Ripped 4 U 2  

IdealSmile 40M
39 posts
9/12/2005 10:56 am

Last Read:
3/5/2006 9:27 pm

Ripped 4 U 2

Bushnell’s motorcycle was parked on the rutted drive. I went outside and stood next to it, lit a cigarette. I belched the flavor of green chiles. He appeared. I said “Hey,” my voice dropping an octave. The kind of “Hey” that means “Hello, Cowboy,” or “Hey, Sailor,” that means “You could have me” and “Do me now,” or even, “I’m in season and I need to get laid this instant.” With an uncharacteristic display of decorum, I instead say, “Nice bike.”
“Thanks,” Bushnell replies. “Would you like to go for a ride?” That translates as “You’re on, Mama.” “Let’s go fuck” generally strikes me as the appropriate degree of social investment in males, so I feel relieved. At this point, I actually look at him. Reasonably attractive, although long hair and beards generally don’t do anything for me. At least the turquoise ring is a thunderbird, not a bear fetish or paw-print. At this point, it’s a dick and a motorcycle. I’m there.

And I’m there. We’re there, at the crest of the ridge, looking down at the trees thinking about first leaves, the ones that already have them, scattered houses, some with a barn or outbuilding, water tank for the livestock. I am nothing but hungry creature, and am fine with that, inner thighs nicely warmed up by the machine, familiar hum lingering, sharing a cigarette for the ritual of it. The state is one of the poorest in the union. The tourists are obnoxious, but they buy bad sculpture. The green chiles are abundant. The colors are astounding. There is the consolation of nature. “Oh, is there?” I reply. And we both smile. This is the dance that comforts me, the ritual exchange, the mutual recognition, as reductive as it might be. Something elemental. It defines me. In some way, the only form of contact that I understand. The bemusement at how each one unfolds, the minor variations on the most basic theme. How will this one touch me first? Bushnell goes for the throat: two fingers stray over my carotid and land on a clavicle. The moment of pressure is like hitting an ‘on’ switch. The smell of him makes me alive. So many buttons to touch. I enjoy the mammalian mechanism, the decent, perhaps, past mammalian into reptilian, so it seems like no surprise when he bites me in the first kiss, beard hairs scraping the corner of my mouth, mouth on mine, tearing a strip of dessert-dried skin. It is so good to be wanted in this way, to be touched. A tawdry common place, but so compelling.

I know that I’m thinking too much as I go through with it. Conscience is jettisoned and the id steps in. All systems go. Endocrine system. Check. Nervous system. Check. System system. Check. Things are moving too fast for me to keep track. One hand’s on the back of my neck, my skull. Another hand’s on my left breast, hollow of a palm circling to make the nipple rise. It politely complies, not much effort. Our hips are attached. This leaning against the poured concrete lookout post dry humping seems a bit juvenile, but I’m in no rush to get back. The denim over our flies collide. Look out, post. His hand goes to my waist and races up under the shirt, pulling the bud of my left breast into a nugget. As if by some precisely determined inverse ratio, the hardness there means that my cunt goes soft. “No, not soft,” the part of my mind that can still think registers as I grab Bushnell’s hips, his ass, grinning like a wolf as our mouths grind. “Just liquid. Hot. Concentrated.” I consider pussy juice; concentrated, sold in the freezer section at the grocery store next to plastic packs of freeze-dried jizz and have to count Bushnell’s fillings with my tongue to keep from laughing. The cardboard cylinders would have a stylized 50s kitty on them, curlicue tail and pretty whiskers cartoon cat, very retro, very cute, very not pink lemonade. Wringing out the brine in my shorts could irrigate the Mojave. I wonder if Otto’s banging Daria at this second. I don’t care, or at least feel spiteful as I recall his particularly vapid cum-face, not that anyone looks terribly dignified in that situation. Then I think what the fuck am I thinking dignity and composure for you the adulterer trying to get tapped at look-out point cursing the fact that the Honda parked to your right has two wheels instead of four although the idea of two adults doing it in such cramped quarters seems quite silly but oh well I’ve done worse and take my tongue out of Bushnell’s mouth to gasp “The right one’s jealous” and Bushnell catches on and stops gnawing at my face to dive to my chest and inhales alternate mammaries, flicker-taste, a soft pull, a hard one. My hands release his ass and fly to the railings to steady myself, bucking out my pelvis and growling like a beast. They like that.

Apparently Bushnell likes that, because despite my hands now holding his head to my chest, my face leaning down to lap at his ears and temples in encouragement ­ sometimes I just need to taste skin ­ despite the fact that I’m torn with him playing with my breasts some more and throwing me down on the gravel and fucking me with a prick as big as a saguaro but hopefully not dry or spiny, his face migrates down my abdomen, no subtle little pecks, just a long wet lascivious sliding down my torso. The beard scratches. I reach under his chin to unbutton and unzip my jeans, then gently stroking his hair, tracing the shell of an ear ­ good boy ­ before I stretch back to coil fingers around the railing once more, my vertical lips screaming for his horizontal ones as my hips jut forward. I will howl like a coyote if a park ranger arrives. As Bushnell peels the fabric down and wedges three fingers into the flood, left thumb grazing the bud, taking a breath before he dives down, I am past caring about anything at all. In a moment of corporeal absurdity, I burp, and the surfacing trace of the low-fat free-range turkey fajita that was dinner at La Rincon del Amor also carries an echo of green chiles. The distraction does not last.

The selection of scenic views is happy accident. It occurs with the coincidental conjunction of breath-taking awe-inspiring landscape and some human stumbling by. So many good things are chance. You never know. I know that what I’m doing is wrong but I don’t care. Who am I to decline a host’s generosity? A personal tour of some more memorable locations on the outskirts of Santa Fe? And after all the hard work of some Wobbly-anthem-singing WPA-era construction crew to build it? I try humming “Joe Hill’s Body” through clenched teeth to avoid yowling a barrage of inarticulate appreciation for the devotional lapping between my thighs. Bushnell surfaces for air and his beard is drenched. I take advantage of the pause to pant like a dog and demand, “Now.” Clothes can be so inconvenient, sometimes. I hunker down on the asphalt and take off one sneaker, the left, to remove a pants’ leg, and nip the tip of Bushnell’s nose and hold it for a moment as we’re crouched in front of one another. He stops unbuttoning his fly. This is not good. I release his nose and lick his open mouth. Some of the most pure, living, defining moments are the furthest from intellect. I like being animal. I like being bad. I lick Bushnell’s mouth, again, pull a tuft of beard with my teeth, and then actually kiss him. “Now, “ I say, again, and rise to turn and claim the railing to the left of the post with my waist, smiling big at some far-off mesa, too clichéd in its fade from lavender to tangerine to earthen brown. I bend and present with glee, right leg still encased in my jeans, then concerned that I was too hurried to inspect whatever was about to be inserted in me.

The bulge was promising. If a guy’s too short, backwards isn’t viable, he’ll keep falling out, and if a guy’s too thin, forget it. Not to worry. I draw a sharp breath in and take a side-step to widen, wishing that I had eight arms: one pair to squeeze my breasts, another to reach back and push Bushnell deeper into me, a third set to stray in praise ­ find hair, find arms, find the nape of my own neck, graze his thighs, push my clit down on the sliding shaft, sweetly chuckle his balls ­ and a fourth pair of arms to grab the railing. Just stick a reasonable dick in me and I become every Goddess in the history of human myth. And it is divine. Almost as lovely as the view. Snippets from consciousness arrive like ridiculous telegrams as Bushnell grabs my hips, seeks and repeats. “What a lovely view,” I think, tilting to the right to maintain an angle. (Pound, pound.) “The fifth of May.” (Pound, pound.) “When Otto asks where we went, I’ll have to take the fifth.” (Pound, pound.) “Cinco de Mayo.” (Pound, pound.) “Independence Day!” (Pound, pound.) “Viva la Revolu?ion! Viva la Mexico!” And then a jolt against my cervix and a slow withdrawal that makes me cry out and want to cry. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop. Whatever your name is, stay this moment forever



keithcancook 60M
17865 posts
9/25/2005 7:03 am

Hmm, very interesting IS. You have a fine mastery of the language and an expressive imagination.

Blog On!


rm_koocnachtiek 60M
378 posts
9/25/2005 7:07 am

Jeeze keithcancook, do you pander to everyone nowadays?

I know this dude IS. He hates reading sex stories but never really lets on that he does.

BTW, what kind of motorcycle does Bushnell ride?

Is this just another trick by keithcancook
to get his text on television?


barbiebunny 36F
5597 posts
9/30/2005 7:39 pm

i like it hire em keef quick!

Its good to be...ME


__Huntress__ 55M/58F

10/16/2005 7:26 pm

Fantastic ...

{=}


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