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Tinder Block

© 2016 by Abigail Ekue

 

 

 

“Umm, Mom? That thing I just read in your book, that happens for real?” I waited for him to be more specific. “Men like…dildos in their…” he trailed off.

I saved him the trouble of choking on his words. “Yup. Everyday. Women stick dildos up men’s butts. Doesn’t mean those men are gay. Doesn’t mean the women want to be men. It just means they trust one another and want to experience amazing heights of unbridled pleasure.”

For as long as he knew, I wrote about things Mommy and Daddy do in bed. He stared at me because he knew the anatomy lesson was to follow the flowery language. “You have a gland called the prostate that can be reached through the anus," I demonstrated with my fingers. "When it’s stimulated—” He backed out of the room.

“Mom, got it.”

“When it’s stimulated, the man’s orgasm is crazy intense!” I grew louder with each word so he could hear me down the hall. Maybe next time he was locked in our bathroom he’d explore south of his balls.

I turned my attention back to my computer screen. I had a deadline from my editor that had been pushed back twice already. But no words came to me. Writing was easier when I had a life. And a husband. And sex on a regular basis.

So I sat there staring. I resisted the urge to head to my son’s room and chat. He’d see right through my avoidance tactic and banish me back to my office. He was like his Dad in that way—they want me to succeed and know I need discipline.

I clicked ‘save’ on the few words I had written and shut down my computer. I set up shop in my bedroom with my laptop on the floor in between my outstretched thighs. My rationale was working on my laptop could serve as the creative spark I needed. Midafternoon sun scorched the window panes as I got through a few scenes of two teammates thumping each other’s prostates in the locker room and slicking the tiles of the shower. First distraction was my grumbling stomach—I ate, then I was slapped with the urge to nap—I did ten burpees, and the irresistible dings, tacks and chirps from my phone—I checked all my notifications instead of muting my phone.

I checked my email for the twentieth time and read an email from a client informing me of their upcoming payment. They’d be paying me more than my deposit. And I don’t know if it’s the language he used that he wanted to make sure I was happy or if it’s because I knew what he looked like but that email turned me on.

I typed a few more sentences ignoring the tingling between my thighs.

I reread the email, the words ‘I want YOU to be happy and feel comfortable with this assignment’—he capitalized ‘you’ and I read the words with a Lite FM DJ soothe.

The devil on my left shoulder urged me to pour a glass of wine. The devil on my right wanted me to fire up my Netflix queue.

After typing a few more sentences, I couldn’t ignore the tension in my swelling clit. I apologized to my laptop for slamming it shut so hard and hopped up off the floor.

I couldn’t find any of my not-for-resale lube packets so I raked my fingers through the semi-solid coconut oil and got comfortable on the bed. The cool oil tickled my clit and opening as it melted. I was already swollen from the thoughts of my client. I could hear children’s laughter and squeals from five stories below. As a mom, those sounds no longer killed my lady boner. It was thrilling knowing I don’t get thrown off my game. I could still finger fuck myself until I splashed all over the sheets. My son only disturbed me if it was absolutely necessary when I was writing. I exhaled long and loud and nuzzled my clit in the V of my fingers.

My pussy and inner thighs were slick with coconut oil and my own wetness. I could hear my neighbor across the alley open their window. It sounded like he was fiddling with something—a window fan, insect screen—I couldn’t tell with my face towards the ceiling and the ache in my nipples. But I imagined he could see into my bedroom. That he’d pause what he was doing until he could make out what he was seeing. 

Is that… yeah… that’s a woman on the bed, nude from the waist down? Damn!

From his vantage point he could catch a glimpse of my knuckles rising and falling. I was lying on my bed the wrong way around, my feet by my pillows and my head at the foot of the bed towards the window. Without thinking he rubbed his hand once over his twitching dick…

Fuck that’s hot… Mmm, yeah… her legs spread open like that… when she arches her back like that I can see her tits a little better.

I worked my clit with my right hand…

Now she’s using both hands…

I pushed two left fingers into my pussy. I thought about my husband who was probably watching me from on high, my hair splayed across the bed.

 At one intense swirl over my clit and pulse of my vagina my eyes shot open. A flush of warmth took over my lower abdomen as I remembered the first time my husband choked me. He placed his hand on the expanse of my chest below my collarbone. We thrust into each other in open missionary position, our eye contact so intense we stopped blinking. My pussy constricted his dick each time it drove over my internal speed bumps.

I couldn’t make a sound because his hand had slid all the way onto my throat. My mouth hung open in passion. My breasts rolled and bounced. Pressure built up behind my eyes as he pressed down firmly. My hips felt locked in place and the muscles of pussy and ass clenched tighter and tighter with no release. I grabbed his wrist because I didn’t want him to stop. I stimulated my clit with the other. We still hadn’t blinked.

The edges of the wet spot on the sheet beneath slowly spread out. The memories of my husband forcing me to keep my eyes open brought me closer to orgasm. “Look me in the eye when I make you come,” he would bark, threatening to stop fucking me if I closed my eyes. My toes were stiff and my feet flexed in the air that afternoon. I hoped my neighbor was watching, wishing he could smell my raw essence overpowering the virgin scent of coconut.

My upper arms pressed against the inside of my thighs. I channel surfed in my mind between begging my husband to choke me harder and my neighbor torturing my clit until I pushed his dick out of ass from coming so hard. My husband’s gaze darted between my eyes and my clenched hands above my bound wrists. The Peeping Tom’s hand squished back and forth over his precumming dick.

The muscles of my forearms were burning, my breath quickened, my orgasm escaped. I kept it as quiet as I could, leaving my fingers in my pussy till the gripping subsided. I gave myself the aftercare I needed, kneading my inner thigh, lightly squeezing my breasts. What I missed was the sensation of my husband spreading his love all over my face. I sniffed the thick come on my fingers.

Welp, I’d done it again, allowed myself to be sabotaged by sex, food or music. I loaded the sheets into the washing machine and started the cycle. Afterwards, I took a quick cowboy at the sink with the bathroom window open. I didn’t spy any eyes on me when I scanned the windows of the neighboring building. I smiled at my complexion in the mirror. There was no denying these midday orgasms did wonders for my skin. My son walked past the bathroom towards the front door as I exited. The heaviness of his cologne nearly knocked me on my ass.

“Got condoms on you?”

“Mom!” He fought me, but I was sure my son appreciated my brand of parenting. We both missed the balance my husband used to provide. He was more filtered but no less in your face about life and death, especially his.

“I could smell you from down the hall. You don’t think I know you’re going to see a girl?”

“I’m going to the skate park,” he emphasized like I was an idiot and held up his skateboard. “I’m gonna sweat! I don’t wanna stink!”

“Yeah, and there’s gonna be a girl there that you’re gonna show off for.”

He rolled his eyes while he reached into his pocket. He pulled out a triplet of condoms.

“Thank you,” I looked at him as if to ask 'was that so hard?'. I blew him a kiss, he caught it and hauled ass out of the house. My son was the sole focus of my reality-based parenting since my daughter was off at college. I still got regular updates from her about who was doing who in the dorms and her reassurance that she wasn’t pregnant. When she wanted to strike me down with a heart attack she added ‘yet’ to her statement. Having all the background information about people made Family Day visits much more bearable. We grew closer since my husband’s death; she was more of a Daddy’s girl and I didn’t interfere in their relationship. I never asked what was said but after their Daddy-daughter sex talk, she broke up with her boyfriend a week later. I comforted my daughter but jumped for joy on the inside because I never liked that kid.

I breathed in the energy of an empty house and got comfortable in my desk chair to do some focused writing. Maybe even churn out 1000 words. My phone dinged but it wasn’t my email, text, Twitter or travel app notification. When I checked, I saw it was a ‘new match’ notification from Tinder.

I logged in but couldn’t remember ever swiping right on that man. I swiftly unmatched him and settled into a virtual game of Duck, Duck, Goose. There were a few faces who slowed down my left swipe just long enough for me to ponder what about him I’d be willing to overlook. So many profiles with no words written. Men who figured they’d find someone on a dating app by posting a meme instead of their face. Suddenly all the men were laid back and drama free. I knew ‘laid back’ meant ‘broke’ which meant we’d be fucking on his futon and not in a 4-star hotel. Other married men were upfront about needing discretion and there were quite a few poly men or couples looking for a female third.

I swiped right on all the eye candy. Then I got a match! This man looked as though he was related to The Rock but less watered down. He had sun-kissed skin, thick, shoulder-length jet black hair framing his angular face, warm, piercing eyes and a wide nose. My favorite photo in his profile was the topless photo that showed off the Polynesian tattoo covering his entire right muscular pec and arm.

I fantasized about us writhing together while gazing at our photos on the “It’s a Match!” screen. I wanted to hear him exhale his pain through gritted teeth when I released the metal clamps from his pretty man nipples.

He messaged me immediately.

 

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