Benjamin. A garage. A well-lit garage underneath a large downtown apartment building. And being molested against the smooth metal surface of a not so well hidden vehicle parked in this well-lit garage.
Direct, probing, sensitive, ballsy. An intriguing mix of chick-like sensitivity and rough male sexuality. A pork-eating, high test scoring Jew, Benjamin isn’t stingy with giving compliments, which makes me slightly uncomfortable, since I don’t receive them well. He just blows right past that. Kind of like how he blows past my slight complaints of having my skirt lifted in a public place. Plus he laughs at my jokes. Plus his “chosen people” status automatically qualifies him in the circumcision race, since that’s one of my (many) criteria.
***
Apparently, I have not done my delicate laundry in a couple of weeks. There is a sequitur here, I promise. I found my turquoise knit dress along with the black knit thigh high socks that I wore when I met Benjamin. They were crumpled up into a ball on the cool stone floor. When I picked up the dress, there were some vanilla colored stains on the inside bottom, and that made me frown. Then the memory of how these stains made their way on to my dress made me smile. Smirk. Something that Benjamin makes me do a lot. Well, not while he pulled up my dress to expose my unpantied flesh in the garage. And not while he unapologetically and almost with a just sense of territory found out how wet I was with his fingers and his mouth.
Back to the staine
d dress. It was my fault of course. Or, I should say, it’s the dress’s fault. One simply cannot wear panties with that material. I have tried. The material clings and clings, which is the reason why it looks so good. Underpants, though, is just not in the cards for this garment. The role of panties in general come in three categories – (a) as form, to look good on the skin (b) as function, to hold in fluids that may or may not flow depending on physical or mental stimulation available (c) throwing its weight around as an invisible garment, i.e. sans underpants. C is often as important as A or B. In this case, C aided greatly to Benjamin’s success rate in getting into my pants (1 for 1) and also helped in the staining of my thin dress, because without B, the wetness kept wetting and I had to sit at the airport while enduring this sensation, and keep enduring it on the airplane while it was airing.
***
Benjamin reads this blog. So there is the conundrum of trying not to write for him, though I kinda want to. Writing while things unfold is a little like doing a reality show (except with better writing, did you know people write for reality shows? How fucking sad) and I think a little tacky. Or to fuck him for the sake of the blog. Which, of course, I wouldn’t do. But there is that fear. The “are you going to write about this” or “is what I’m doing writing-worthy” (possible) trap. So, for the sake of integrity, the molestation details will have to remain unmolested.
It’s a little scary. He has the inside track, the shortcut, the pipeline to my cravings and desires. Though, I appreciate that he’s smart, and quite the cheater. I also smirk at the fact that he probably has no compunction towards using what I have written to his advantage. An unfair advantage, but all is fair in love and war, so why wouldn’t the opposite be true as well?
