something that keeps you active, physically and mentally. It’s good to have stability in life. As you age, you rely on that stability to get through tough times.”
“I know…”
“And you don’t want to end up like your mother. With a man calling the shots just because he has all the money and you depend on him.”
“Yeah, I get that part of it. I just…I guess I'm just sort of in a quarter-life crisis. Not midlife, of course. Just sort of a 25 percent life crises. All the paranoia and regret but without the gloom and pessimism of a 50% midlife crisis.”
"Ah, well, in my opinion, women always get their midlife crisis early,” she says with a cool smile. “We’re advanced intellectually and emotionally more so than men. We spend most of our twenties wondering and much of our thirties rebelling. By the time we’
re forty, we usually find ourselves stuck in a situation…so we have no choice but to go with it.”
“Hmm…I guess that’s what I’m afraid of. I don’t want to end up like mom.”
“You won’t end up like her.”
“Well, I don’t mean…”
“I know what you mean,” she interrupts. “Dependent on that man, that alcoholic goof of a husband. Always taking care of his whiny ass. Chronically miserable. But you’ll never be like her. You have ambition, like me.”
“You really think so?”
“Of course. The fact that you’re conscious of your destiny is proof that you don’t want to just accept whatever happens. You’re a dreamer.”
“I do like having a job. But it’s not what I want to do. I want to help people. I want to give something back to the world. I think of all these rich guys…”
Grandma raises her eyebrows.
“How much they have and what they take for granted. It’s all just conquest for them. And I just keep thinking that’s the opposite of where I want to go.”
“Well, I took most of my attitudes from my mother.”
“Cecillia?”
“Yes, you’ve seen pictures of her. She grew up in the 1920s, the age of suffrage protesters. She protested in Lafayette Park in Washington D.C. She almost got arrested but managed to evade the police. There were so many others there, she got lucky.” Grandma laughs.
“That’s so awesome.”
“And then I marched during the 1960s for Civil Rights. I suppose it’s in our blood, the intolerance our kin has against injustice. And I imagine you have some of it too.”
“I did attend a few Trump protests,” I say with a giggle.
“That’s what counts. There will always be protests and reasons to protest. But protesting is as much about ourselves as the statements we make. What we stand for. How you, Lyndia, are going to spend the rest of your life.”
“I want to bring about real change. Maybe I can’t do it all by myself, but if I can help just one person or a small group of people…well, I’ll have done something productive. That’s what I keep thinking. And the bank job is stable…but it’s not rewarding. Counting numbers, denying loans, creditors…it’s not who I am.”
“Then it’s time reevaluate your priorities. And find a career that’s more compatible with your life goals. You’re young. It’s better you do it now than wait until you’re forty. Like most of us.” She cackles and takes a sip of her own tea.
“You’re right. As always.”
“Speaking of life goals, is there a young man you’re interested in?"
“Ummm well,” I smile…
Suddenly images of rough sex, multiple orgasms, and mind games terrorize me. We never speak of love. We never talk about the future. We’re just there for each other—no, just there to exploit each other. We focus on the feelings and avoid the logic, avoid the heart. That’s how he wants it. That’s why I pursued him.
“No, nothing serious,” I reply in gloom.
“Nobody like your hubby, that’s for sure.”
“Well,” Grandma says reflecting on grand dad’s picture by the coffee table. “Men like Calvin were a product of the 1950s. They were tough. Loyal. Old fashioned, perhaps. But back then they had class, you know. They were protective of their wives. They worked non-stop to build a family. It wouldn’t play very well today, with all the different causes and activist groups. But it our work ethic was something our generation was very proud of.”
I smile as grandma recollects about the distant past. Maybe for once, I’m not smiling out of politeness. More like a deep sense of tragedy. That I haven’t found a love so great, one capable of outliving me. And at the rate I’m going, dating players, avoiding commitment…and looking for diamonds in piles of rock…I was never going to find what she had.
This time it was my idea to meet with Rey, a thought he immediately found provocative, of course. He even had a little bit of a snarky attitude when he learned that I called him and that I wanted a date. He wreaked of overconfidence, almost detesting my face now that I was “falling in love with him.”
He ordered us drinks. He set the scene very nicely. He even ordered me a whiskey coke, since he knows it’s my favorite. I smile politely at him, very amused at his sense of humor, very in awe of his sexuality and his high status. But all too aware that these are the peripherals, just the illusions he projected to the world. And he is the consummate player, on and off the field. Because while he never deceives any woman outright about his intentions, he only lies to himself.
“You’re getting so possessive,” he teases me, but probably deep down feeling ambivalent about my reaching out to him.
“Back in the day, you know,” I reply with a smirk, “Friends used to consider it an honor to meet with other friends.”
“How profound…and true. So what’s on your mind, kid?”
I shrug off my urge to correct him. He always calls me that…because that’s the way he sees me.
“I think I’m done, Rey. With all of this.”
The thought catches him off guard and breaks his shield of confidence and cocky strut.
“Oh…for real?”
“Yes,” I say with a nod. “And I know we both like to get off on the whole, “I hate you but I want you” thing. But this time it’s for real.”
“So you say.”
“Yes…so I say,” I admit. “And I’m sure part of me will reach for that phone later on…and I will find a way to resist doing that. I will learn to resist you. Whatever it takes.”
He seems uncomfortable and shifts in his chair. “Well, can I ask where this is coming from? I know…sometimes I’m full of myself. Sometimes the act, you know, it goes too far.”
“It’s not that, Rey. I’ve enjoyed our…umm…experimenting together. Really. And everything we did, in bed, of course I wanted it. You are very good at what you do!”
“Me too. So why end it now?’
“Because I talked to my grandmother last week. And because she asked me if I was seriously dating anyone.”
“Ohhh,” he says with an affected tone. “Well come on, grandmothers are just like that. They like to think everyone wants to get married, that everyone wants to-”
“I do, Rey. I want to get married. You know, someday.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Not right now. But I want to feel as if the relationship I’m in is progressing somewhere. Because otherwise…it’s just a game, you know? And I don’t want to be playing games all my life. My mother’s shown me that it isn’t the way to happiness.”
I watch as Rey pouts and frowns, eager to argue, as he always does. But for once he seems to accept my thought. I suppose it’s hard to argue the very basic fact that You make me unhappy.
“Look, I’m sorry Lyndia, if I ever made you feel…”
“No, no. Don’t apologize. I just need a change. Not you, me too. I need a change in my own life. My job, my relationships. I don’t respect myself when I’m with you, Rey.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s all about you. And I get that it’s what you’re good at…but that’s not who I am anymore.”
“Well wait a minute, now,” he says, feeling a bit of buyer’s remorse. “Let’s take a step back and just think about this. Maybe we’re both just suffocating from too much, you know, fun and games. Maybe we need a break. But maybe we can still hang out and be friends.”
“I don’t…do friendships very well.”
My statement strikes him in the heart.
“You mean…”
“Yeah, I'm just not…very communicative with people, even my friends. That's my flaw, I guess."
“I understand,” he says, his eyes going back and forth, still trying to figure out a cheat code to save this dying relationship.
“Love and sex are like an addiction, I think. It's like, if your heart isn't in the right place, it's a very destructive addiction. It robs you of everything joyful and blinds you, maki
ng you think the highs are what life is all about. But deep down, I think I'm an old-fashioned type of girl. I want to find something meaningful first. Sex and love will come later…an occasional weekend snack.”
“All right,” he says reluctantly.
“I mean we both knew how this was going to end, right? You’re not getting married. You’re not changing who you are. And it’s not fair of me to try to change you.”
“Lyndia…” he says apologetically. “Wait.”
“No,” I say getting out of the chair, too dangerously close to crying. I can’t let him see me like this. I don’t want him thinking that I’m one of those girls…one of those attached girls addicted to false assumptions and fleeting love. I’m just disappointed in myself… that I’ve been slacking off so long. “I need to go, Rey. Just let me go. Please.”
“Is this what you want?”
“Yes. I want to make a difference in life. I think I really do just want to grow up. And you don’t. And I get it…but my whole drive is to be someone that cares. To do something more with my life and make the world a better place.”
He shakes his head.
“And I know you think that’s all just Miss America bullshit. But to me it’s not.” I stand up and grab my purse.
He stops talking and watches me in regret as I scurry away from him, anxious to save my dignity and escape this unpleasant scene.
“HEY!” he says, his eyes alert, his voice a little strained. He looks emotional…like he might say something we’re both not ready for…something we’re both afraid to admit.
I listen in agony…
“You owe me fifteen dollars for the drink!”
My jaw drops in shock…then I erupt into giggles.
He smiles back at me. “Hey kid, it’s going to be okay. You’re going to find what you’re looking for. I promise.”
I can’t stop laughing. I give him the finger, in a spirit of love, as I walk out the exit. Thank God he left me laughing, rather than crying. He really is a pleaser of women…right down to the final moment.
Rey
Just as fast as a screwball can strike out the best homerun hitter in the game, so too can a great girl like Lyndia rip me out of her life…and never look back.
