"I want to have your abortion."

This is how all sex should have been. In those moments, in that room, with that person, nothing else mattered. Not jobs, not cars, not bills, not the future, not the past, not insecurity, not *your* girlfriend, not love. Raw, and messy, and hard, loud, and...real. That is truly living. That's the beauty of being with someone for one night; nothing is taken for granted. Every gasp, every touch, every moan, every movement felt both like the first and the last.

Few things are as satisfying as fucking someone like you. Nothing is as flattering as being fucked by someone like you.

This morning he drove back to his world, and I drove back to mine, and once I stop walking strangely, I'll always think fondly of what happened in that room. And be thankful that most of the other guests were hearing impaired!

I hope that everyone has at least one night like that in their life. It's life affirming, spirit renewing, and vanity indulging. We all need that to remind us of who we are.

Brought to you by the letter L and the best fuck I've had since grade school.

I was beginning to think I was all the "good" boys had been abducted. Most of the summer has been filled with sexually retarded or emotionally female boys. Of course, boys who say they wish my roommate was in porn or boys who cry on me like a 7 year old girl are great fodder for our quaint little blog here. However, they are wretched for our actual sex lives. But finally, the dry spell is over!

Friday's date couldn't have been more perfect, in that completely fucked up way. The sex was good and plentiful, the head was mind-blowing and flowed freely (pardon the rather nasty pun). Best of all, he knew it was just sex. In the morning, there was no awkwardness, no urge to dart out the door as quickly as possible. Simply the urge to fuck again, and say goodbye with a friendly hug.

Most girls say their faith in boys is renewed by a boy who brings flowers or does something hilariously pathetic and trite like serenade them. Pardon me while I vomit. Romance is an illusion; he isn't being sweet. He's finding quickest way into your pants via your weak, girly emotional state. My faith in boys, on the other hand, is renewed by a boy who can give me multiple orgasms and not feel the need to call me later. I love being me.

Brought to you by the letter L.