Basic Bitches Finish First
I’m a basic bitch. I drink pumpkin spice lattes from Peet’s coffee in autumn. I wear Lululemon to the gym. You’ll find seasonally appropriate decorative hand towels and scented candles from TJ Maxx in the bathrooms of my house. Basically, I live my life enjoying the widely-derided, mass-produced luxuries marketed to single women of a certain age.
When I was sixteen, I lied to the DMV and told them I was five-foot-three. As we all know, an inch can make a big difference. I’m five-two in stacked heels and have a full head of gray, undyed hair. I don’t botox (yet), but I do take care of my skin, and my gym routine keeps me slim. I don’t want you to think it’s a “perfect” body. I have, as a drunk Caltech student yelled out to me once while I was walking home, “nice tits to ass ratio,” but instead of sculpted abs I have a pooch belly. I’m in my mid-forties, and I’m happy with my body as it is.
You, Jason Ahn, you’re an inch short of six feet, about 145 pounds, and, if my trig is correct, a dick about eleven inches. You are perfection incarnate. We are early risers, and for the past two years, we’ve both found ourselves pedaling away at the five o’clock HIIT class at the Green Street gym. We don’t speak much. Sometimes you help me adjust my bike and sometimes you lean over and whisper, “Hey, you got your shirt on backwards again.”
I don’t know if you think of me at all, but at night, I masturbate myself to sleep thinking of you. Most nights, I imagine you are lying in my bed, cock erect. I sit next to you. I stare at your beautiful face looking up at me, and then I kiss your cheekbones and slowly work my way down to your lips, your Adam's apple, and then the hollow of your collarbone. I swing my legs over you and move my hips up and down. I grind my pussy against your cock, but don’t let you enter. Your cock quivers as I tease you. You thrust your hips towards me, and I bear down. Both of us groan as my wetness envelopes your cock. And then, we ride each other until we come.
At least once a week I dream of you and wake wet and horny. This week, I dreamt we were at the Hollywood Bowl and Pink Martini was on stage. We were both dancing. You knew how to dance well, and your body moved in perfect rhythm to the music. As the song ended, your hands slid across my waist and then you grabbed my arm and twirled me around. You pulled me towards you, and your arms wrapped around me. I could feel your heart beating as I pressed my face against your chest, enveloped in you. It was silly and it was bliss. It was musical foreplay. When the concert ended, we made love in the car before we drove home.
At times, I feel blue and list 100 grateful things in my life. Your gorgeous, sexy body is the first on my list. But now that we’ve talked, I’m adding your generosity, your sense of humor, your intelligence to the list.
I based my penis calculations on the picture we took at Griffith Park. Annalise, the lead fitness coach at our gym, organized a charity walk, and I signed up without even asking what the charity was because you always volunteer for these types of things. I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure Annalise was the one that made you my walking partner.
You’re fascinating. Ten minutes into the walkathon I knew you were single and over your ex. By mid-course, you had told me (at my request) a condensed version of your life story, your work at CalTech, and the house you just bought. By the walk’s end, I wanted you as much for your you-ness as for your sculpted, perfect abs.
In the picture, I’m standing to your right, looking straight at the camera, overjoyed. You are looking to the side, and the angle shows off the sculptural nature of your face—your full pouty lips, your thick arched eyebrows, the perfect V-shape of your face is on clear display.
That day at Griffith Park, I finally got it together and invited you to dinner at my house. I am sure that we both understood that tonight’s invitation was cenam et bonom cex and not just cena. (The week after you came back from vacation, I overheard you discussing the graffiti at Pompeii and laughing at how graphic some of the murals were. I’m assuming you know Latin, but in case you don’t, it’s dinner and good sex, and not just dinner. )
I have a 40/10 schedule, and so I’ve invited you to my home on my off day. Climate change has come to California and it has been raining all week. I open the door so you can come in rather than having you wait outside and get soaked. Your jeans are fitted, and you are slightly tented. You’re wearing a black sweater. I don’t bother to look at the shoes, because you step in and hug me and are about to give me the wine bottle you are holding when I ask, “Sex or dinner first?”
“Oh,” you reply.
~~~
Five years ago, the jerk who I thought was the love of my life walked out on me. Not for a girl, not for a better option, but because he couldn’t see a life with someone as basic as me. When he said basic, he didn’t mean Lululemon and lattes. He meant the choices I made to keep myself healthy, stable, and happy.
I work as a hospice nurse, and I had spent too many Friday’s comforting newly-widowed spouses and parents to ever ride or be a passenger on his motorcycle. My parents were first-generation immigrants who each worked multiple jobs to provide a comfortable lifestyle and good education for me. While he was comfortable working in a startup that failed to provide a steady paycheck but promised a future windfall, I needed the emotional and financial security that a job with medical insurance and a retirement fund provided. He loved spontaneous day trips and unplanned journeys. I lived for biannual vacations to the motherland.
I never told him not to ride his bike. I just refused to be his passenger. In the ten years we were together, while he successively transformed three startups into promising enterprises, I enrolled in graduate school, earned a terminal degree, found a steady job, and was promoted a few times. I accompanied him on some of his uncharted journeys to either trendy, instagram-worthy destinations or distant lands without twenty-first century plumbing but plenty of name-dropping cachet. He refused to come to any of the trips, domestic or foreign, that I went on by myself, with friends, or with family. I knew and accepted that we had a different understanding of what made life meaningful and joyous. But when my ex called me basic, the issue wasn’t just the different choices I made. The problem was that I made choices that felt good, safe, fun and comfortable for me. Instead of choosing what was good, safe, fun and comfortable for him.
I realized my ex was a jackass. Whatever was right with me was something I had chosen, and whatever was wrong, the basics of my most basicness, was wrong in a way I had chosen to be. Yes, I love my basic bitch self. Fuck him. Being single provided me with a once in a lifetime opportunity to become the real me, the most basic of basic bitches, the Basic Bitch par excellence.
I sat down and made a list of everything that pleased me, of everything I wanted to do that I was curious about or thought would make me happy, or that I thought I would enjoy. And then I decided on four pillars that would center my bitchdom. And for me, the glory of being the most basic bitch of basic bitches is this: 1) A fit and firm body. I can carry all my groceries in one go. 2) being the owner of a 2-bedroom craftsman in Pasadena within walking distance of Lake Avenue’s restaurants and dive bars, 3) the freedom to join whatever group I wanted to – a reading group, a great speakers club, a knitting circle, without having anyone smirk when I told them, and 4) a great sex life with or without a partner. One where my small-but-high-quality collection of sex manuals and erotica was skillfully used to please myself and, when the time comes, please my partner.
I thought I was there. I have the house. I have the body. I’m both a knitter and a reader. I’ve changed—or so I thought. Jason—was asking you over a mistake?
~~~
I can feel my stomach twisting and turning. Maybe I was too forward. Perhaps I was too much. I’m a fifty-year-old woman inviting a man, older, but not as old as I am, over for sex. What was I thinking?
I hold my breath, wishing the floor would rise up and crush me or that the ceiling would cave in and end my misery.
I’m looking away as you respond, your face slightly flushed, and say, “I think the answer is always sex before dinner.” And you laugh a deep, hearty laugh that shakes your frame back and forth.
We lunge towards each other. You bend forward, curving your frame towards me. I stand with my feet arched to meet your kiss and feel heat descend from my center to my hips and down to my crotch as you hold me, moving your hand from the small of my back down to my ass. Our mouths meet first. You taste delicious, I run my tongue against your upper lip, and gently nibble on your lower lip.
I close my eyes as you kiss me. Your hands move to the edge of my jeans and begin to unzip my trousers. I mirror your movements. Your penis is semi-erect as I slip it out of your underwear and wrap my fingers around it. You raise my face and kiss me on the lips, I’m still stroking you as I try to step on your pants so you can walk out of them. We’re not quite in sync, and instead of stepping out, you stumble and fall to the floor. I fall back away from you. We are both laughing.
I want to see your naked body in full. And I want you to see my bare body. “Let’s just get rid of the clothes,” I suggest. And so we do.
We are now sitting naked and cross-legged, facing each other, so close enough that our knees touch. You move towards me, and we kiss again, your tongue gentle exploring my mouth. My hands move across your chest, and you gasp slightly when my thumbs brush against your nipples. I move my hand once again to your cock and move my hips closer to you until your cock’s wet tip is once brushing against my clit. I rub myself against your cock, moving so that my lips are sliding up and down the top of your length without letting you enter me. You are thrusting your hips upward so that with each thrust my lips wrap around you more and more as I match your thrusts. This teasing is delicious.
My hands move to the top of your shoulders and you’re now nuzzling my breasts. There are soft little sucking sounds as you kiss my nipples. Your hands move down and grab my hips.
I push your hips down, move my hips up, and grab your cock.
“I want to know you better,” I say.
And you respond, “I want to know you, too.”
We kiss again and I take a step back.
I tell you, “My room is upstairs. Come on.”
Jason, you’re taking the stairs two steps at a time, and I am purposefully lagging behind, happy to see your plump little ass in motion. I suppress a giggle when I see how your balls move up and down as you run up the stairs. Your back is muscled, and clearly defined, and I love how your shoulders are broad and clearly defined while your waist is narrow and slim. I don’t know your pants size, but it can’t be more than a 32 waist. At the landing, you turn to look at me and I point to the right.
“Come on,” you say and grab my arm. As soon as we enter the room, you pick me up, place me on the bed and kneel down between my legs.
I feel your nose against my mound of Venus first. You take three large breaths, and I caress your hair, thick and black, as you place small, quick kisses all around my vulva. I don’t know whether to stay seated or lean back, but then you slide your tongue slowly into me and look up, grinning. I place a few pillows under my back so that I am resting comfortably while simultaneously having a clear view of you licking my pussy.
Slowly, at an excruciatingly measured pace, you lick up and down, and then in small circles. I feel pleasure radiate throughout my body and start to beg.
“Jason, please, mount me.”
You look up at me, your face is wet with my fluids and, cheekily, you reply, “Just a little bit more. Let me make you cum first.”
You rise up, kiss me and then you dive into me again.
I lean back against the pillows with my legs wide open and my feet on the edge of the bed. You're still moving your tongue up and down, but you're also alternately sucking on my lips and blowing hot air onto my clit. Slowly, I feel you glide one finger into me. Automatically, I begin to gyrate up and down.
Your tongue rests against my clit and you grab my hips and give me an order, “Stay still.”
I moan and obey. You’ve laid your tongue’s tip flat against the rim of my clit and leisurely move it across, back and forth. I’m letting out deep and guttural moans with each of your strokes and can feel my pleasure building. My orgasm is imminent.
The windows are open, and I am sure that my neighbors can hear my pulsating howls of joy.
Your tongue continues its side-to-side motions, and now you’re inserting an additional finger to make a come-hither movement with your two digits. I feel heat thrum across my body. A flush that continues to rise with your steady care. While your tongue and two fingers continue to raise my pleasure to greater heights, your free hand presses down against my belly. As I rise and feel the pressure of your hand against my stomach, your tongue moves firmly onto my clit and for less than a second, rests there.
Then, I feel a strong sucking motion. Your tongue presses down on my clit, you suck it in whole, and then the motions repeat themselves, again and again. My body is rising and falling on the bed as my legs and torso shake in relief. My release is full-bodied and comes in waves. My pussy is tingling, but so are my fingers. No massage, no workout, has ever left me so relaxed.
I sit up, still in the afterglow of my orgasm, and move to the far side of the bed so you can join me. We sit with our backs against the headboard, recuperating.
“How are you doing,” I ask.
“Life is good,” you say and smile.
Your penis is relaxed. I caress your thighs and look at you, asking for permission.
You smile and ask me, “And, how are you?”
“I’m ready for round two,” I say.
“Excellent,” you reply.
I move around so that I face you. My crotch isn’t sore, but it is sensitive. A good, healthy, happy sensitivity.
I press up against your body with your face inches away from mine. I grip your cock with both hands and start to stroke you. You kiss me, hard and greedily, and with each stroke I can feel you, harder and harder.
I am wet and you are fully erect. You slip inside me easily. Our gyrations are slow and in unison. You place your hands on my hips and then move the tips of your fingers, in even, long strokes, from my hips to my breasts. I lean forward to kiss you, and we share a long-drawn out kiss. I increase my pace and you utter a long, slow moan. Your breath is becoming shallower the longer I ride you, and as my pace quickens, you close your eyes. Your mouth is slightly upturned, and on your face I see the bliss I felt less than half an hour ago. I am glad, and relieved. I want you to feel the joy I feel.
I quicken my rhythm once again and then start to constrict my front vaginal wall. I feel your cock stir and you open his eyes in surprise.
“It’s good?” I ask. “Do you like this?” I ask again as I release my muscles and you gasp.
“Yes, you reply.
I ride you harder, releasing my muscles on the downstroke and tightening on the front stroke. Your face is tilted backwards and in ecstasy. You’ve moved your legs up towards my ass, and your thrusts are harder, more urgent than before.
Using your legs as support, I increase my pace and tighten, not just my front wall, but all of my pelvic floor in rhythm to your thrusts. You grab my waist and push my body into yours. We are riding waves of ecstasy, grunting and mewling together. I come first, and you follow immediately.
I’m still squeezing your cock with my pussy, and I feel your cock vibrating as you come inside me. Your breath is deep, and then shallow. I rest my ear against your chest and I can feel your heart beating rapidly.
Your hands cup my ass.
You kiss the top of my forehead, and ask, “This is good?”
I nod. “Are you hungry?”
You smile and say, “I’m sure dinner is ready, but let’s rest and then eat.”
I look at you. And at the room itself. On my bedside table is the book I’m reading with my book club. I can see my gym clothes on my chair at the far left of the room, ready for tomorrow’s session. I don’t need to look, but I know that at the foot of my table there is a knitting basket that holds my latest WIP. This is my house. This is my life, and the man currently running his fingers up and down my spine is my new lover.
I’ve re-made my life. It’s perfect and I love it. I love my life.
Photo by Alena Shekhovtcova