Thoughts about sex

A boy for my birthday

I turned 30 last week. The day before I got a tattoo. The day of I spent in the following way. Slept in late. Fielded phone calls and text messages from friends and family. Admired the enormous vase of flowers sent to me by an admirer in Toronto. Had a leisurely lunch with my best friend, including a divine piece of German chocolate cake for dessert. Off to a movie with the best friend and another friend. Part of the LGBT Film Festival in town, a collection of bisexual shorts. Dinner with a larger group at a sushi bar. I’d reserved the private lounge. Off to a bar for some drinks. Then finally to another bar for more drinks and dancing.

Which is where things got fun. I absolutely love going out in San Francisco. I get hit on a lot here. By men and women. Much more so than any other place I’ve lived. I don’t know if its just that my look has a different appeal here or if I’m in a place where I’m more confident and that’s what people pick up on. Either way. It works.

I went to dance with friends. I knew I wasn’t going home with anyone or taking anyone home with me. I may be a slut, but I have rules for situations like that. This was a night for being out with friends. Had a couple of guys start dancing with me. We were at a little hole in the wall bar with a dance floor the size of a postage stamp, but the DJ was awesome. There was a couple that was hitting on both me and my best friend (and he’s a big leather wearing queen). He and I are still debating both the gender and the orientation of both members of that couple. Lets just say there was a lot that was fluid about them.

Then he came along. My birthday boy. A little shorter than I generally prefer, but bald and broad shouldered the way I like. I like big burly guys. He was cute. He started dancing with me. Grinding me from behind. Then he spun me around so we were facing each other. Slipped his leg between mine and let me ride him. His arm wrapped around my waist my breasts crushed against his chest. Then he kissed me. Hands on either side of my face. His tongue greedily seeking mine.

We kept dancing.

We kept kissing.

I’d turn away from him and he’d kiss the back of my neck. His hands on my hips pulling me into him so I could feel his rhythm. My hands reaching back to feel him. He grew bolder. His hands on my breasts when we faced each other. My eyes on his as we danced, taunting him. Daring him to go further. Till his hands slipped under my skirt. His fingers grazing the tops of the thigh high fishnets I’d worn. Massaging my ass. His mouth devouring mine.

It was hot.

Here’s the thing. I have folks in my life that love me for my intellect, humor, wit, compassion. All the stuff that counts. And they tell me I’m beautiful. But there’s a different kind of rush that comes from knowing that the person who has his mouth and his hands on you is only doing it cause he saw you and he wanted you. Purely at face value. And for me, cause I’m wired this way, I enjoy the power trip and the freedom of letting someone kiss me, touch me, fuck me, and then walking away when I’m done.

All in all my 30th birthday was a smashing success.

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