Last Saturday, one of the other gentleman "on staff" at the gang bangs and I reached official peak boredom while downstairs watching a bunch of dudes' naked butts meander for spots around the women playing that evening. We started whispering play-by-play commentary to each other.
"Ah, here comes the rookie draft pick. He's an unknown talent, but he's showing promise."
"Jim, can we get the playback on that?"
"That's a strong contender for 'Fuck of the Night.' Definitely making the highlight reel."
There was also a new girl that evening who chastised me for being "mean" to one of the participating gentleman while I was chatting with him during social hour. Which just goes to show that, regardless of setting, my incredibly winning personality shines through.
Said gentleman and I actually know each other really well. He's used to my acerbic verbosity as an indicator of emotional affection. I relayed the information to him that I had been "kind of mean" and begged forgiveness in the prescribed method - on my knees.
Yesterday evening, I spent a fantastically platonic time with Newcastle. You know, because not everything in my life is blowjob innuendos.
It's been a long time since I've written about Newcastle. This is not because we haven't been seeing each other. We didn't have to discontinue our friendship after we made out at a mutual friend's birthday party and he said he wasn't interested in being part of an open relationship structure. We did, however, spend a bit of time talking it over. Because there's one misconception about my "sexy" lifestyle that trumps all others: I'm more likely to wear out my jaw talking about all the intricacies of what everyone's doing and how everyone feels than I am to suffer strain due to the genitals I'm interacting with orally.
The eventual summation: I'm a gigantic slut who's still got a significant crush on him. I'm also capable of respecting his relationship preferences and maintaining a platonic-ish decorum when we hang out.
For our date, we went out for conveyor belt sushi (our seat reservation number was 69, because even when I'm behaving myself, the Universe isn't.)
I bought him a milkshake on the way back to his place and teased him because the girl working the register clearly thought he was cute. We spent the remainder of the evening sipping whiskey while watching Clone High and the commentary track on a few Rick and Morty episodes.