How My Breast Milk Fetish Went Sour

How My Breast Milk Fetsih Went Sour

Even in my earliest memories I can recall being pretty obsessed with breasts. I was a toddler tit connoisseur, able to distinguish between shape, size, firmness and placement far beyond the abilities of my peers. Yet I cannot remember being breastfed, or if that was still going on by the time I had developed my particular must for bust. Shortly before she died I finally came clean to my mother about my ‘lifestyle’ in hopes that she could provide some clue as to how things turned out the way they did for me. She said she had breastfed me until I was a year old and then weaned normally. Yet a year later when I saw her breastfeeding my baby sister, she says, I became outraged with envy and had to be out of site whenever future feedings occurred lest I throw a spasmodic tantrum.

For most of my early childhood it was just the jugs that got me going. Then when I was ten I went on a visit with my mother to a her friends house. This was the first time I had ever met the woman and it was the first time that I ever fell in love. She was the most beautiful person I had ever seen. And on top of that she had the most perfect breasts I had ever yet laid eyes upon. Every detail about those globes was absolutely perfect. They were a masterpiece in every conceivable way. The advantage of being ten is that you can blend into the background and stare without being noticed, and I sat there for an hour pretending to be reading comic books while taking in every glorious breath and subsequent upheavals of those marvelous mounds.

And then the single most formative moment of my life occurred. From afar a baby cries out, and mom’s friend shuffles off, returning a moment later with her bundle of joy. She sits back down and pulls one of those epic melons out right before my eyes, exposing her nipple (my Holy Grail at the time) and teasing it into that blessed newborns little mouth. I glance over at my mom, just as she glances questioningly and a bit nervous at me, and I pretend to go back to my comic book. Yet I cannot help but to stare raptly, no longer capable of any stealth pretense, so my mother politely suggests I should go outside and see if there are any children my age in the neighborhood. Awed and embarrassed I am unable to argue or shrug her suggestion aside, so I head outside and climb the first tree I can get myself up into.

As I sat there splayed out in the branches I had the most intimate moments of my life. I imagined myself as that lucky little baby, slurping freely from that monumental mammalia, while the entire world around me became whiteness and warmness and a song that cannot be heard except as gentle vibrations tracing the furthest reaching tendrils of my entire soul simultaneously. Heaven.

On the way home my mom asked me if I understood what I had seen. I told her I ‘kinda’ did and she gave me a simple run down on the mechanics and psychology mother’s milk. And even though I was still reeling in a haze of newfound love, I can remember every word she said to this day.


My fascination soon became fetish, even before the throes of puberty. Yet these desires remained my own private fantasy for several more years, which in retrospect, was the golden age of my compulsion. It was only when I eventually tried to act these fantasies out in real life that things became complicated and painful.
Thankfully I came of age during the time of the internet. Finding a partner to indulge my fantasies was not always easy, but it was far less difficult than most of the actual encounters themselves. I would put out ads detailing my kink, although I never thought of it as anything less than beautiful and wholesome myself, and would generally get a reply once a month or so. Only about half of these ended in me guzzlin’ jugs, and almost all of them ended in complete disaster.

With few exceptions the women who I hooked up with were young single mothers desperate to attract a partner to help them through the struggles of parenthood and life. And while it generally all began as an agreement for discrete occasional encounters, it always eventually came down to my partner wanting to “pursue the relationship further”. A few times I actually tried this, but as the relationship progressed, the expectation that I would wean off my fixation ultimately ended the relationship before I ever even got to the moving in together phase. That is, until I met Victoria.

From the moment I met her I could tell that there was something off about her. First of all, she was far more attractive than the vast majority of women who I hooked up with. Which made her apparent attraction to me mind-boggling. Her vigilance to visual perfection extended to every inch of her perfectly sculpted and groomed body. She had a face of eternal youth, a little girls coy smile on a sex goddesses face. Framed by the most beautiful wavy blue black hair you have ever seen, which accompanied her porcelain skin tone highlighted by only the most gentle brushes of pink. And her breasts…

Victoria had breasts that could start an apocalypse or bring world peace and end hunger. Maybe even all on the same day and in any order. There is no way to describe them. If I tried to put into words the perfection they encompassed, even if I achieved the highest possible form of descriptive compliment, I could still only manage to convey only a fraction of their globular glory. But how and why they were so perfect was a flaw I would not understand fully until it was far too late.

She came from your average American town. The kind small enough to have just one high school, but big enough to have over a half dozen fast food joints on the main strip. Her whole life she had been everyone’s princess, despite having been born on the wrong side of the tracks in a below average family. She was charming, congenial, witty and clever – on top of beautiful. Everyone loved her, but nobody loved her more than she did herself. As her body blossomed into that of a young woman her breasts seemed to hit a growth standstill, just shy of her minimum expectations for their development. Despite the fact that she was considered perfect in almost every conceivable way to everybody else who knew her, she came to view this shortchanging of the bra as an unfathomable slight against her by all of existence. She was, she reckoned, one cup size short of total perfection and thus – completely flawed. In her last few years of high school her insecurities led her to experiment with promiscuity, although she always chose older men for one night stands out of discretion and decorum. That is, until senior prom.

Despite her growing anxieties about her perceived flaw, she was voted Prom Queen, just as everybody she had ever met knew she would be since the first time they met her. She was born prom queen material, and destiny owed that to her, regardless of her incompetent mammary glands. On this night she made an exception to her ‘no romance with peer’s rule and went as the date of the boy in her class who was crowned king. They then went out together for the rest of the school year, and on the night before graduation, she let him fuck her. It was uncomfortable and boring and would change the rest of her life.

As everyone else was heading off to college, she got got an apartment in a town a county away and took a job as secretary at a printing company. Shortly after her ‘king’ had marched off to four years in a frat house, she began to show. He never had any idea, as he had broken up with her a few weeks after she became pregnant because, “You know, it’s college, babe. I’ll never forget you.”

While her body began to swell to accommodate the child growing inside her, so did her breasts. She would come home from work after a long day and stand topless in the mirror scrutinizing them for new growth, and partially out of fear that they would engorge themselves unequally and she would become loptitted. She spent a small fortune on oils and creams and support bras, and as those little b-cups transformed themselves into firm, plump c+cups, she fell in love.

After she gave birth she was vigilant about getting back into shape, and soon her body was more curvy and toned than it had ever been before. So long as she breast fed, her hooters remained in that perfect pristine state. They were the only thing that had ever been missing, and so long as she could keep them, she could be happy. Her, her beautiful baby boy and her glorious gazongas; she could live with that. So she vowed to herself and whatever powers the universe might behold that she would breastfeed as long as she could.


When Victoria responded to my ad her son Merrick was five years old and just getting ready to go to kindergarten. Despite the fact that neither of them were willing or emotionally ready to end what had already gone on too long, she knew it had to be done. She found another mouth to suck and began weaning the child. When I first came into their life this change had thrown them into absolute dysfunction. Both of them waged an emotional war against each other that will likely last the rest of their live, but in the beginning it was especially bad.

It was not that I did not notice the insanity I had walked into, I had seen it clearly from the very first step. But Victoria’s breasts were so absolutely perfect that nothing could have dragged me away from them. On top of this I reasoned that things would eventually even out and I would be living my lifelong dream. And as time went on, it sometimes seemed things might turn out that way.

After about a year and a half of 2-3 feedings on the world’s greatest fun bags, things suddenly took a turn for the worse. One night while we were up watching television and I was helping myself to a late night snack, Merrick woke up and caught us in the act. It was the first time he had ever seen me foraging from his former source of ambrosia, and it did not go well. He jumped on me and began screaming and swinging and kicking and biting and clawing. It was total rage and before I could make it stop without hurting the kid, I was bleeding from a dozen places.

The result of this was that Victoria took Merrick to see a therapist. However when the boy revealed his story, the therapist told Victoria that she was likely the source of his troubles and would need to seek therapy herself if he was ever going to get better. So she did. But the therapist continuously told her that nothing would get better until she let go of her attachment to her breasts and keeping them up with lactation spurred by sexual encounters. She became sullen, depressed, angry and bitter. I could taste the milk in her turn sour as her inner struggle tore her apart. On one hand, she loved her son and wanted the very best for him, but on the other she loved her breasts more than anything she had ever loved about herself. Not only would quitting now mean they would lose volume, the years of breastfeeding would likely leave them deflated like grocery bags filled partially with lumpy stew. Yet fake boobies were never an option, as they had always been a deadly sin in her book of bodily perfection. She was not ready to face the eventual demise of her bosoms prime, and so things went on between us awhile longer.

One day as Merrick was supposed to be outdoors playing, I latched on for a little taste. As the warm drug slid down my throat I lost track of my surroundings. I did not notice that Victoria had fallen asleep to the sound of my gentle suckling, nor that the boy had quietly returned as I lay there sipping ecstatically, almost full and to the point of orgasm. I had no idea until the scissors punctured my left buttock halfway to the handle. My shrieking sent the boy scattering and his mother flew to her feet joining me in audio histrionics, as I ran around in circles like a madman trying to get a closer look at the damage. And that is the last thing I remember before losing consciousness and waking up later in the hospital.

The damage was minimal. I had fainted out of revulsion, horror and fright. The next morning I still had not heard from Victoria, and I was okay with that. A nurse said I should try to take a short walk if I was up to it, and I was. I strolled around the hospital and ended up in the maternity ward. As I looked into those little faces with their little puckered mouths I felt an overwhelmingly ethereal sense of shame and disgust, but only with myself.

I tried to calm myself by imagining my moms friends tits, those perfect proto-hooters of my life’s lust, but as I did I felt nothing. Going through a lifetime catalog of picture perfect memories of mammaries, I was left cold and empty. When I tried to imagine the slow trickle of earthy sweet warmth in my mouth from Nobel-worthy nipples, nothing within me stirred.

At first I panicked. I returned to my room and told the nurse my walk had prompted lots of pain, and was able to coerce her into a nice dose of drugs to calm me. I went over it again and again but my lifelong obsession was now just a distant memory. When I got out, I immediately broke it off with Victoria and we have never spoken since. (I later heard she married a car dealership owner and former high school quarterback and prom king, and Merrick became a cross between a Brony and a Juggalo, which enraged his stepdad to no end.)


Over the next days, weeks and months I came to find freedom in the release from my fetish. I could walk down the street and gander at the most marvelous racks and not feel a single thing, not even a sliver of that ancient thirst. Eventually I was sure that I was free at last and tested myself by watching several nights worth of breastfeeding videos online without even a slight stirring.

As this happened, I also began to notice things about women I never had. Or at least I began to notice differences between them that had never occurred to me in my narrow-minded obsession with breasts. For instance, I never realized how certain voices were more attractive than others, or how a balance of confidence and coyness could turn the mere act of walking into a show of unlimited seduction. I noticed this and hundreds of things that had never occurred to me before. And so the time came when I decided to try dating like a ‘normal’ human.

I wasted a whole year around bars and other pick up spots, but this turned out not to be my style. Eventually I tried online dating sites, but there was some ineffable quality about the women I met there I could not put my finger on, but which left me feeling these were souls even more desperate than I. At the same time I had noticed that I had become almost immune to arousal. Where once a few sips of chest nectar would excite me to the point of orgasm, I had not so much as had an erection in months. I even tried several kinds of porn, but nothing fanned my flames. I dismissed this as the need to make a real connection with a real woman, and not as some terrible harbinger. So I redoubled my efforts.

One day I was at a diner reading the newspaper when I came across a personals ad that seemed promising. The paper belonged to the diner but the waitress said that it would be okay if I wanted to snip a bit out, and ran off to grab me scissors. Scissors. The word lept electric into my mind. Scissors. Waves of potential ecstasy rolled wildly just under the surface of my whole being. Scissors. My erection threatened to bust out of my pants and overturn the table. If not, I would have gotten up. I would have ran. I would not have been there when the waitress got back. But I was, and as she handed me those scissors my entire body convulsed and I let out a low guttural moan and my eyes must have rolled a dozen times backward into my head as I sat there sputtering in horrified delight at whatever had just happened.

Scissors.

Coming soon – Part II: How My Scissor Fetish Went Dull In the Hands of A Racist Barber

Creampies of Conception – Erotic Cinema for Christians

creampies of conception

The first work of erotic cinema for Christian fundamentalists has been set for release early this summer. Creampies of Conception is the first film from ErotiChrist Pictures, a Minnesota based production company funded by the Minnesota Institute of Lutheran Families [MILF].

The film is unique in that it uses Christian ideas and themes while explicitly showing sexual acts. The couples depicted in the film are married couples who were virgins prior to matrimony. The sex scenes were filmed monthly during peak ovulation and the couples abstained the rest of the month. Then when a pregnancy occurred they could pinpoint the act of conception so that only sex that results in a pregnancy would make the film.

Other ways in which Christian themes were woven in include forepray, no cursing or taking the Lord’s name in vain, and strictly missionary position. And of course – no oral, anal or kink.

Of course not everybody thinks that a film featuring sex acts should be considered Christian in any way, shape or form. Critics of the movie have created quite a backlash online. Mary Anne Proper is outraged by the film.

“For such a blasphemy to take place must surely be a sign of the end of days. I mean, come on…no TRUE Christians would conceive one of God’s precious children on camera, nor would any TRUE Christian watch that filth. This is disgusting and it is an outrage. I will be praying as hard as I can for Jesus to keep this trash from seeing the light of day.”

Jerry Onan, the films director and co-producer, says he fully expected a strong backlash from much of the Christian community.

“I can certainly understand how this intuitively seems to be unChristian. However, the truth is that Christians do watch porn, and so long as that is the case, I thought it would be best to at least reduce the damage by making films in which sex was depicted in a Christian way. Many young couples use pornographic films to fill in knowledge gaps left by a chaste upbringing. While puritanism is a respectable way to honor our Lord, it does create some practical issues, like a lack of sexual education. My goal is to address those issues in the most Christian way possible, despite the fact that some people are never going to like or accept that.”

The film features five couples who, while attractive, do not look anything like your typical erotic actors and actresses. The sets are also humble depictions of average middle class bedrooms, though it is hard to tell if all of the crosses and pictures of Jesus adorning the walls were part of the rooms natural decor or if the filmmakers added them for cinematic effect.

There are a few close-up shots, allegedly for educational purposes, but most of the film uses wide angles to give it a more romantic tone.

Music for the film, instrumental numbers provided by Christian funk-rockers O.C. Supertones, is reminiscent of 70’s era erotic films.

The trailer for the film states:

“Creampies of Conception is the first erotic film for Christians, by Christians. You will be so turned on by it that your family will expand as fast as God can send them.”

Not too fast, though, God. We don’t even wanna know what happens with premature conception, no matter how immaculate the ejaculate.

The film will be released on DVD and available to order online on June 14th.

 

The Soft Glow of Electric Sex- An Erotic Tale of Cyborg Sex, Almost

cyborgsex

“So then I just told her that the charging station was for paying cyborgs only.”

“Did she leave?”

“Yeah, she huffed off in a flurry of whirs and buzzing.”

“Classic.” he said, hoping to derail the small talk as they finished cleaning up the dishes together. “Hey, baby, you feeling frisky at all this evening? We have been so busy lately that my intimacy indicator sent a reminder today.”

“Yeah, mine did, too. And come to think of it, a little boom boom would make this mama a happy hybrid.”

“Raoorwww!” came the thunderous response generated in his vocal modulator. “Daddy likey.”

He pounced at her and ran a carefully calibrated hand from where the golden nylon hair streamed from her control until all the way down her back. Her sensors caused her perfectly manufactured body to respond to every nanometer of his touch. His warm lifelike hands causing her fiber-optic nerves to twitch ever so slightly and her body rocked into his before a thought occurred to her.

“Not just yet, Davian. First mama has to finish a few more chores and daddy needs to do the same. Then we can play.”

He stepped back feigning hurt and betrayal. “Alright my little bundle of electrons. But don’t take too long. My circuits long to connect with yours, Evissa.” he joked, referencing a Digi-Opera they had seen on their first date all those years ago.

*****

By the time that Evissa was finished with her duties, Davia was already lying in bed with a number of complicated attachments and accessories splayed around him.

“Cuddle up, buttercup.” came his invitation as he cleared an area for her to snuggle up next to him. “I wasn’t sure which parts you would want to use, so I just got everything out.”

On the bed were a number of attachments that could be connected to their cyborg bodies, offering a great number of combinations and pleasures. Aside from these lumps of metal, latex and circuitry were also a number of neurochemical enhancements. Not even counting positions, there were already thousands of possible combinations they could exercise their sexual bonding with. Unlike their human predecessors, sex was not something determined by the basic singular equipment humans were born with and suffered before they could make the transformation into a electro-mechanical body.

“Well, I suppose the first question is, which of us are going top and which bottom?” Evissa asked.

In response Davia leapt from the bed in a forward spinning maneuver, landing perfectly on his feet at the end of the bed and teased, “I’ll flip ya for it!”

She laughed and reached for her lucky ancient coin, passed down for dozens of generations back to a time when humans still used currency and their frail animal bodies to negotiate the world. “Winner gets bottom, you call it.”

She sent the shiny artifact tumbling in free space and faked a drop, correcting her movements in a micro-sliver of time before it landed perfectly on the back of her hand just as he called out ‘Ass’, which referred to the ancient king embedded on one side, another relic of the past.

“And ass it is, my drippingly sweet neurocandy. Pick a hole.”

He looked at the assortment of receiver attachments which would accommodate any number of penetration accessories also laid out before them. “Well, let’s see. The T78X sounds good, you know. I always have liked an insertion unit that had full body integration circuits, but it can be a bit much. Maybe something simpler? Oh, here, how about this. A dual fit triple entry sleeve made from the finest Venusian organics. How many holes you think I should go with?”

“Oh, I don’t have a preference, Davia. You just pick first and then we will pick the thrusting unit together.”

“I love it when you talk thrust, my plasma pumping love plum.”

Evissa giggled at his juvenile pet name. Underneath the durable and long lasting body was still a human brain and hers showed a hint of fatigue by triggering a yawn display in her flawless face mask.

“Well, I guess if I am being honest, which most of my circuits require, what I really wanna use is the good old 42.77t. Nothing fancy, just a self lubricating unit which triggers audio pleasure centers. If that is the case, we better pick out some music. And you should use the Earquake 2.0 attachment. Why don’t you take care of that while I go get this apparatus installed.”

“Good combo.” Evissa agreed.

He got up and walked towards the master bathroom, which was nothing like its antique predecessor, since cyborgs used all energy sources efficiently and did not need to excrete waste. And grooming was mostly done using nanobots, so really the room was just a place to put up mirrors as well as some basic accessories and polishing equipment and chemicals.

As Evissa referenced her list of current audio downloads and worked on a sexy play list she heard Davia call out from the next room.

“Fiddleswitch! Damn thing needs a software update. Hey, you don’t mind if I-”

“No, go ahead.” she cut him off. “I will just get myself all fitted and finish this play list.”

“Oh, did you pick some chemistry out yet?

“Not yet, but I will.”

*****

Davia took the unit out to the high speed docking station so that the update would only take a minute. These damn old attachments always developed bugs and had to have constant software and driver updates in order not to infect its user with a virus. Sex-unit transmitted diseases were no laughing matter. As he searched for the proper new software to install he noticed an email from an old friend. Although he knew he could not take the time to respond, he opened the message to look at it. He liked doing it on these old desk units rather than in his internal ones. There was something rewarding about seeing the letters glow on a screen rather than just transmitted directly to his brain. It was not a great idea, because the letter was a bit long and somewhat distressing. He fought the urge to respond right away but had not noticed that fifteen minutes had passed since he left Evissa in the bedroom.

“Hey baby?” he used a long distance voice to reach her in the other room. “Just about ready, how about you? You mind if I-”

Again, she cut him off, accustomed to his habits and questions. “No, love, go ahead. Do whatever you need to. I will be ready whenever you are.”

His heart beamed with anticipation and love. He loved her more than any neurosynaptic meatwad trapped in a high tech form possibly could. So he wanted to be present while they made love to one another, and that meant firing back a quick response to lay the matters in the email to rest until morning.

He finished up within what seemed just a few minutes and tried to creep stealthily back into the bedroom, even though her finely tuned electronics could not be fooled. Old meatman habits died hard and many puzzling vestigial behaviors still occurred among the hybrid progeny of human and machine. She seemed to be playing along, as she did not call him out on his obvious deceit. Perhaps she wanted to do some role-playing, too, he hoped.

As he slipped into the bedroom he now understood the real reason for her silence. She was fast asleep. It had been almost an hour since she found him in the bedroom sorting through their collection of sexual accessories. She had not been able to stay awake after all the time taken up by preparations and his little email interruption.

“Dammit.” he sub-vocalized, not wanting the organic air movements to manifest in his vocal apparatus.

She was so gorgeous lying there on their bed, surrounded by varied mechanical replications and substitutions of ancient human sex organs. He pushed it all to the floor as quietly as possible and nuzzled up next to her, falling asleep in the sure and steady syncopated sounds and rhythms of her basic life support mechanisms.

My ‘Naked’ Truth

The link: My ‘Naked’ Truth

My response: I agree that one should love their self. But I find loathsome the idea suggested here that the man was wrong for finding her unattractive. This seems like telling a gay man that what he finds attractive is a choice and if he doesn’t share your values of attraction he is an unenlightened deviant. I do not find sexual preference to be a choice. Nor do I think it is genetics. The key lies within imprint conditioning, a process that occurs during our development and is a complex variable of sometimes unrelated factors. It would also stand to reason that according to evolutionary paradigms, young fertile women would be an idea sexual partner, as these qualities are good for producing healthy offspring and preserving the family, tribe and species.

I find this kind of female bullying intolerable. Men are constantly being sent messages that our preferences and values are not okay if they do not acquiesce to the emotional states and values of women. That seems pretty one-sided to me. Although I avoid the term ‘feminist’, many feminists myself included, find this emasculating, bullying coercive pop culture feminism to be just plain awful for human relations.
I also find the idea that our sexuality must remain such a central factor of our entire lives to be ridiculous. There is nothing wrong with sex. Sex can be a form of bonding and spiritual exploration between individuals. But it is also basically just a biological function. Once we outgrow the necessity of the breeding function we should be excited to bond and explore our spiritual natures in plethoras of new ways without the nagging voice of evolution directing those needs genitally all of the time.
Our modern insecurities and lack of self awareness obfuscate some great truths. We turn too often to sex alone to fulfill deeper needs because we have forgotten how to do so in our mindlessly consumptive culture. Rather than consuming one another physically in an act of primal desire to address the needs of individuals and relationships, we should turn many of those opportunities into a chance to explore new grounds.

Mostly the thing I don’t like here is the shaming. She could have written this article in a way which explained the situation, blamelessly, that allowed her to express her love for herself. That she did not chose that route makes me doubt the sincerity of her positive self-image and makes me think that she overcompensates with blame. Its too bad, because written well, she might also have pointed out how it was okay for the guy to feel that way and that this is why it is important that couples talk first. And also how we are all products of cultural ideas about sex. Not just women. The victimization attitude of women that paints all men as part of the problem does irreparable harm to us and keeps us from uniting against the common forces that fuck us all up.

We have a long way to go to defeat the damage done by the second wave of feminism and the quasi feminism, or Oprahism, that followed in its wake. Luckily, the new wave of feminists realize this and account for it in their philosophies.

It also seems that both parties failed to communicate their thoughts before jumping into the sack, which never turns out well.

It has been argued that the man should never have led her on, but we do not know his side of the story. It would be foolish to judge him without hearing him out.

Being is difficult. We are constantly subject to inner and outer turmoil. We evolve and change, as do our hearts and minds. This woman wasted a good opportunity to address some deeper issues and instead opted to play the role of victim in order to be worshipped as a hero by the cult of victimization.

Occupy My Love

occupy myy love

“Stop doing that!” I demanded brusquely.

“Stop doing what?” she replied. Innocent, curious, adorable; I hated her.

“Stop using loaded words to derail the conversation. Bourgeoise this, privelege that, class warfare, racism; all of these are valid parts of an overall discussion but you and the rest of the McLefties just toss them out when your logic begins to crumble. It is impossible to have a reasonable exchange when one half is always hijacking the thing with little grammatical grenades.”

“You deny white male privilege?” she asked. Still innocent, still curious, still adorable. Infuriating!

“Oh Jesus Fuckparts, I’ve had enough of this. I’m going to bed.” There was no way I would be able to sleep yet. My blood was at a boil. I got up and went to my tent. I stretched out on top of the sleeping bag and wished I had some pot to smoke. Not a good idea to have on you when you are occupying a public park in protest of corrupt financial institutions, but man I could have used a hit or two. I tried to think of anything I could to get the image of her stupid face out of my head. If she knew I couldn’t stop thinking about her she would probably say something like- “That is just your dominant macho need to possess me in some form, manifesting itself in unhealthy obsessive fantasies.” Male privilege, gender roles, blah blah blah.

I hear her voice just outside of my tent. “I’m sorry, Murray, I didn’t mean to upset you. Can I come in for a minute?”

I muster up enough incredulity for a searing “What?” but I can hear the tell-tale sound of the tents zipper and before I can object she is wiggling her annoyingly cute face in followed by her infuriatingly lithe and graceful body.

“Hey, I’m really sorry. I don’t understand what made you so mad but when you have had a chance to cool down I’d love to have you explain it to me.” She smiled at me like a puppy; naive, irresistible, unflappable. I tried to think of something snide and hurtful to say to make her leave me alone. I was at a loss. Shocked at myself , I realized that I wanted her to stay as badly as I had ever wanted anything else before. Disgusting. “Can I ask you just one question, and then I promise I will leave if you want me to?”

“What?” I tried to snark, but it came out in a lump.

“Why are you here, Murray? You don’t seem the civil disobedience type and you disagree with nearly everything the rest of us have to say. I don’t understand you.”

I paused to choose my words carefully and then began, “The original intention of this movement was aimed at corrupt financial institutions and policies resulting in an oligarchal collusion of banks, corporations and the federal government. Such activity is destroying our individual and collective economic future and making us its slaves in the process. The reason I am here is to send a message- ENOUGH!”

“That’s why we are all here, Murray. So why are you so at odds with everyone and everything?” It was too dark in the tent to be sure, but I could feel her stupid smile radiating its terrible, blissful warmth at me.

“Because this was supposed to be about Wall Street and banks and corruption in the political system. But you guys seem to just hate everything this country was founded upon and want to turn it into some European modeled direct socialist democracy. You have hijacked a very important social paradigm with an atrociously naive list of demands that discredit everything we could do here. I guess I knew it would be like this before I came, but I had hoped…” I stopped. What had I hoped?

“That’s okay, Murray. You don’t need to tell me anything more. You are getting all worked up again.”

If only she knew. I was glad that it was dark. This bulge in my pants was inappropriate. Maddening. I could smell her hot sweet breath as it filled the tent and covered me in a thin inescapable layer of lust and revulsion.

“Is it okay if I stay here for awhile, Murray? We can cuddle and talk about anything but politics, okay?” She asked with the confidence of someone who already knows the answer.

Cuddle? I panicked. The boner! “Chelsea…I don’t…”

She cut me off with a kiss to the forehead. “It’s okay, I don’t bite.” she teased. She pushed me back down and rested her head on my chest, that toxic erotic fume of her breath just inches from my face. “When I was a little girl I wanted to be a police officer, can you believe that?” She giggled, spraying her airy sex juju all over me. “What did you want to be when you grew up?”

We talked like this for at least an hour, sometimes changing cuddle positions to stay comfortable. My erection came and went. Parts of her brushed against it a few times but she didn’t say anything or get up to leave. At some point we both fell silent laying there next to one another. I felt her hand trace my upper leg and position itself on my now semi-erect penis. The heat of her hand through the clothe brought it fully back to life. “Murray?” she asked.

“Chelsea” I squeaked back, voice breaking like a pubic idiot.

“Murray, I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me more quietly, gently and slowly than you have ever imagined. I have a condom here, I will put it on for you.”

Before I could protest (yeah, right!) she was unzipping me and then pulling the rubber carefully over my dick. Not expertly, but not clumsily either. Then I heard her own zipper and the gentle rustle of female garments being removed. “I’m going to turn away from you and I want you to fuck me while you cuddle me spoon-style. But not in my ass, Murray, I don’t like that. Okay?”

I could tell that she expected an actual answer. “Okay.” I replied a little too enthusiastically. She jutted her bottom out towards me and I could hear her fingers pulling the juices deep inside her to the entrance of her pussy, the smell of it mixing with the smell of her breath was almost too much. I was as hard as I’d ever been and afraid I’d explode any moment, and there hadn’t even been penetration yet. I sidled up next to her and felt her pull my cock from between her legs.

“Easy” she whispered as she stuck just the tip of it in. It was so warm and wet just as it had smelled and sounded. My senses began to bleed orgiastically into one another. I pushed it slowly, so slowly a full minute or two must have passed before I was all the way inside of her.

“Stay right there for awhile, don’t move.” I did as she said. I wrapped my arm around her and cupped her small breasts in my trembling hand. I kissed the side and back of her neck and nibbled gently at her ears. Eventually she used her tush to push back at my body signalling me to begin taking long slow strokes in and out of her. We went on like this for what seemed like forever. I felt her body tremble next to mine and a gush of wetness and warmth erupted between her legs. She didn’t say a word, didn’t make a sound, just used her body to suggest to me a new position every time after one of her little eruptions.

Finally she climbed on top of me and began stroking me with perfect rhythm and grace. She bent down and whispered into my ear, “This time I want you to cum with me, can you do that?” I nodded, afraid if I spoke I’d release all of the concentration that was keeping me from the manic release of the ooze-squirt. Almost imperceptibly she sped up, little by little, I could feel it building like a million stress points on a fault line about ready to blow the Richter scale. She trembled, got tighter. Tighter. Tighter.

A pinpoint of light mushrooms through my consciousness. The entirety of the universe expands and contracts in a moment. My energy, our energy, now beyond the limits of time and space. Our bodies no longer vessels for our mind but deliverers of a message beyond consciousness and physics. Slowly as I collapse back into the singular present I can hear myself begin to moan in post coital ecstasy. Her hand reaches down and covers my mouth. Every little sound carries here in tent city at night. She lays forward resting her head in between my shoulder and neck. Her warm wet vagina is still experiencing aftershocks as my penis inside it begins to detumesce.

She kisses my neck and makes tiny feminine sounds of satisfaction. After several minutes in this position she lets out itty bitty snores that tell me she is asleep. I turn her gently to the side, off from atop me, and try to make her comfortable with my spare pillow and the blanket. She is a million miles away where reality cannot touch her. There are no banks, no governments and no corporations where she is at. I lay facing her, trying to make sense of it without overthinking it. I feel alive and free. I feel positively magical and in control of my life. Some things can never be corrupted. For the first time in ages, I occupy myself.