The Dangers of Thinking

"Is this as awkward for you, as it is for me?"

I hope that by shooting the elephant in the room, we'd have a little space to breathe. Horton's internet dating stories never mentioned uncomfortable moments like this. They always started with him being a douche, doing something stupid, and fucking an overweight chick with big knockers. I shoot a glance at Tammy Sue's pretty blue eyes and slender runner's legs, and wonder if awkwardness is my punishment for having standards. This point in my life is no time for standards. In the wake of my first and only loving relationship, I should be sticking my key in every possible lock. Who cares what door it opens?

I spend the next four seconds reviewing the past two hours:

Two hours ago I woke up unusually early for a Sunday, and rushed out the door for my first online date. The throbbing hangover in my head made me question if "watching the 1pm Bills game" as a first date was a good idea. The throbbing moved from my head down to my half erect cock as I take a look at the bra and panties pic she sent me Saturday evening. Why is it, that the pounding of one's heart beat feels so good in the phallus, but so bad in the neocortex?

Back to the present. More than fours seconds have elapsed since I spoke, and she finally has the courtesy to respond,

"Uhhh, yeah, this is kinda awkward, haha."

Wiser words never uttered.

The pounding is now in my heart as I realize there is no easy escape. I hate awkward moments. I just drove an hour south of my home in Buffalo to pick her up from her small bumblefuck town where "there's more cows than people." I am growing irritated that everyone from Cheyenne County loves to say that phrase, as if "more cows than people" something to be proud of. I hate country girls. In New York City I could make up an emergency, hail her a cab, and retreat to the comfortable solitude of my bachelor apartment. Right now, the only escape will involve another awkward, silent, hour-long drive back to Tammy Sue's cowtown, which seems far more nauseating than sitting on the couch with her. The things single people do for sex. I flash through my mind the mistakes I could have corrected to have stayed happily not single. I miss Carly. Let me stop thinking now. Thinking too much is dangerous.

Last night, setting up this date seemed like a great idea. Being newly single, I jumped on the opportunity to meet up with a blonde cutie from the internet. We started messaging early last week. Within a few days we were texting and exchanging photos. She seemed very gregarious via electronic communication. Last night, without any request from me, she sent me black and white photo of her posing in a dark lacy bra and matching silk panties. My appetite was whet. She asked me to reciprocate. I responded with "Why don't we meet up tomorrow and you can take a picture yourself?" I become aggressive when aroused. I went to bed last night with a stiff erection and the thought of what an outgoing nymphomaniac she must be to send an unsolicited underwear picture.

In person she was anything but. I parked outside her house around 12pm and called her cell phone to announce my arrival. All I heard in response was verbal static.

"What?" I said.

"...." she mumbled again.

"Huh?"

"I said, I'll be right out!" She finally squeaked.

I made a note to to get the volume of my phone fixed. Once in the car, I observed that my phone wasn't the problem. Tammy Sue spoke in an inaudible whisper reminiscent of the new girl in kindergarten introducing herself to the class. I wasn't expecting to deal with an auditory issue. My only concern before the date, was in the visuals. At least that wasn't an issue. Tammy Sue had bright blue eyes and fair blonde hair that were not apparent in her muted online photos. She wore a pink spaghetti strap tank top under a hooded sweatshirt that was just tight enough to show her hour glass figure. Her ratty white-washed jeans over flip flop sandals fit in perfectly with the country girl stereotype I had already conjured in my head. Now only if she could talk...

Being extremely quiet myself, I'm not used to interacting with other shy people. The entire car ride's conversation consisted of me making comments and laughing at my own jokes while all she did was smile and look down. Not fair! I'm supposed the be the quiet one. By the time we reached my rented house in north Buffalo, I was seething at Tammy Sue for forcing me to carry the conversation. Carly would always pick up my slack with her hyper-social nature. Tammy Sue was giving me more work to do. Two introverts can't be expected to have a comfortable first date.

At this moment, these two introverts are sitting on my couch in silence. I've already forgotten our last conversation thread. Kelley Sue sits silently in my periphery. She seems content to stay speechless for the next fifteen minutes too. I'm starting to panic. In uncomfortable times like this, one must seek the counsel of wiser minds. What would an extrovert do? As the Bills game goes to commercial, I offer to get Tammy Sue a glass of water and go to the kitchen to text Horton for advice.

Nick Horton is the archetypical social butterfly frat boy. He gets too drunk, has sex he doesn't remember, then brags about it to his social circle, family, and just about anyone else who will listen. I text him,

"Awkward online date. Help!"

I consider adding, "You can swap out with me if you want, she has big tits." He loves going on dates like this. I'm sure his are more fun. I certainly don't want to be here anymore. Why did I put myself in this situation? Maybe Horton is the reason that I feel this pressure to seek sex through uncomfortable dating experiences. Your friends set a point of reference for all of your accomplishments. The only reason I feel financially secure at this point in my life, is that I earn more money than my friends. Is the only reason I feel lonely, that my friends have more sex than me? I'm twenty-two years old, I should be fucking someone. Right?

Why do we fuck? My left brain's collection of science facts reminds me we have these little slave drivers in our cells called "genes." These microscopic, selfish fuckers are the underlying reason for all our animal behaviors such as eating, drinking, and fucking. If it wasn't for my selfish genes trying to duplicate, I'd be able spend my Sunday watching football, curled up in ball, wallowing over my failed relationship. Yes, that's what I'd rather be doing right now.

I take a deep breath into my belly and notice that I'm in the kitchen. It's the first time in two months that I've acknowledge our linoleum floors. For this thin slice of time, I forget all the looming social pressures: to have sex so I can look cool, to look cool so I can impress this strange girl in my living room, and to impress this girl so that we can have sex. I like these linoleum floors. They are easy to clean and feel silky through the thin dress socks that my feet are in. I think of Tammy Sue's bare feet on my living room carpet. Two hours ago, Tammy Sue first stepped those slender feet into my car. I immediately found it odd that a girl who didn't paint her toenails would wear flip flops to a first date. My negative internal dialogue entered to explain to me that a girl who doesn't care about the presentation of her feet on a first date, clearly doesn't give a shit about the guy. Hence, there was no way I was going to see this girl again and get laid. Fuck you internal dialogue.

The throbbing of my heartbeat which had found a home in my chest, now moves slowly down my abs to where my belly is breathing. I feel calmer. Dr. Neal says that high levels of carbon dioxide in the blood is correlated with anxiety. If you breathe with your chest, carbon D sits in your lower lungs and keeps circulating. Exhaling fully with your abs forces the stale air out and reduces anxiety. I make a mental note to try to always breathe like this.

My science daydream is distracted by the rustle of Tammy Sue adjusting herself in the sun-spotted living room. From the kitchen, I can see the afternoon sunlight sneak through the venetian blinds and pepper Tammy Sue's summer-tanned skin. I take a side step so she can't see me indulging in her visual. The light looks warm as it kisses the contours of her female figure. The outside plane of her left tit is keeping unusually round shape for being braless in a spaghetti strap tank top. She must have just taken off her hoodie when my back was turned. Yes it is hot, isn't it? Afternoon shadows synthesize in the crevices of her left earlobe and neck. I want to kiss it. And lick it. And bite it. From my rear view of her from the kitchen, she is a glowing silhouette sitting on my sofa. My cock glows with a rush of hot blood. He knows what to do. The wisest mind was in my jeans this whole time.

I enter the living room like I'm splitting labia. I totally forgot about the water. She doesn't notice. I guess she isn't really thirsty. She licks her lips anyway. I plant myself next to her and slide my hand behind her head to put my arm around her, while also catching some blonde locks in my hand comb. She is warm. I want to touch it. I mean, her. I want to touch her.

My left front pocket buzzes. It's a text from Nick,

"Just ask her questions and make jokes. Keep talking. U got this"

Sorry Nick, I don't need you anymore. The little head in my pants is a much better advisor. Who needs conversation when you're horny? All I need to do follow the feeling. Escalate. Anxiety results from thinking too much on what to do next. Excitement is the bane of insecurity. Turn off the thought stream. Let desire direct you. When you're aroused, the next action is obvious.

I give Tammy Sue a peck on the cheek like Five-Year-Old-Me did to pretty five year old girls in kindergarten. In kindergarten, I don't think he ever had the issue of erecting through his spiderman briefs. But right now, the head of my cock has slid past the lower limit of my spiderman (adult) boxers and is a painful pleasure pressed against the inside of my jeans. I don't care if she notices the denim triangle that is now pulsing on my right thigh.

She reacts to my platonic kiss in the same way as the kindergarten girls did- with a blush and a giggle. I love awkward moments. She doesn't have to finish the courtesy giggle, when my arms scoop up her thighs and mount her on my denim thigh saddle. Our lips attack each other furiously and sloppily while she bucks her hips in time with the throbbing of my cock against her leg. She is clearly a skilled rider. I love country girls.

Clothes come off. We decorate the corners of the living room with her tank top, belt, and white-washed jeans she was wearing. Her nipples drill into my Pima cotton t-shirt as she bites my bottom lip, then collapses in my lap with an exhale. She is warm and curled up in my lap like a little kitten. Just like any feline, she tugs on my shirt affectionately. Oh, she wants me to take off my clothes, too. We can't do that here. My roommates may come home at any moment. While the thought of having an audience for this kitty show is exciting to me, Tammy Sue is likely to get embarrassed, and my roommates would probably not take kindly to me leaving yet another mess on the couch. Which mess would make them more upset, Tammy Sue's vaginal fluids, or the Mighty Taco sauce I spilled last week, that will remain on this couch for eternity? No time to ponder life's questions. I have a female to explore.

I cradle her nude body in my arms and carry her upstairs to my bedroom. Each step rocks her firm, pantie-covered rear into my hip. I feel the emanating furnace of her loins through my shirt. This cat is in heat. How odd is it that Tammy Sue was an awkward stranger twenty minutes ago? My only task at my hand is to remove her last article of clothing: a red and yellow pair of unflattering panties that say, "I really was not expecting to have sex on an Sunday afternoon first date."

I lay her diagonally on my futon bed to hide how small my sleeping surface is. We kiss again. This time its slow and sensual. There is almost no motion, as if the nerve endings in our lips are intertwining through moist epidermis. She breaks character by driving her surprisingly strong tongue into my mouth.

"You must by good at sucking dick," I growl.

She just nods with a sarcastic smile to communicate "no shit, and if you shut up, I might show you." She sends me another non-verbal signal with her tongue, to tell me to use my mouth more. Message received. I nibble her neck and slide down to her firm breasts and nipples. I gently drag my teeth across her skin and take the kill by licking the erect target on her right tit. She coos a long breathy moan, "ooooooooooooooohhhhyyesssssssss"

That's the most she's said all day.

With her eyes closed, and mouth open, Tammy Sue finds my hot swollen genitalia and grabs a handful through the top of my jeans. With a second, louder moan she unbuttons them and pulls them down futilely, in the fashion that a four year old tries to throw a baseball. As I remove my jeans, my hard cock springs out to scold me for leaving him in the bullpen for so long. I'm not the only one to be gratified here.

Tammy Sue eyes are still closed, but somehow she homes in on my cock and wraps her lips around the head, then pulls off with a loud slurping sound. She lines up six kisses down my shaft to my scrotum. Her powerful tongue runs up my balls to the tip of my penis, and she dives down to deepthroat. Just a quickly, her gag reflex pulls her back. A pool of saliva leaks from her mouth on to my cock. She looks embarrassed. She shouldn't be. There is nothing more sexy than enthusiasm in oral.

She wipes her mouth and I pull her in close for a hard kiss. We roll over together so I can pin her against the mattress. Tammy Sue is panting. She's mine and she knows it. I dance my left hand from her pierced belly button down to her snatch. She didn't shave. I didn't care. I avoid the pubic forest, and run my middle finger over her engorged clit and swim it through the waterfall that has now started flowing between her legs. I press the pad of my middle finger onto her swollen g-spot, while my thumb sits firmly on her clitoris. I haven't felt either of these two body parts in over a month. God damn, it feels good to be home.

Home. Three thousand thoughts spin in my mind of nonsensical sensory scenes of Carly, wet and naked, in a plethora of positions on various pieces of furniture. Had I known then, that I would one day miss those moments, I probably would have kept the camera on.

Tammy Sue snaps me out of my nostalgic tangent with her kitty claws in my back and subtle purr. If, at this point, she were to meow and ask me for a ball of yarn, I wouldn't be the slightest surprised. My left ring finger accompanies my middle finger inside her and I start pulling and pumping her g-spot. I don't normally jump into the river this quickly, but high tide is high tide.

As a child, I had the strange habit of tightly wrapping my fingers or arms with any sort of smooth cloth--blankets, shirts, even other people's clothing. I'm not sure why this sensation of being wrapped is so pleasurable to me. When you're a toddler, such odd tendencies are cute. As an adult, one must find more private ways to indulge in one's fetishes.

Few things give me more satisfaction in life than when a woman's vagina engulfs my fingers with heat and wetness. I used to think that this was just ego satisfaction, as the ballooning of vaginal tissue is a solid precursor to orgasm. But I couldn't care less if Tammy Sue were to come. I just want my two fingers to stay inside her for as long as her pussy will meet me with these willing wet walls. Heaven exists, and it's somewhere between two labia.

My boxers still haven't made it past my ankles. I stand up and penguin walk to the shelf where I keep my "bag of goodies." It's a leather pouch, once used for someone's makeup, that now is home to condoms, lube, a cock ring, and various vibrating toys that we currently don't have time for. I remove a condom from the bag. I slide the condom over my dick, then slide Tammy Sue over the condom. I manhandle her by the waist and fuck, fuck, fuck. Her un-pedicured feet now flank my ears. I place a thumb in her mouth for her to suckle. Her head swivels to follow my thumb as I lead her to face me, and open her moist blue eyes. Holy shit, she's beautiful. The stillness of her two blue ponds reflecting up at me are a odd contrast to her tits nearly smacking her in the face with each thrust. I almost feel guilty for disrupting the peace. Almost.

I continue to penetrate her while I adjust her legs into different configurations. I turn her over and drive her from the back while she emanates a loud visceral scream that I previously thought she was incapable of. It feels great, kind of. I mean, I'm surely glowing with ego-satisfaction. The audio/visual of me pounding her pussy is fit for pornography. However, there seems to be a disconnect between myself and my cock. It's as if I'm watching myself have sex. I know my dick feels the coital friction, but it's as if it's stingily keeping the sensation from me.

The setting September sun through my bedroom window notifies me that it's a good time to finish. Very well. Past tantric adventures with Carly taught me to last as long as I wanted through breathing and muscle tension control. The unfortunate side effect of this practice, was that I had trouble coming when I wanted to. I clutch Tammy Sue's rump with both hands and thrust as hard and violently as my hips will allow. If you think about baseball stats to delay coming, what do you think about when you want to come sooner? I think about jizzing. I think about peeing. I think about Carly. I think about tits, and pussy, and milfs, and threesomes, and gymnasts riding horses. I'm so lucky to be fucking this blonde bitch. Think about her nipples. This is the best rebound ever. I deserve happiness. I deserve to be cured. Fuck, I still miss Carly. Just come and get this over with! Tammy Sue looks like she's in pain. Think about watering plants...

I eliminate a hard nut into the condom inside her. It doesn't feel particularly good. If it wasn't for my taint muscle spasming and the hot sticky semen shooting out my urethra, I wouldn't know that I came. It feels more like dirty relief than pleasure; as if I just sneezed, or took a long piss. I remember that David Shade
said something like, "if you want to see a girl again, don't come in her pussy if you haven't gotten her off yet." I don't think she came, but I could already feel the post-ejaculation endorphin and cortisol release, and was in no state to think. I pull out and notice that the condom has streaks of blood on it. I don't care. Oxytocin is tickling my brain. I just want to snuggle with something warm.

"Was I good enough?" she meows.

What an odd thing to say to an insecure little boy who feels lucky to just to have gotten the chance to put his fingers inside you. Whatever, I can't think right now. Thinking is dangerous anyway. I crumple next to her as my eyes start to close. My last conscious sensation is of her crawling into my arms to cuddle her face in my neck. Mmmmm yes, endorphins.

This was Sunday.