Do You Wanna Fuck?

It was the first blush of summer and I was feeling all broken hearted and exuberant. Life seemed all what-if's going in both directions. It was precisely then that my Prince galloped up on his pretty pony.

Actually, it was a battered old Volvo... but I'm getting ahead of myself.

I had responded to a posting on Craigslist back when Rob and I were on a short lived break- up. What can I tell you? It isn't easy for a girl to walk away from the first guy who could make her cum. Prince's ad was obscure and poetic - a random string of adjectives - and it had the winning combination of sincerity and playfulness that can lasso my heart and rope me in tight. Yes, this is foreshadowing that would be cleverly subtle if it weren’t for my inability to ever keep a secret.

Soon we were chatting on the phone for hours like school girls and sending flurries of words across the internet. We were talking fireflies and de Vinci flying machines and it was clear it was only a matter of time before our worlds would collide.

The night we met face to face, mano a mano, I was filled with an odd combination of I-could-be-anybody-ness and a calm, reassuring sense of self possession. Perhaps it was cast by the late June night air filling my brain with that heady intoxicating buzz of summer. Perhaps it was the mojito working it’s santaria Cubano on my heart chakra. Whatever it was, that was the night that curiosity would slay my pussy. And satisfaction would be her rebirth.

As I was saying, Prince rumbled up in his steed and one glance at his lanky carpenter’s body, his weathered face, his wind whipped hair pulled back in a hair tie, his disarming and devilish grin and I knew I wanted him to fuck me. We ate our meals, sharing bites of moros y cristianos and sweet plantains, swapping stories of passed loves and current affairs until nothing was left to eat or to say.

Outside in the warm night air, smelling salty from the breeze off the sea and his sweat, we each smoked a cigarette. Then he took one of my Nat Sherman Naturals and I one of his Paliament Lights and we each smoked another. There was no subtle way to say it so he simply blurted out “Would you like to come over to my place?” I paused for affect, as if I were deciding this very moment, before saying “Sure.”

I followed him the twenty miles or so to his small two room cottage just outside the city limits. Inside the furnishings were sparse and simple. I chose the floor over a rickety desk chair, and stretched my legs out in front of me. He brought me a glass of syrupy sweet port in a tumbler and we smoked cigarettes and talked into the night.

Now, I forgot to mention to you that early on in our email exchanges I had discovered that he was “somewhat of a switch, but mostly a dom.” And, without knowing quite what he meant by these terms in his own parlance, I offered that I was "somewhat of a switch, but mostly a sub." Of course, my own understanding of these terms was purely theoretical, but I felt I was not misrepresenting myself and I made certain to explain to him how those words functioned in my own self construction.

So, it will not surprise you then that our conversation that night eventually turned to desire. My Prince somewhat modestly revealed his predilection for tying up his lovers and, my curiosity peeked, I confessed my longing to be tied up. Our tumblers almost empty I stood up to go home and, upon reaching for the doorknob, turned abruptly and asked plainly “Do you wanna fuck?” My Prince looked a bit taken aback momentarily and then said simply, “Sure. Do you?”