Sex and the Ivy

Quotables: Matryoshka Doll

Filed under: Quotables, Summer Guy — Elle December 29, 2006 @ 12:22 am

Summer Guy: You are like a big puzzle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a “What the fuck?”
Me: Wow, that was like perfect material for the blog.
Summer Guy: Damn it.


Filed under: Kyle, Men, Sex — Elle December 25, 2006 @ 7:01 am

Part three of the series on Kyle. It’s definitely time for a sex scene but blowjobs take forever to write. Please wait patiently on part four.

“You have an awesome ass.”

I smiled. “Thanks,” I said, with more amusement than flattery. Leaning over my PowerBook in search of a Damien Rice song, I was clad in black lace boyshorts and not much else. My company on this particular evening was none other than Kyle, who decided when my clothes came off that my ass was his favorite part of my body. With the view he was getting of my rear in barely there panties, I wasn’t surprised he couldn’t take his eyes off of it.

“But you already know you have a great ass, don’t you?” he teased. I laughed and thought back to earlier that night when we met up at a party. Though just getting to know each other, we were flirting up a storm when he made a similar accusation about me being acutely aware of my own sexual appeal. Guys rarely intimidate me but Kyle threw me off-guard by calling me out.

“You’re one of those girls who’s cute and knows it,” he said, sipping on his drink. A smug grin already on his face, he followed his observation with a look over that left me hotly disconcerted. I didn’t know how to respond but to laugh. Would it be more cocky to concur or more disingenuous to disagree? In the time it took for me to make up my mind, he continued teasing me.

“You are,” he insisted.

“Maybe a little …” I confessed with a smile, well-aware that modesty has never been one of my better attributes.

I had to give him credit. He knew what to say and how to say it. While most guys didn’t know what to do with girls in general (much more with me), Kyle turned a typical compliment about my looks into an indirect salute to my confidence. He could tell I wasn’t the sort of girl who fell for lines. I could tell that he wasn’t the sort of guy I could play games with. It was a good thing circumstances made our pairing a forbidden one.

And yet mere hours later, he was checking out my ass and I was checking out his credentials for a background in reverse psychology. I couldn’t believe the position I was in. Despite our mutual acknowledgement that ours was an unwise tryst, the transition from hanging out to hooking up came all too easily. And with Kyle, I did it voluntarily. Where other guys made me feel manipulated, he made me feel in control of the situation — and what a situation it was. We spent hours with the covers kicked back, our limbs tangled, and the tension high as we negotiated mutual limits while teasing the boundaries of acceptability.

After he left, I sank back into my bed, more exhausted than I’d been from any hookup in a long time. But I couldn’t get to sleep. Though the whole encounter was wrong and dirty, it was the seduction that kept me intrigued and insomniac. Kyle was out the door, yet I was still left pondering his comments earlier that evening: Do I really conduct myself with a certain awareness of my sexual appeal? But more importantly, I couldn’t understand why I cared about what he said — especially if he probably just wanted to rile me up. While lines from most guys would’ve long been forgotten, Kyle’s accusation still hung fresh on my mind. I had to wonder if there was something different about him, about this whole situation. For once, I was asking myself a question I usually knew the answer to: Who was the seducer and who was the seduced?

Quotables: Chastity, Reaffirmed

Filed under: Quotables, Terra — Elle December 22, 2006 @ 5:51 pm

Terra: “From now on, I’m celibate.”
Me: “Honey, you’re a virgin.”

The Road to Hell

Filed under: Kyle, Men, Sex — Elle December 20, 2006 @ 6:25 am

Part two of the series on Kyle.

Despite my best intentions (see previous entry), it was my bedroom Kyle showed up in at the end of the night. He had text messaged me a few hours after the party ended, asking after my whereabouts before eventually stopping by. At this point, I was still determined to pair him up with an appropriate gal pal. Since we hit it off earlier, I thought a late-night conversation might let me better gauge compatibility. Besides, my night had been uneventful save for our colorful meeting and I was always up for entertaining company in the wee hours of morn.

But the second he walked in the door, reason walked out. More acquaintance than friend (and even a stretch at that), he could hardly be trusted to confine to boundaries I took for granted around platonic male friends. And judging from his suggestive behavior earlier that evening, I had an inkling of what he was after. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure if having a cocky, horny sweet-talker sitting on my bed was the best start to my matchmaking scheme.

I suspected that he was interested, but I thought that he must have known better than to pursue a girl who was involved with his friend. Yet Kyle was the sort of guy who kept his eyes on the prize even if the prize had already been claimed. To be fair, my involvement was never exclusive, though it was certainly intimate enough to test the strength of fraternity (as both of us would later learn). In the heat of the moment, it wasn’t as if friendship really mattered. Obligation came second to curiosity — the player largely responsible for our mutual undoing.

Sitting across the room from him (all seven feet’s worth of room), there wasn’t much mischief that we could brew up with verbal banter alone. But once I made the (seemingly) logical transition onto the bed, my head made the less logical transition onto his arm, and with that went all self-restraint. Pretty soon, we were playing the do-we-or-don’t-we game, our lips just short of touching with hot breath on expectant tongues, our hands roaming over cotton and pressing hard for the skin beneath.

Hardly any less in the wrong than he was, I asked teasingly, “Didn’t you get the memo that I am very much off-limits?” Without pause he replied, “That just made me want you more.”

Who was I to protest against a man who was both deliciously impudent and disarmingly confident? I decided then that if we weren’t to have sex (surely too grave an offense considering circumstances), something just as titillating would have to be in order. As I wrapped a leg around his waist and pulled him closer, I smirked and whispered, “I’m not going to kiss you.”

It was the one line I wasn’t willing to cross.

“But there are other things we can do.”

Paved with Good Intentions

Filed under: Kyle, Men, Sex — Elle December 19, 2006 @ 7:10 am

The first part to the series on Kyle.

I’ve never been a good girl, but I’ve got my limits when it comes to being bad. Besides trans fat and anal sex, there’s a fair number of items on my never-ever list. With a certain new hookup, however, the boundaries blur. For the past several weeks, Kyle has been pushing my buttons (and a few body parts) and I’ve been throwing all my rules out the window as this illicit relationship has escalated. Maybe it’s because this bad boy’s proven to be an irresistably good lay; maybe it’s because he’s an admitted asshole whose self-awareness is more endearing than loathsome. But I have a hunch that it’s more than that. Both my sexual and intellectual match, he’s hardly intimidated by my reputation. That’s not only a rarity nowadays, but a turn-on.

As such, there are things I let slide with Kyle that no one else would get away with. For example, text messaging me at three in the morning expecting to get ass. But I find it impossible to refuse his company if only because I can’t wait to hear the lines he’ll use this time.

“So what are you doing here?” I asked him two weekends ago. “I have a big crush on you,” he slyly responded. It’s retorts like these that make it difficult for me to turn him down. I can’t quite call him charming but I can’t accuse him of sleaziness either. He’s somewhere in between — smooth and smug with a smirk to match. Our banter and foreplay is like one elaborate inside joke. Kyle knows how to handle me so that I never feel like I’m giving in or letting him win. I know that even though I can drive, I prefer handing him the keys and enjoying the ride.

The first time we hooked up was after our second meeting, when I pegged him as a potential candidate for a friend. Since he was just a degree removed from someone I fucked, Kyle was unfathomable as a hookup and never even made it onto my own radar. He might as well have been gay, which is probably why I let myself act unabashedly flirtatious around him. I leaned into him while I laughed, returned his mischievious glances, and whispered comebacks with my cheek against his. As we drank, danced, and partied among mutual friends, it didn’t occur to me that this attractive, smart-mouthed stranger could end up in my own bed.

Behind his shoulders, I saw Rena mouthing a distinct “NO” when she noticed our shameless behavior. Around me, my pals were raising their eyebrows in a similarly disapproving fashion. They were mistaken, I thought. As rash as I am, Kyle’s associations simply ruled him out as sex material, which was precisely why I let myself put on a show. Even I had better judgment than to act on that sort of impulse. Besides, I already had plans in mind for setting him up with someone. Kyle, however, had different plans …

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