Someone gave me a waterproof vibrator as a Christmas present. (I got a lot of sexually oriented Christmas presents--I'm now the proud owner of a very nice ball gag, a pair of gorgeous red leather cuffs, and a pair of boots I can't actually walk in. Seriously, "Merry Christmas, I got you a ball gag?" Freakin' awesome.) Obviously I'll enjoy it in the shower and bath and such, but late last night I started to think big. Lake Washington has a lot of secluded little neighborhood beaches that are nominally closed at night but not locked. Cold as a witch's tit right now, of course, but when the weather gets better there's something appealing about wading neck-deep into cool black waters and bringing myself to orgasm under the stars, in full view of most of the county.
Or not just myself. I could bring Brandon there and we could fuck, if not in the water then out on the dock, rough wood and cool air and hot skin over the lake, no one watching us but the salmon (and maybe, far away, a stranger with a waterfront view).
The next time I see Jon, I want him to meet me at the door in a button-down shirt and a tie. Maybe even a suit coat. This is not so we can go somewhere fancy. This is because of the soccer dads, the golf bosses, the preppily suburban WASP alphamen of my teenage years, the ones with purebred Golden Retrievers and fake rocks on their lawns, the ones who were always hiring me as a babysitter but never did fuck the babysitter no matter how bad she secretly wanted it. I'm going to tie those men down and I'm going to stuff a gag in their mouth and clamps on their nipples and I'm going to expose that fancy surburban penis (just as pink and vulnerable as anyone's) and even though I am not your trophy blonde PTA housewife I am going to hurt it and fuck it.
And this is for your fucking two-dollar tip, Mr. Peterson... no, relax, open up... you better open up that tight little hole or it's just going to hurt you... oh, is that making you hard? You like it? You're a filthy, filthy boy, Mr. Peterson.