I woke up yesterday afternoon planning on a productive weekend where I get to do several chores including my laundry, doing significant work on my first novel, an application for this gig abroad, and, perhaps, pick up a trick at the mall. Post-Church trafficking in malls is good; for some reason, all that holiness gets desperate people horny.
Instead, I rolled over and jacked off.
And it's all Trish's fault.
Question: Is it "fantasizing" if you jack off to a girl thinking about the previous sexual encounter you had with her, or is that just, like, enjoying a replay of a particularly intense basketball game?
Trish's message on my phone: "Hi! 0917xxx2482 is my new number. I won't be using *this* number anymore after today. - Trish"
Trish's message in my head: "Hi! Fuck me, you dirty boy."
This is how I met Trish: My classmate in this elective class (Philosophy 198: Business Ethics; there were some Business Administration majors, Philo majors, and as a Psych major, I thought it would be helpful in my (former) future career in the field of H.R.) I was taking in college fancies himself a performance poet. He invited everyone in class to a poetry event (boring), and I thought he was particularly extending the invitation my way as a way of subtly flirting, but I was mistaken when I did show up and he introduced me to his gf--Trish Deluxe.
Ok. Maybe Deluxe's not her real family name. It's just that I don't want her googling her name and turning up in my blog.
Trish Deluxe is hot. She's 5'6" (says her driver license), fair skinned (my weakness), smooth all over (fuck, Im getting hard). Her tits are small, though. She's tisay, and could have joined and won any reality-based artista search, except there's one problem: she's v. intelligent.
Too smart for her then-boyfriend, my classmate.
I know I've met my equal in Trish. I have this silly little boy's crush on her the moment I saw her. She's the Catherine Zeta-Jones to my Pierce Brosnan, the Angelina to my Brad. We could have been a powerful couple, and ruled the world together. Except she's the youngest in a brood of artists, and I'm a boy-for-hire.
Her boy (my classmate) was performing on stage.
"Are you really enjoying my boyfriend's performance or are you just being polite?" whispered a sultry voice behind me.
I didn't have to turn around to know it was her. "Matter of fact, ma'am, I'm finding your paramour quite the character. I like his humor: dark, relevant, but not too heavily so."
"He's espousing the elimination of established authority figures. Are you an anarchist as well?" she challenged.
I kept my gaze focused on her boyfriend on stage. "It is easy to mistake anarchy for chaos, when in fact, there is some sense, a sort of, perhaps rudimentary in form, of a unique sense of order in an environment devoid of predetermined authority figures."
She leaned closer. I could smell her perfume:D&G Light Blue for women. I know because it was the same scent my Comm II professor wore when I sucked her pussy in her room at the Faculty Center; bitch gave me 2.25 for all the hard work I did on her.
"That's bullshit," she whispered, drawling her words so that the soft fricatives of her statement would caress my ears in their warmth. "That's bullshit, senyor, and you know it."
I chuckled. I wanted to take her roughly at that moment. I wanted to grab her hair, throw her on the table, and stab my cock inside her pussy.
The crowd broke into applause. Her boyfriend's set has ended. He came down from the stage grinning at her. He gave her a wet, long kiss as soon as he reached their table. I congratulated him, and praised his performance.
Trish and I didn't talk to each other for the rest of the night.
Found her on Friendster. She's quite the well read bitch. I didn't recognize half the books she wrote on her profile as her favorites. Most of them by French writers, and I couldn't stand French writers. She speaks a bit of French, a bit of Spanish, and the boys who know her, who knows of her, are smitten with her.
She has a brother who looks as hot as she is and for a moment I was confused with my motives. Hehehe... Her brother's older by a couple of years, and they hang out with the same rich, affluent, artistic brats that could have only been spawned from the South-side of Metro Manila: Las Pinas, Alabang, &al.
My message to her: "Hey. Do you think your boy will find out if I ask for your number?"
Her reply: "Perhaps. Shouldn't you be more concerned with how he will take it?"
My reply: "Not really. I'm worried about beating his face in."
She gave me her number.
Her boyfriend dumped her a couple of weeks after we met. Turned out, my classmate and a girl in our class had been screwing each other for quite some time now. The girl actually looked a bit like Trish: same built, same tisay features. Poetry Boy obviously had a type.
Trish sent me a message. She sounded OK with the whole dumping thing, but I've been in the company of desperate, hurt, sad women enough to know the difference. She picked me up in school, she drove a white Lancer. She didn't have to say it, but I was guessing she was hoping her ex would see her.
Trish that day was Final Paper Material. Some of my friends from my Dep. of Psych-based org has this code for severely fucked up people: Final Paper Material. They're the sort of people who you could write a Final Paper on simply by spending an hour analyzing them, breaking them down into their issues and neurosis, compartmentalizing their intentions, motivations.
We made small talk in her car. We both knew where we were going. We talked about the song on the radio, about places we've been to (her: trips abroad; me: Boracay), small shit.
We ended up in Pasig, in a motel I've been to a couple of times already. Apparently, so had she.
Trish was born rich, grew up rich, and lives rich.
Class guilt was written all over her. It was why she hooked up with Poetry Boy, and it was why she was fucking with me then. She was so rich, the lifestyles of the poor and downthrodden excite her.
She wouldn't touch the great unwashed, though. She was guilty of her class, yes, but she wasn't cheap. I was perfectly pitched to satisfy her in this aspect.
Behind closed doors, as soon as the garage doors were rolled down, I threw her against the wall.
"Wait! Turn on the TV," she asked.
I burrowed my face in her hair. "Later, you whore."
I talked dirty to her in Tagalog. There's nothing more excitingly carnal to a conio chick than dirty talk in Tagalog, and to Trish, it worked amazingly.
"Ang inet ng puke mo," I whispered to her, rubbing my hard cock between her buttcheeks, and I had one of my hands shoved inside her jeans, flicking her soft, warm, meat. "Tangina kang, puta ka." I banged my head against hers gently, rhythmically pounding half of her face to the wall. "Eto gusto mo, eto, eto, eto..."
I dragged her to the bed, still maintaining my hold from behind. She pulled her blouse over her head, and I momentarily had to let her go. She was fumbling with the buttons of her jeans, so I helped her by pushing her down to the bed, turning her on her back, and pulling her pants off of her legs and threw it over my shoulder. She had matching black undies, and she looked fragile, helpless.
I spat on her face.
"Puta kang puta ka," I told her. I pulled my shirt off over my head.
I gave her the dirtiest fuck she could have ever wanted, made her feel cheap, used, violated.
She thanked me afterwards, and she allowed me to take a video of my middle finger going in and out of her cunt.
I can bore you with the details: how I roughed her up, kissing her eyes as she cried (in joy? in pain? in shame?), spitting in her mouth, slapping her face with my cock. How I bit her arm, near the ball of her left shoulder, gently at first, deeper then, harder, until she moaned me to stop. How I lifted her legs, lifted her back, how I threw her into the doggy pose, how I pressed a pillow against her face until she coughed, half-suffocated, as I pumped in and out of her. How I was grabbing her hair as I rode her. How I covered her mouth with my palm when she was starting to beg me to stop, and that she was starting to get sore.
I was thinking of these things as I jerk my throbbing cock yesterday afternoon. It was hot, I was sweating, my flatmate was out to hear mass (or pick up his laundry, fuck if I care), and I was recounting how I made Trish Deluxe felt alive by repeatedly killing her personas.
One by one, they all fell, Trish's personas. The Strong Woman, the Rich Girl, the Nice Girlfriend, the Lover Scorned. I stabbed them all with the coldness of my manhood, the rough edge of my dark side.
Until she alone remained.
Trish. My pretty one. My lovely, intelligent francophile belle de jour. She fell asleep with her head cradled on the nook of my left armpit. I could smell my semen on her hair mixed with her sweat, and what remained of her D&G Light Blue.
I kissed her tenderly on her forehead, almost lovingly.
She never found that one out.
I thanked her for updating me on her new number. Small talked. She was bored with her current job, and was lately been enjoying ice cold milk while she smoked. I told her some stupid details about doing my laundry, and we both kind of started to reply to each other's messages less and less urgently, until it was dark outside, and I didn't notice we had stopped the conversation ages ago.
Maybe I should give her a call.