Can we talk about getting a dick shoved into our throats while having our heads held down for a second? What makes guys think this is a good idea? And how can we know they’re the type to do it? Looking back, this dominance in bed showed itself sooner. Now I see clearly what I only got inklings of at the time.

He strolled up to my booth, an impressive presence—hunky, sculpted, chiseled—in search of a water adventure. I felt something as I leaned over the binder to turn the pages showcasing our different options. A familiarity. It wasn’t physical, and it wasn’t coming from my head. From my heart? My soul? 

I stole a glance from under my sunglasses, and I swear I saw his face morph a little until it looked like something familiar before quickly disappearing. My eyes offering affirmation to whatever soul code was playing out. 

General Horseplay was the perfect place to meet with its dark, velvety speakeasy style, and they make a stellar Dark & Stormy.

“Here’s your Dark and Lo… I almost said dark and lovely,” he said. “Which you are.”

[This is not a blog about how to spot a player, which I can do and he obviously is. I’ve declared myself off the market until my book is on the market, so that suits me just fine].

He asks about my life, my world, my work, living in Key West. I tell him I’m writing a book and launching a business. I ask about his life back. He’s a bodyguard, from Miami, we talk about who he’s protected and the job that took him to Afghanistan. He’s well read and we share similar views on things.  

Good looks and good conversation, my favorite combination. For me, foreplay always begins with oral—communication, that is. If I’m stimulated intellectually, I’ll be all the more stimulated when things move closer, and lower. 

He feels comfortable. Easy to talk to. But the conversation never swings back to me. No questions about what my book is about or my business. Or anything.

Once outside, he pulls me into a little alcove, slides his hands around my waist, tries kissing me. I turn my head and say I should probably get going home. He purrs into my ear an invitation to his hotel room, which I decline. I say I have a cat to feed, my phone needs charging, my bed has just-washed sheets I’m looking forward to. He holds onto my hand as I try to walk away. He pleads some more. I say he’s got a snorkel trip to get up for, I’ll see him tomorrow night. 

Then he puts his tongue in my ear (a move akin to kryptonite) and my resolve melts. It feels so good to be wanted, desired, pursued—doesn’t it? Screw it, I think. Let’s have some fun. Even though he looks like he could split me in half if the size of him was any indication of his size. Which it was. 

But did you have to slam it into me to validate the fact? With my wince and my hand pushing against your chest telling you to let me expand and welcome you. Was your pride more important than mutual pleasure? 

Sure it was.

Everything after the entry was orgasmic, so I came back for more the next night. It’s not every day you get turned into a puddle in the middle of the bed, and he was only here for a few days. 

The vibe was different. Less sensual, more sexual. He took my hand and put it on his erection. What is up with this move? Do you think I can’t find it on my own? Bruh, I know exactly where it is–-it’s pushing and pulsing against me to the point of bruising, I’m pretty sure I can find it. Relax, I’ll get to it. 

But it wasn’t fast enough because now you take my hand and put it down your boxer briefs. Because I don’t know how foreplay works, and I need you to show me. Is it Thursday and this is some throwback move from my teen years where the great compliment a guy bestowed was, ‘You’re making me so hard!’

As if that’s hard to do. I’ve done it without even trying—bending over to tie my shoes, cooking dinner, trying to leave for work. Walking into the room. It’s not exactly an Olympic sport. 

Or maybe you’re afraid I’ll mistake you for one of those guys who doesn’t like to have his dick touched and sucked. 

I mumble something about not bossing me around and go take a shower. I want to feel the happy anticipation of ‘I’m going to have sex’ tonight, but something prevents me. There’s some sudsy foreshadowing going on.

Shortly after sliding into bed beside him, the “guidance” continues, now with my head. What in the world makes a man think that shoving his erection to the back of my mouth, forcing it into the top of my throat, against my gag reflex, over and over again is okay? And since that doesn’t provide enough torque for you, please put your hand on the back of my head and force it down so you can go even deeper. Block off my airway. It’s alright. You’re getting off. That’s what’s important here.

Then he goes to straddle me. Oh, hell no. I’m not letting you pin me. I rolled out, sat up, and thought for a moment before saying good night. 

[Disclaimer: I’m not anti-blow jobs. I can even get off when giving them to the right guy. This isn’t about the dick in my mouth—it’s about dick moves].

Riding the elevator down to my bike, I wonder what makes men do this. This force-feeding of their dicks. Did I shove my pussy in your face and hold your head hostage? (You probably would’ve liked that). I didn’t need to. I let her succulence and sweet nectar speak for itself. Drawing you to it, not smashing it into you.  

This was everything I was trying to say subtly before getting up, getting dressed, and getting out. I wish I would’ve said it all then, and I certainly will, should it ever happen again. If, for some wild reason, you’re reading this, Bodyguard Hottie from Room 417—the inspiration for this blog came from you.