kittyfireball

...the making of a slut.

I catfished the guy who deflowered me. This was before the term 'catfish' was part of the vernacular. We'd been having an online relationship for six months or so. It was almost entirely sexual in nature. He liked to be watched masturbating. I like watching. I could see him; he could hear me. I told him I didn't have a webcam (lie) and he said he had roommates (true, as far as I know) and thus couldn't speak. I represented myself as a prettier, thinner, dominating cougar. I was confident, sexy, and free in a way I'd never be with someone I thought I might one day meet. After all, we lived in different countries.

Around six months later I planned to vacation in his country but not his city. It honestly never occurred to me to try to arrange a meet. I wasn't even particularly thinking about men in regards to this holiday. But as it happened, James (Jimster is my nickname for him) messaged me on Skype about one week into my vacay. I found it amusing to be chatting to him from within his own country and thought he'd be amused, too. I certainly didn't expect him to be hurt that I hadn't even planned to tell him I was there.

Our encounter was something of a debacle. Did I really think I'd be able to keep him blindfolded for two days? I managed it for about two hours before I took pity on him and let him take the blindfold off. By then I'd given him my first blow job and he'd popped my cherry. Up until the moment of penetration, I think I'd been doing a passable job of maintaining my online persona. But I could only feign so much. When I had to turn the reins over to him (for the actual 'act') the dynamic shifted and the facade collapsed. I assumed it was the removing of the blindfold, and his seeing me for the first time that killed it (later he told me that wasn't the case and that he was able to see me from beneath the edge of the blindfold).

Awkwardness ensued and we drifted off to sleep on separate sides of the bed. Sometime in the middle of the night I woke up and decided Hell no, I'm not going out like this. I'm not sure where I got the nerve but I reached for James' cock with the intention of blowing him even if it was in his sleep. He stirred and murmured a weak protest of, “The Jimster is tuckered out...” “You don't have to do anything”, I responded, “just lie there.” And I took him in my mouth. To my relief, he got hard and I explored him with hands and mouth until he ejaculated. I swallowed my first load then curled up like a kitten and fell asleep. I awakened to the sounds of him getting dressed. I pretended to be asleep as he did a Sneak Out. We'd planned to spend two nights together but it was not to be.

My first instinct was to feel sorry for myself, dig a hole, and hide in it forever. But somehow, I rallied my troops and pressed forward. I made a profile on a site using my real pictures and info and surprise! there were takers... In the last week of my vacation, I bagged three more guys. Two of those still rank in my All Time Top 5 Hook-ups.

As for James, he got in touch with me a couple of months later and apologized for the Sneak Out. I apologized as well for catfishing him and shocked the hell out of him by telling him that he'd de-virginized me. He wished he could have another chance to do (me) better. I'd love another shot at James; especially now that I have award-winning oral skills.

Perhaps next summer, when I plan to go back...

I'm trying to be a friend to Jay, the alcoholic crack-head I spent two years loving/trying to save. In a way, I did save him. Several times. I also enabled the hell outa him. Live and learn. When he was high, he'd get kinky and crave certain sexual activities that I was happy to provide because I'm more than a fool-in-love; I'm a complete and utter brainless-idiot-in-love. And let's be honest here. In bed, I owned him. It was my only edge and I ran with it.

He's sober 3 months now and doing amazingly well. He's also become weirdly fastidious about his 'stuff'. He showed me his new power bank then did a pull-back (as if I was going for his Junk) when I asked if I could feel how heavy it was. A few days later at his house, he tells me about his car-fund consisting mostly of dollar coins he gets as change from public transport. After asking if he was talking about the Sacajawea coin and getting a blank look, I picked up a coin to confirm. He had a mini meltdown about my touching his money. I felt like telling him that there are certain parts of his body that I know better than he knows himself. And that it's not fair that now that he's sober I can not only no longer touch his person, I can't even touch his coins.

What makes it extra special is the way he touches anything of mine that he pleases, despite my protests. He commandeers my car radio, blithely unplugs my charging phone in order to charge his own, and has actually started the car from the passenger seat because he was ready to go.

I still struggle with Sober Jay; I don't know him like I do Cracky Jay. I don't know if I ever would have fallen in love with the sober guy. But it confuses me because they both come in the same pretty packaging. My hands have muscle memory. Sober or not, my hands still itch to stroke him from head to toe. But I can't. Sober Jay doesn't want or need my ministrations. And it frustrates the heck out of the ultra tactile beauty-revering slut in me.

So, Harlequin romances led to historical bodice-rippers which led to the edgier and more sexually explicit of the mainstream romance novels. I remember when you'd be hard pressed to find any anal sex scenes in a mainstream release until fairly recently. Fifty Shades has made it acceptable today but until the millennium, if you wanted hardcore anal scenes, you had to buy dirty books. And buy, I did. I'd oh-so-casually peruse the tiny Erotica section of my local Borders store. I felt like a freak if I stayed in that aisle too long. I'd saunter up, quickly scan the back covers then grab one or two and purchase them in a camouflaged jumble amongst 'legitimate' merchandise. I spent a small fortune on those books until I joined the rest of the human race on the internet/Amazon.com.

I was quite the connoisseur by then and had my favorite titles stashed near my bed for maximum masturbatory convenience. I experimented with 'toys' of all sorts. I was extremely clever with converting everyday, ordinary objects into toys for my satisfaction. My very first dildo was a glass vial that originally held bath salts. It was beaker-shaped and about 6” long. This was the object of my first vaginal penetration (besides my fingers). I fucked myself silly with that thing but I soon craved bigger and deeper penetration. I deflowered myself with a glass Coke bottle. I didn't mean to but I guess in my over zealousness I went too far and ended up busting my cherry. It would be years and years before my vagina ever hosted a real cock, and I think my pre-deflowerment made the real thing go more smoothly than I'd expected. In fact, the guy didn't even know I was a virgin until I informed him months later.

I was very sexual rather early and had no compunction about sniffing out my father's porn, getting off to it every chance I could, then carefully returning it to its hiding place. I mention the books, toys, and porn to illustrate my preoccupation with sex. I was ready to get fucked at age 13 but my penchant for crushing on unattainable guys and my inner hopeless-romantic conspired to make me wait. And wait...and wait... What I find interesting is the fact that as soon as I became sexually active, I completely lost interest in romance novels and for the most part, porn. You might say, “of course, now you have the real thing.” But I don't. There's no love or romance in my life. I fell in love with a crack-addicted alcoholic and spent two years of my life (and a shitload of money) trying to 'save' him. I have a longtime fwb who is a little dictator and more or less disregards our Safe Word when it suits him. I have many hookups; some stellar, some less so. I have NSA bj buddies who don't quite get that I'm not the one on-call...they are. Sex, yes. Romance, no. Cock killed the closet romantic.

I used to consume romance novels like junk food; guilty pleasures to whisk me away from reality into a fantasy world of alpha males and the women who loved them. I'd get lost in these books, feeling sympathy-anguish for the heroines along with sympathy-arousal. Some of my earliest orgasms were achieved leaning on one elbow, book in hand, while the fingers of my other hand were hidden beneath the covers of my bed, busily stroking and circling my clitoris.

In my masturbatory fantasies I was the heroine being awakened to her sexuality by an experienced and masterful hero. Often, said hero was a dominating rat bastard who only redeemed his asshole behavior after becoming captivated by the plucky virgin and humbled in the face of true love. I'd been reading these novels on and off for 20 years before losing my virginity at a humiliatingly late age. By then I'd graduated the Harlequin novels and moved on to bodice-rippers of the 80's which were shockingly politically incorrect (at the time, abusive behavior by the 'hero', including rape, was not uncommon). It was softcore porn, basically. And I loved it.

Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Was I predisposed to be attracted to the Alpha Hero and thus found my secret fantasies in these books? Or did the hundreds upon hundreds of books shape my predilections for dominant men who don't treat me very well? To be fair, I have many issues regarding the male-female dynamic, daddy-issues being at the top of the list; but that's another story...