In my book, this man is just outstanding. From what people tell me, being a clinic escort is one of the most rewarding things you can do, but it’s definitely super trying and exhausting.
I have so much respect for him and everyone like him. I have so much love for his devotion to the cause. God, this just makes my heart swell.
Dennis the clinic escort showing off his one and only tattoo—“Choice.”
Tell me he is not the most badass grandpa you’ve ever seen.
Photograph submitted by jeunefille18.
Recently, a well-meaning relative very frankly expressed the sentiment that blowjobs are impersonal and lack any sort of intimacy. You know how stuff gets at dinner tables when there’s alcohol.
I didn’t respond, but I think the bubblegum blowjob behind the bleachers (so many bs) stereotype is not entirely the picture of what a blowjob can be. Sucking cock can be an act of devotion, even if you aren’t kinky. It doesn’t have to be full-on cock worship, but it doesn’t have to be rough or half-hearted or unfeeling, either. Sometimes, it’s a sweet, tender thing.
“Talent. I don’t have talent. I have willingness. What talent?” As a kid, she had always told the raunchiest jokes. As an adult, she could rip open a bone and speak out of it. Simple, clear. There was never anything to stop her. Why was there never anything to stop her? “I can stretch out the neck of a sweater to point at a freckle on my shoulder. Anyone who didn’t get enough attention in nursery school can do that. Talent is something else.”
– Lorrie Moore, in her short story “Willing” from her collection Birds of America.
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.
“This is more for you than it is for me, really,” he told her as he straightened the headphones over her ears. “I know where it takes you.”
I want to trust you like this. I’d like to imagine that as I heard your car pull away and smelled the exhaust that I wouldn’t panic. Because that’s the way I love someone and it’s the reason why I don’t give very many people a lot of myself, I go hard, for a lack of a better expression.
It makes everything somewhat fragile, I’ll admit, but it’s incredibly rewarding. It’s in the knives, the choking, the crazy acts of exhibitionism. I want to trust hard and I want that trust to be pushed far before being validated. Sometimes it’s frightening and sometimes it isn’t terribly safe, but that’s why I don’t do it with everyone. I wouldn’t let just anyone leave me on that road.
Jack and Jitters: Epilogue
You know those infamous thin walls I talk about in my description on this site?
Well, I’ve got a “neighbor” who I cannot stand at all. I knew her before I found out that my room was next door to hers and I wasn’t particularly thrilled. She’s bitchy, she’s closed-minded, she’s from one of those areas that are incredibly homogenous, racist, sexist, etc. I’ve also heard she talks shit about me sometimes about how some noise comes from my room from when I have people over, for reasons both sexual and nonsexual. Whatever. I try to be considerate, but a girl has needs.
Not to mention she has her very loud friends over almost every night since the beginning of the year, so I think it’s a fair tradeoff that I get my rocks off every so often in my room. I really do try to avoid taking people back to my room, but sometimes it happened.
By coming back to campus a few days earlier than most people, SG and I had assumed that she was out and we could do whatever we wanted.
After the ordeal, SG and I found ourselves cuddled up on my bed. I had washed up, pulled on some sweats, and was riding the endorphins. Suddenly, we heard my neighbor’s door open and her footsteps entering in the hallway.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, “she’s been in there the whole time.” She had most likely heard the entire thing.
SG shrugged and brushed some hair off my face, “she probably enjoyed it.”
Jack and Jitters, Part 4
He rubbed for a while longer as I ground myself against the bed, squirming and gasping with how sensitive I had become. As I got close, he yanked the stockings that bound my wrists and pulled me down to my knees. His other hand gathered up a chunk of my hair and held it roughly, pushing my face into the crotch of his pants.
I reached up with my bound hands to try to undo his belt and he let go of my hair, grabbing onto the knot in the stockings. “You have way too much freedom.” He tightened the knot, making the removal of his belt, pants, and boxers a tad more difficult.
He reached down and pulled my nightgown up, knotting it above my breasts as to expose my body without removing it. He combed his hand through my hair, pulling it a bit as his hands left my scalp to dip my hair back and open my mouth. “Look at me while you suck it,” he said as I took him into my mouth.
I don’t want to fully admit that I started grinning when he sighed, “I love the way you suck my cock.” I really don’t want to own up to the fact that a phrase as simple or lewd as that could make me feel awesome. Because, well, I’d like to think I’ve got other stuff going for me and other important skills. But, gosh, I don’t know. There’s something about making a man sigh.
I didn’t break eye contact until he hauled me to my feet somewhere in the middle of it by the stockings around my wrists. He removed the stockings and yanked the nightgown over my head and off of my body. My hands wandered to his shirt and I pulled it off. We were both naked. For a few moments we were – as it seemed – even.
Jack and Jitters, Part 3
The Southern Gentleman reached down, found my clit, and started to rub it. He tugged again on the stockings, pulling my body taut. He was standing up almost completely straight, staring down at me with almost the hint of a smile in his eyes, but otherwise about as casually as one would look flipping a pancake.
“You know, you’re sopping wet,” he said. He ran his fingers down my slit before wiping them on my face. He slapped his hand back down to my cunt and kept going, rubbing my clit hard. Occasionally, I fought. He would just smack my cunt and keep going, staring down at me with a look that was somewhere between severe and completely nonchalant.
He briefly let go of the stockings around my wrists to pull the nightgown over my breasts. He grabbed my wrists once more, pulled them up, and leaned his face down into my chest. The combined attention he was giving my breasts and clit was bringing me close already.
“No,” I tried to close my legs once more.
He smacked my cunt roughly. I cried out. “What did you say?”
“No."
He smacked it again. "What was that?" I huffed and ground myself against his hand. He smacked it once more. "What did you say?” By now, he was standing up completely straight. I was close. My body was trembling.
“Whatever you want,” I moaned out.
“Whatever you want…?"
"Whatever you want, Sir,” I managed to gasp out.
He chuckled, “good answer.” He looked me over and leaned down a bit closer to me, “you’re going to cum, aren’t you?” I nodded. “Do you think you deserve it?” He asks me this question a lot, just about every time I’m about to experience an orgasm. It’s hard. It’s like self-grading. You don’t want to over-inflate yourself and miss out because of your lack of modesty. You don’t want to undersell yourself and miss out.
“I don’t know,” I moaned.
He pulled harder on the stockings that held my wrists and chuckled, “I think you should. Go on. You don’t even have to ask."
I came hard. I would have probably crumpled to the floor if he wasn’t holding me up. It was the sort that involved my entire body, the kind that left me absolutely spent afterwards. I get incredibly tender after I’ve cum and he knows it, so I was a little shocked to feel him still rubbing my clit with the same intensity.
"I’m done,” I gasped out, “come on, I’m done. It…I’m tender. I’m done.”
With this, he smirked and leaned down a bit closer to me. He was grinning wide, almost as if he were about to tell a joke. His accent came out. “Well, I didn’t say I was, baby.”
sexisnottheenemy: Nick & Meredith by Kevin Loreaux
For the many of you who have asked,
The picture of my boobs I mentioned in a previous post is not on my tumblr, but on someone else’s.
Happy Hunting, you perverts.
<3, Ivy