Dear Diary,

Somewhere along the way, blowjobs and brunch on Sundays became a thing.

Sunday last week began similar to many other Sundays. I wake up early, having passed out at about 1 a.m. at Lover’s place. While I fidget in bed and read on my Kindle app, I literally count the minutes until I can reasonably wake up someone who probably didn’t crawl into bed until 4.

No, we don’t always go to bed together, but he always tucks me in.

Finally, finally, I deem 9:33 is close enough to 10 a.m. to count as mid-morning.

Mid-morning-ish.

He is lying on his side, breathing deep and slow. With the flat of my hand I gently rub his back, lightly enough not to wake him but perhaps enough to introduce myself into his dream. Snuggling up against his cool skin, my breasts pressing against him, I skate my fingers down the length of this thigh and back up again, almost tickling, exploring the contours of his ribs and circling his nipples. He groans, drowsy, slightly turning his head towards me, which is all I needed to guide him onto his back, pressing him into the mattress.

A chain of quick kisses down his arm, nibbling along his fingers and sucking the tips as I move deeper under the covers. The spicy smell of his skin mixed with the faintest hint of peppermint, the hard curves of his body, his trusting sleepy sprawl all ignite an electric desire deep within as I wrap my hands around the stiffening length of his cock, stroking below his scrotum until he widens his legs and I settle in between them. Gently I tighten my grip around the tip, pulling downward, fondling his balls while I lick around the top like an ice cream cone. He gasps, his body tensing as I suck the end, in and out, back and forth, feeling myself get wet as his erection grows and grows, harder and bigger in my hand with each tasty stroke. Gorging myself all the way down until my nose touches his belly, his hands find my hair, willing me to continue, and so I do, first slowly then faster and faster, on and on as he pulses under my tongue and writhes under my touch. Long seconds stretch into minutes, my jaw straining until I taste the salty pre-cum, slowing now, inch by inch, until his quivering cock slips from my lips at the last possible moment. His breath hitches, then releases in a loud sigh as I kiss his belly, working my way upwards.

I want him, now, deep inside of me–waiting is never my strong point.

I nuzzle his ear as I straddle him, his hands on my hips pulling me downward, and suddenly he is pressing into me, a steel flesh bullet right on target, my body coiled tight as he drives straight into the core of me. Sitting up, rocking back on my heels, grasping the headboard for leverage as I pound up and down, his hands pinching my nipples sending me soaring onto another plane of ecstasy, mouth open gasping for air, sliding up and down freely as my desire smooths his entry in and out of my body. Then his clever thumb finds my clit and I scream as a torrent of new sensations explode along my nerve endings, driving me to move faster, faster, throbbing with intensity because I need him, I need him now–now–now–

–I say his name over and over, I hear him whispering imprecations to a god he does not believe in, and still I am riding him like it’s the Kentucky Derby, sweaty and desperate as if we are in the home stretch, until suddenly–

“Oh my god!” he yells, forcing me to stillness, gripping my ass hard with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. As I feel him gush inside me, I come as well, with a trembling intensity that causes me to collapse on top of his chest, finally still and spent at the finish line.

Later, after kisses and jokes and a predictable amount of dawdling to get out of bed, we discover that we are both starving. We debate where to go for brunch while we shower, as I play with his penis and lather his legs and rub his shoulders. At last we settle on Dad’s Kitchen–somewhere new, for us.

Dad’s has a long line, but we are seated reasonably quickly, considering. I have become turned around and am startled to realize that we are on Freeport, that the famous Freeport Bakery is just a few steps to the left of the building. We–or rather, I–insist upon visiting afterwards for chocolate cake, no matter how full we feel.

The wait for our order is considerably longer. We are seated at a small table, sandwiched between a group of young twenty-something women on my right and a group of older suburban housewives on the left.

“Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am, stuck in the middle with you,” Bob Dylan’s song echoes through my mind as I struggle to block out the banality bombarding us from both sides.

On the left, the wives are complaining that their children’s schools actually expect them to volunteer hours, actual real hours, of their time to school events and/or chaperoning field trips. Like, when will the laundry get done? When will I schedule my weekly mani/pedi? Why can’t John/Fred/Sam take a day off work to do that? It’s hard enough that I have them all to myself after school. They sip bottomless mimosas as they recount the long list of difficulties with their privileged upper middle-class lives.

On the right, the girlfriends cut their eyes at my lover, trying to assess his wealth, his sugar daddy potential, how difficult it would be to steal him away–if they wanted, if he should be so lucky, of course. They reek of hair spray and sour disappointment, casually dismembering a very good friend after she texted in that she wouldn’t be joining them, a litany of dissatisfaction and envy and frustration that there are classes to attend Monday morning and college homework that hasn’t been finished. They scrunch their noses and swap Bloody Mary’s between them, as if someone else’s might taste better, and in the end drink water that probably definitely wasn’t pure. I hope it was straight from the dishwasher’s tap.

Meanwhile my lover and I discuss trivial things, too close to strange company to have an intimate conversation, the restaurant too loud to speak lower than a half shout. I entwine my legs with his under the table and watch his eyes that always change color. Today they are grey, slate grey like the cloudy sky outside.

Afterwards, while we carry home chocolate cake and rate whether we would ever return to Dad’s Kitchen, he remarks that the girls next to us were the kind that make him lose faith in the human race, solely based on their shallow remarks and over-use of “like” in everything but a simile.

I adore him for that, for his obliviousness to all the unspoken messages sent and received and returned on both sides, the older women watching me and him and dismissing us as not known church members or parents likely to tattle on their soft, passive hatred of their husbands and even their children; the younger ones assessing him as a conquest, evaluating me as competition based on my make-up, hair, clothes, attitude.

Ignorance is everywhere, but as for me, that brunch left a bad taste in my mouth that had nothing to do with the food.

Sincerely,

Sunny

 

**Photo Credit: http://goo.gl/aZIH90**