Dating : Take Off Your Pants and Don’t Tell Me Your Name

I see your piercing eyes from across the bar. Staring at me like a wild predator about to leap towards his unassuming prey.

There’s no smirk. No cheesy wink. Just the raw, focused gaze of a man craving something he desperately needs.

Sex.

And it’s that exact look that catches my eye. My stomach starts to drop and the feeling of desire floods between my legs. That look. It’s making me unbearably wet.

Who are you?

After a few minutes, you make your way towards my seat, offering to buy me a drink. I would say you were saving up for the courage to come over, but we both know that would be a lie. A man like you is fearless. Determined to pursue anything that would satisfy his unwavering carnal craving for pleasure.

We sit, side by side, with our knees occasionally brushing up against each other.

One whiskey sour.

Two whiskey sours.

Your face inches closer to mine until I smell the faint hint of malt on your breath. Your hands, large and calloused, snake down the side of my cheek and down my ribcage until you finally rest them on the small of my back. With one squeeze, you draw me closer into your body.

“Let’s get out of here,” you whisper in my ear, sending a sharp tingle down the length of my spine.

The cab ride seems to last forever. With the city lights blurring outside the window and your nose nuzzled in the nape of my neck, I can barely concentrate on where we’re going. After you pay the cab fare, you silently lead me up the stairs into your apartment on the third floor.

Although I’ve never been here in my life, this feeling of embarking into the unknown is all too familiar.

You may be a stranger. But you aren’t the first.

Because as much as you need to dominate something — I too craved to be fucked.

Foreign hands clutching my body. New locations and buildings in places I’ve never been inside. The euphoric sensation that something earth-shattering is about to happen.

That. I crave that.

We waste no time getting undressed. Using your thick, skillful hands, you pull off my shirt and unzip my skirt while kissing my neck. As you bend down to remove my skirt, I feel your erection pressing into the side of my leg.

It needs to be freed.

This might be my favorite moment of the night. Trying to contain all that pent up frustration and desire of wondering what the other person looks like naked. My imagination has been running wild since you laid eyes on me at the bar…in the cab…in your apartment…

And now I’ll get to find out.

Unbuckling your belt with one hand, I expose your cock and gasp. It’s almost as thick and heavy as your hands.

“You’re wild,” you exclaim as you plunge your hard cock into my mouth.

I don’t know if it’s an insult or a compliment, but I don’t care. I’m not afraid to admit that this is who I am. I’m not afraid to say I love doing this. Everything from the flirty dance and the whiskey sours to the salty taste of your cock on my lips.

Don’t pretend like we both didn’t know it would end up here.

I pull back and push you back onto the couch. Grabbing your neck with one hand and running my fingers through your hair with the other, I lower myself onto you. Your look of bewilderment amuses me a little — like no one has ever dared to take control from you before. But I can tell you don’t mind.

After all, you think I’m wild.

I fuck you until we both cum, falling beside each other in a storm of panting breaths. Between the moans and thrusts, it takes us a few minutes to refocus on our surroundings.

And then — like every time before this — I decide its time to leave.

I don’t ask for a glass of water or for us to spend the next few moments cuddling on the couch. I don’t ask to spend the night. And that’s okay — because you don’t ask me to either.

Opening the apartment door, you stop me. Planting a kiss on my forehead, you give me one last look. It’s a different look than the one from across the bar. You’re more relaxed, like a content lion after filling his belly of his nightly kill.

“Can I get your number?” you ask playfully, fulling knowing that you won’t ever call me.

Part of me finds your question charming. Like you’ve been taught to be contractually obligated to ask for the phone number of every woman you slept with. But with me, there is no contract. Neither of us has to pretend this was anything more than it was — one amazing, lust-filled night.

I smirk and tell you we don’t need to stay in contact. A relieved smile draws across your face, and you nod while planting one last kiss on my cheek.

“Oh, and one last thing,” I say, “I’m not wild. I’m just human.”