Me: Ugh, I wanna go back to bed.
Him: K come join.
banter
Apparently, I’m a five-guy kind of girl.
StandardWhile I was about to leave for the gym this evening, I walked past my mother who was on the phone with one of her best guy friends from her 30s. He’s a riot and a wonderful person and lately he’s been trying to fix me up with his son, who is a year older than me. The kid’s pretty attractive and has a really supreme job (mostly because of his father’s connections, but I’ve never actually spoken to him.
My mom handed me the phone and I said hello. Quickly, her friend said, “my son’s alone this weekend. You should come over.”
I laughed, “I have plans.”
“Put your mother on,” he replied.
I handed the phone off. Sometime, soon, yeah, maybe I’d let his son take me out. It’s a little awkward and it feels kind of dynastic, though. Also, they’re pretty conservative 1%ers and I don’t know if I’m quite ready to dive into another foray into messing around with the 1%. Sure, my mom’s friend is totally open and wonderful, but eh. He once made a comment to my mother that I was “perfect but we’ll fix the liberal thing” that sort of turned me off.
“He’s got his friend over,” I could hear my mom’s friend say through the phone.
My mom chuckled, “Ivy’s not really a two-guy kind of girl.” I winked at her and turned to go. “She’s more of a five-guy girl.”
Thanks, Mom.
Me: Am I still pretty?
Him: You’re always the prettiest. Even if your face is janked up to fucktown right now.
“Admit that I’m your favorite,” I told the Southern Gentleman last night, teasingly.
He smirked, “shut up and give me your cunt."
I sat back and moved my panties aside, starting to rub my clit. "Nah, I think I’m just going to take care of myself.”
“You,” he said, “and your tight little cunt and your hot little mouth are my favorite.”
“Oh, now you’re just saying that,” I pouted.
“Ivy.”
“I don’t know, the last time I wanted you I didn’t get what I wanted,” I slid a finger in slowly and dipped my head back, “so I think I may just spend some alone time with your favorite little cunt. You can watch.”
“Darling, if I fucked you every time one of us was aroused, we’d never get anything done,” he replied, “and that’s why you’re my favorite.”
The Southern Gentleman decided to help me pick out my outfit for the night.
“It’s great,” he said as he leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “But what’s under the shirt?”
I shrugged, “a bra.”
He smiled, “and what’s under the bra?”
“My…” I rolled my eyes, “ugh, you’re such a child.” I pulled my shirt and bra up, showing him my breasts.
“Good girl,” he grinned.
“Do matching undergarments actually matter to men as much as we’re told?” I asked SG one morning with completely mismatched underwear on. It wasn’t entirely my fault, I couldn’t find a matching color for either item and figured they went well enough together to pull them off as a ‘set’. Satisfied, I went to pull my sweater over my head.
He watched me as I dressed. “Oh, yep, definitely.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I groaned and went to pull my sweater off.
“No, no,” he sat up when I had it halfway over my head, “it’s fine since I’ve already seen you and know what’s under there.” He reached out and pulled me closer to him by the hip.
I chuckled, “so, it’s all about being surprised, then?” I lowered my sweater back down over my stomach and straightened it out.
“Yeah, basically,” he hooked his fingers into the waistband of my panties.
I huffed. “Well, my bra and panties matched last night.”
“I know,” he confirmed as he pulled me closer, “and it was a nice surprise.”
Sunset undressing.
You all are a bunch of pervs for mostly suggesting I go naked. As for the legitimate clothing suggestions, thank you.
My friend took pity last night and came over. She dug out some tall wedges, a high-waisted skirt, and this little tank top. I insisted that it was a little over the top, but she replied that it was just fine. Aside from formals and other sorts of events, I typically stick to skinny jeans and a top or a casual cute dress when going out. The difference would be perceptible and I didn’t want him to think I was like some kind of seventh grader smearing glitter all over myself for my first date to the movies where our parents would be watching from a few rows behind.
Well. He noticed.
In a just staring when he thought I wasn’t looking way. In a very eagerly offering to rub my back when I told him it was a bit sore way. In a desperate attempt to keep his hands to himself while I was sitting on his lap and he was rubbing my back way.
We still had our banter, but it seemed to be riddled with knowing smiles and little chuckles. Sometime during the night, I was told by this random gay guy that my legs were “pure sex”. I blushed and sort of leaned back against him as I thanked the guy who had said it. From the look I was getting over my shoulder, I think he agreed.
We had a great time, but the evening was cut short due to some stuff not really related to either of us. Maybe I could’ve gone home with him, but I didn’t. I sort of want to leave a little bit to mystery,
(via traveling with the ghost (旧館 Old): Олег Михеев (Oleg Mikheev) × Алена Водонаева (Alena Vodonaeva))
That guy from my frat and I have a sort of banter going on, explains my friend. We’re interesting to watch, sometimes in a funny way and sometimes in a slightly painful way. We don’t always go easy on each other.
Today, he sat down with some friends of mine and I and we proceeded to go at it with each other. There’s something about someone who comes so close to being able to outwit me that incredibly turns me on. Intelligence is terribly, terribly sexy. So is confidence.
When he left, one of my friends threw his hands up in the air and cried out in frustration, “would you two just fuck already?”
Guess what I’m stuck thinking about now.
“You know, you’re very pretty,” that guy from my frat said as we waited for drinks.
I chuckled and looked over my shoulder at him, “that’s it? You’re not terribly poetic, you know.”
“Oh, come on, Ivy,” he feigned dismay. “I do science. I don’t do overtures. You want a metaphor, fine? You’re as pretty as a Diels-Adler reaction.”
“A what?”
“A Diels-Adler reaction. It’s when…” From here, he explained something scientific that went completely over my head. Noticing my confusion, he cut himself off and said, “it’s really pretty. There. There’s your metaphor.”
I moved up closer to the bar and shook my head, “that’s a simile.”
“Okay, Ivy, okay, a simile,” he placed his hand on my hip. “You’re pretty like a barium cloud.”
“That’s another simile."
"It’s beautiful, I promise,” he said and used his free hand to grab me a drink.
I smiled, “I’ll take your word for it.” I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
I guess we all have our own sorts of poetries.
Unresolved.
ChatMe: I liked when you told me that “this is what happens to bad girls”.
Him: That’s because you have an unresolved Daddy fetish.
Me: Whatever. You have an unresolved Daddy complex.
Him: Hah. Yep.