Not cool. I like to think of myself as exotic, but I wasn’t telling him that. “My name’s Mindy, dumbshit.”
“Okay, okay, just tryin’ to make conversation. Don’t bite my head off. I’m Gary.”
I tossed an annoyed glance at him.
“Your eyes match your hair. That’s cute. Blue.”
“You don’t get laid often, do you, Gary?”
“Wow, you’re brutal.”
“You’re an ass.”
The guy was really starting to piss me off. The lady bartender that had been chatting with her dude looked over at me and chuckled. She had long dark-brown hair and was sexy slim. I could tell because she was bra-less and wearing a tight outfit that give her pert tits all the support they needed. She didn’t have a chance in hell of hiding her nudgies in that top, and she knew it. I bet she was making good tips too. She finally stopped yammering with her guy with the hot hiney and started tending to other customers. I tried to see around the Casanova-wannabe to get a better look at her man and size him up. He had on snug jeans and a black festival-insignia t-shirt, and he had mischievous, reddish-brown James Dean hair. I’d be getting comfortable with him too if I were her.
I sure hadn’t come here for this lame guy, Gary, who was about to ask me if I want another drink. Sometimes guys—and gals—are drawn to my style of punk, or whatever color of hair I might be wearing, and draw faulty conclusions based on the fact that I have a lot of ink on my skin. Well, my boobs, legs, and ass draw their share of attention too—so, all in all, my looks are usually the ice-breaker topic one way or another. And I realize a lot of people think those who wear a lot of tats are just trying to say they’re wild and like to fuck a lot. And, sure, I do happen to like to fuck a lot—but that’s not why I wear tats. Shit, there are people who don’t wear a single tattoo who like fucking a lot. Lots of people like to fuck a lot. Tattoos or no, right? But it’s okay; let their fucking imaginations run away with them. Obviously, some guys are just better at introducing themselves than other dicks. If you’re going to be a bad boy, goddammit, be an intriguing bad boy. Even just a Hey, wanna get it on? is a better lead-in than what I usually get—like from this loser prick.
“You want another—” he started to say before I interrupted him.
“—beer? What, you want to buy me a drink? Hey, then we could tip-toe out of here, and you could buy me a slice of pie at Frank’s Diner, and then we could find a motel cuz I’d have to let you do me for feeding me. Is that what you’re asking?”
He was all pissed off now and turned to leave and find another fishing hole. As he departed, he grumbled, “Fuck you, bitch—rot in Hell!”
Really? He had to say that? ‘Rot in Hell?’ Fuck! Like I don’t know I’m already bound for Hell for my blasphemous act of torturing a mermaid! I tried not to let it get to me and took another drink from my bottle.
Before I could swim in my guilt and alarm, the dude standing at the bar with the nice butt—and now, with no one between us—started to laugh. Then he said, “Hell, I think he’s right—you’re one tough bitch!”
“Who? You mean sweet little ol’ me?” I said while looking straight ahead, lifting my bottle of beer to my lips. I tried not to make it look obvious that I wanted to get into his jeans and ride the bronco.
“Yeah, you. Why didn’t you just take a knife and cut his balls off?”
“I didn’t think he had any or maybe I would have.” I was getting more and more stoked by the attention he was giving me, but I wasn’t going to let him know that yet. I took a drink of my beer.
“You’re a hell of a bitch.”
“Yeah, you said that.”
“And you look like a fuckin’ firecracker. He should have been ready for that.”
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. “You think? A firecracker? Yeah, maybe.”
“Yep, one fuckin’ cherry bomb.”
Okay, that was kind of funny. I turned toward him and said, “I bet you say that to all the bitches.”
He was leaning with his elbows on the bar and bent slightly at the waist, which made his cute booty stand out. His head was turned toward me, and he broke into a slow drawl. “But, deep down inside, I bet you’re nice and sweet as pure honey.”
“Deep down inside where?” I countered with a raised eyebrow.
He kept his soft brown eyes on me and showed a little grin under his Roman nose that matched his wind-blown hair. I liked his face whether he smiled or not.
“Look, I just thought I’d have a drink and be on my way,” I lied. “Aren’t you talkin’ with the bartender chick? She seems to be sweet on you.”
“Who, Jill? Nah, she’s my best friend’s wife. She’s cool.”
“Oh, so you’re just fuckin’ her?”
“Hey now, Miss Firecracker, let’s not get like that. Be cool.”
“Okay, I’ll be cool. None of my business. It’s your bullet to the head.”
“Stop it. It’s not like that. My name’s Jake.”
“Whatever. Mindy.”
“You’re a bitch, Mindy.”
“I get that a lot.”
“You like to ride, Mindy?”
“That question has so many connotations, and I’ll have to say yes to all of the ones that I can think of.”
He raised his beer bottle towards me. “I like the way you think, Firecracker. I mean on a bike.”
“I hope you mean a bike with a fuckin’ good motor on it. I like a good, decent size motor. I gotta have that rumbling feeling under me to get real comfortable. Harley?”
“Of course, baby. It’s a perfect night for it. And wouldn’t you know, I happen to have just enough room on my rumbling seat for you.”
I thought immediately of his nice ass, and then I imagined feeling squeezed up against it as we cruised in the night air. Then I noticed Jill’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar. She was at the other end and was smiling, looking at us—obviously amused. As far as I was concerned, it was enough to signal that the guy wasn’t a bastard, an escaped convict, or something worse.
I took the last swig of my beer and set the bottle down next to the ten buck note that was still lying on the counter. Ten dollars was enough for three beers and a tip in this place, but I didn’t pick it up or ask for change. Pay it forward. I needed all the good karma I could get. Whatever I’d been thinking about slowing down and changing my act would have to wait till tonight’s rodeo was over.
“Let’s go, then,” I announced as I walked toward the door, not looking back.
As we were positioning ourselves straddled tight on the bike, he asked, “So, do you always go out with strangers you’ve just met?”
“Do you?”
He answered by starting the motor, and I squeezed tighter against him, puss-to-tush, my arms wrapped around his waist, as we accelerated onto the highway and into the night.
We sped along wordlessly in the warm, caressing breeze. The full moon was bright, and it lit up the wild grass and tall trees as we passed. There were no other vehicles, and it felt like we were alone on a deserted road as I held on to his firm body and felt his warmth. We were climbing a big hill, and the rumble of the motorcycle made his ass vibrate against my clit, and I was getting excited. I kept quiet though, and I assumed he was like me in not wanting to say or hear anything to spoil what was to come. After all, that’s the critical ingredient in the whole thrilling essence of being whisked away by a handsome, strong cavalier like Sir Fuck-a-Lot. And I, his wants-to-fuck-a-lot lady who happens to be very tattooed, didn’t want to know his weaknesses, hang-ups, or bad habits and didn’t want him to know mine—I was frequently called a bitch for a good reason.
I can be bitingly surly, if you haven’t noticed, and it always gets old to those I start to get close to. Marla, my traditional-minded “sister” tells me that one of these days my true prince will come along and tame the beast clawing around inside of me, or something like that. She may be right, but I’m afraid he’ll turn into a nerdy accountant afte
r I kiss him.
I could feel and hear the motor slow down as we reached the top of the hill. We stopped to have a look-see from the peak. We were above the city and could see its lights stretch across the valley. The road was quiet, and we saw a small unlit roadside picnic table only a few yards away. It looked like as good a place as any to get familiar with each other. I finally let go of him, and we unmounted, walked over, and sat down on the table with our feet resting on the bench seat. Without a word, he reached behind me, grabbed my hair, pulled me to his face, and we kissed with thirsty tongues. His warm breath made me hot, and my clothes were feeling tighter. I lifted his t-shirt, and his other hand squeezed my breast, causing me to moan. I was relieved when he unbuttoned my blouse. Unless he started babbling something about being a cannibal, we had crossed the no-stopping point whether he knew it or not, and I knew he knew it.
We were still kissing heavily when he smoothly slipped a warm palm underneath my bra and started tweaking my nipple. At that point, I was being controlled solely by my sluttiness. I couldn’t help it. That’s who I am and where I most like to be. Shame on you if you want to fuck me and don’t take me there, and shame on me if I let you fuck me anyway. Ecstasy was when the slut within me was released with someone who let me and demanded more. So when he removed my bra, slid his hand up my thigh into my short skirt, slipped his fingers into my thong and inserted them snugly into my raging wet cunt; making me shudder and gasp by his bold intrusion—and said, “Ah, I seem to have lit the fuse—where are those fireworks you’ve had sparkling in your head all night, miss cherry bomb?—show me some of that”—I was ready to explode with a show of fuck-dazzling brilliance. I got up and yanked his t-shirt off. He had nice pecs and dark hair on his chest. I felt it with a slow brush of my hand, then bent down and bit his nipple as I unbuckled his belt and quickly opened his pants and zipper. He raised his ass up as I pulled his pants and boxers down to free his swelling hard-on. His cock was nice and stiff for me, and I was overcome with that wonderful familiar rush of hunger and decisiveness when I gripped his shaft.
That feeling I get with the first grip of an erect cock in slut mode is one of my all-time most favorite pleasures. I once read a male’s account that once a woman wraps her hand around a man’s warm, erect penis, she can’t help but go all the way. That’s ridiculous—for me, I reach slut mode much earlier than that. Once I do, I intend to cum at least once, and he’ll get the action he wants in the process. It’s a strategy that’s worked out more than fine for me. Win-fucking-win.
I guided him to sit on the hard, cement table and he leaned back on his elbows. I wanted a good look at his cock and the generous light of the moon allowed it. I don’t understand why any woman, or man for that matter, doesn’t like sucking cock. I crave a stiff, warm, smooth cock in my mouth, feeling it nudge against the back of my throat. I love licking and stroking and feeling him writhe by the motions of my lips and mouth. Why doesn’t everyone? It’s pure power and so deeply arousing.
Humor me a moment while I embellish upon my blowjob obsession and describe to you the perfect cock for optimum sucking pleasure. For me, there are four kinds of cocks that are suckable for pleasure, and I must stipulate that this doesn’t mean I only judge by the cock and don’t care who it belongs to. No cock is fun sucking if you don’t like the guy, or are just not drawn to the guy for some reason. I mean, I would be much more likely to blow a guy I just met and know nothing about than one who annoys me. I’m doing it for pleasure, and I don’t want to share that with someone who’s a jerk. So don’t think I want to blow every Joe I see. I’m just saying, for comparison purposes, it’s no fun giving BJs to assholes, so I don’t recommend it, even if you think it will get them off your back or to start liking you. Only do it if you want to, and, even if you just keep it a secret craving, you should want to suck it most of the time, unless they’re real bastards.
So, let’s get back to the four kinds of cock. Color and circumcised-or-not don't matter. If the aesthetics of the cock aren’t particularly desirable—like it’s shaped funny, tiny, or whatever—it’s what I call an ugly duck dick. But even so, if I really think the guy’s okay and he really likes me doing it, and it makes me feel good because I’m making him feel good, feeling the power and all that, bravo! But doing it again and again after that would require a near-perfect match in other respects, or true love. I just haven’t hung around any guy with that kind of dick long enough to like him that much.
The second is the pretty kind of cock that’s cute and almost boyish. It’s hard to describe, but you know it when you see it. They’re more like a toy to play with, and I do. It makes moans and other good noises when I pump and suck on it just right. It’s not something I particularly get wet thinking about, though.
Then there are the big, over-sized ones that get dropped on my plate from time to time. These fare better for fucking than sucking, but I can still find a way to make them mine with my tongue, lips, and mouth. I can’t get them far in my mouth without gagging—much less down my throat—and a lot of the time it becomes a treat and turn-on for him to make me gag trying. In a weird way, it’s a turn-on for me too, with all that gasping and spit and slobber all over his cock and my face. I especially love giving it business on its head, and I stroke it a lot. It’s as much as a hand-job as a BJ, and it’s still really hot to hold its hugeness in my hands and feel like I’m gaining its energy.
But the perfect cock I delight to see is the one that’s just the right size for my mouth and for going down my throat. It’s not too pretty, not ugly, but highly stimulating all the same in its own sweet, sensual way. It brings out the naughtiness in me—the bad-girl slut at my core that makes me feel real. I swear, if the apple in the Garden of Eden had been a perfect cock, I would have been the wickedest Eve ever with no shame. I was made for it and it for me. It looks smooth, veiny, purely carnal, hard, and made to be fucking swallowed whole. I lick it all over, kiss it, taste it, smell it, pump it, deep-throat it, and keep it nice and wet, slippery and shiny at all times. I stroke fast and slow. Sometimes I flow with his writhing and moaning, and sometimes I make him squirm in ecstasy just flicking my tongue. I’ve put a lot of thought and work into my BJ practice. If I’m not doing it, I’m perusing it in imagination and literature on how I may improve upon my enjoyment of one of my most ultimate passions.
Judging by how much I was enjoying it, I was giving Jake’s penis a score of nine or ten. Its shaft flowed in that beautiful upward arc, and the head had a nice, dull point to it, all stretched out, while the ridge was prominent and a pinkish-red under the bright, late summer moon. The girth of the shaft fit my hand like a hammer, and I was consumed with the desire to run my lips up and down the length, smelling his musty manhood, lifting his balls with my fingers and licking them softly. I proceeded to relish in the pleasure of sucking and stroking and feeding the fire, causing his groans of pleasure. When he grabbed my hair with one hand, I knew I was doing it right. He started to move my head up and down, using me, handling me like a jerk-off toy. I felt his cock begin to quiver in my mouth and throat as his moans got deeper, and I knew he was about to shoot his load. I don’t always swallow. This time I lay my head on his abdomen and pumped his shaft in a steady rhythm, pulling his skin over the rim with each stroke. I felt it began to throb. It’s cumming, it’s cumming, it’s… cumming! I let his hot cum jizz all over my face. God, this is heaven. He continued to moan and grip my hair while I firmly and masterfully worked his shaft with my hand until I’d squeezed out the last glistening drop. As I watched it fall from his penis tip, warm cum dribbled between my lips, and I tasted its smooth and delicate saltiness. We lay still with my head resting on his chest, which was drenched with sweat from my work. A breeze was helping to cool us off as he slowly ran his fingers through my hair.
We hadn’t spoken before we heard the approach of a car. Who knew if any cars had passed by while I’d had his cock in my mouth—I was totally oblivious. We got up quickly. I grabbed my shirt and did a
quick swipe with it across my face to get the cum off, then managed to put it on and button a couple of the buttons before the car arrived. Jake got his pants pulled up and was putting his shirt back on when the headlights hit us.
The car slowed down, and we recognized the Highway Patrol star on the door. It stopped in front of us, and the patrolman had a big, shiny smile. He pointed a bright flashlight in our direction, then shone it around the small picnic site. After a moment of assessing the scene with his roving eyes, he calmly asked, “Everything all right?” He was about twenty yards away, so I don’t think he could see any evidence of my thoroughly accomplished blowjob, but he seemed to know hanky-panky when he saw it. And what if he did? He’d probably just be jealous. We told him everything was cool, we were just taking a break to enjoy the nice night, and he nodded and dutifully warned us to be careful and to watch out for critters on the road in the dark. Before moseying on, the cop glanced at me and remarked, “Hey, your hair looks blue in the moonlight.”
I replied, “Really? Well, shit, it’s actually orange.”
He laughed and drove off. When his tail light disappeared over the hill, we chuckled.
“That could have been awkward,” Jake said. “Hey, you know, your hair’s a real fuckin’ attention-getter.”
“Yep, you should see what happens when it is orange.”
He smiled and shook his head. “Tell you what, cherry-bomb. Let’s stop at that store down the hill and get some beer. I know a more secluded spot where we can go to continue this little highway fuck fest. What do you say?”
“Well, when you put it that way, how can a girl refuse?” I replied with the sweetest smirk I could muster. “Besides, I like the way you think.”
“That’s my line, bitch.”
“Fuck you. You going to get it up again, Samson? Just sayin’…”
“Oh, you’ll get yours—don’t you worry.”
I didn’t want to tell him that I’d probably enjoyed that blowjob more than he did. “Sure, promises, promises… No pressure or anything,” I taunted dryly.
Mindy Poppago: Blue: Part 1: The Spectacularious Night Page 3