It is hard to introduce this week’s amazing guest blog without giving away the ending, but I’m going to try and do it justice. This week, please welcome Zapatica, who is here to tell you a hot, intense story about an ex-dance partner/lover. Regular booty calls, intense sex, total mismatch of interests, and how the whole thing eventually – and rapidly – came to an end.
Ending a long-term booty call
B shouted the count tempo…
“1,2,3,5,6,7! Again! 1,2,3,5,6,7!”
I had been taking salsa lessons for about three months already and was advancing quickly and steadily. The standard was high and if a person couldn’t keep up with the class, they couldn’t continue. Dancers that lagged were quietly removed.
Half an hour in, we were awarded our first break. B, the headmaster, made an announcement:
“We’re moving on to turn patterns today. Basics get you moving but there is no beauty in sticking with the same steps over and over again.”
The class was in for a surprise. Half a dozen beautiful dancers filed to the front.
“We have six guest instructors tonight: Dylan, Drew, Daniel, Suzanne, Sara, and Selena. We’ll demo the combination twice then follows will rotate between Dylan, Drew and Daniel and leads will rotate between Suzanne, Sara, and Selena. I will observe and critique.”
When Dylan walked into the studio moments earlier, our eyes immediately locked. He smiled and I flushed.
The first group rotation was selected. I found myself blushing as I approached Dylan and got into formation. B cued the music and I felt myself tremble as I pressed my palm into Dylan’s palm. The piano keys blared and I anticipated the first step. Dylan leaned closer and whispered into my ear, “Relax. I do all the work and you just follow.” I felt a quickening in my heart and then trust. Time seemed suspended until B tapped me on the shoulder and pulled me aside. I prepared myself for the worst but instead received a compliment:
“Good work.”
As I collected my things, Dylan approached me from behind.
“A few of us are heading to a bar. Would you like to join us? I’ll have you home whenever you wish.”
Praise from B and an invitation from the cool kids had me as giddy as a schoolgirl. I quickly accepted.
The bar was in a seedy part of town. It had unremarkable façade on a corner littered with garbage. Once inside, the energy was indescribable. The magic of the DJ’s playlist had the dance floor on fire. And the dancers were just amazing. The beginner’s jitters I experienced in my first class returned.
“What do you want to drink?” Dylan interrupted my gawking.
I looked at the bar and decided against any of the drinks made of well swill: “Beer’s fine.”
Soon, Dylan appeared with two buckets full of Coronas for the table. He pulled me onto the dance floor before I could get my hands on some liquid courage. “Feel the music.” He put his hand on my cheek and caressed me down my neck until his hand was on the small of my back. “Forget counting and just move.” I obeyed. What followed was a night of coy looks and seductive grazes. We danced until final call and he respectfully drove me home as promised.
Drunk and horny from all the body contact, I stumbled into my apartment. Too shy to invite him up, I masturbated furiously instead. Mid-stroke I realized that I completely forgot to exchange numbers with Dylan. I spent the week thinking about his pillowy lips, the swivel in his hips, the spins and turns. Everything turned me on.
Next class came. My pussy throbbed the second Dylan and I caught eyes. I was damp and flush with desire. He didn’t even bother with formalities and just led me to his car at the end of the lesson. We chatted a little. He gave me some tips. I expected a return to Luna Lounge but he drove far longer and in the opposite direction.
“There’s a party at Sara’s.”
It was the only information he offered. We arrived and everyone important was there. Even B.
Somehow we managed to be alone in a bedroom making out like two randy teenagers. We hurried back to the party when Sara’s son interrupted us. It was short-lived action. I had work early in the morning and Dylan drove me home.
The sexual tension and drawn out encounters frustrated me. Another week and another marathon masturbation session came and went. Some sexting was in the mix but everything was still very chaste. We talked about favorite bands and styles. We flirted. But when it came down to other areas of our lives, we had very little in common.
Drill week was underway. It was the night we put all our lessons together and learned if we advanced to the next level. No guest instructors to guide us. We were on our own. I danced and did well. Dylan was waiting for me outside the studio doors: we were off to Luna.
One song in, I couldn’t contain myself any longer and blurted out that I wanted to fuck. His face became sullen and he let out a gruff “let’s go.”
I followed.
I was close to tears thinking I messed up until I noticed we were speeding along, but not towards my home. “Where are we going?” I asked utterly confused. “My place.” He said. “Where else?”
I couldn’t contain my excitement.
We ran up the steps of the two-family house leaving our shoes at the threshold. Our clothes couldn’t come off fast enough. Our sticky bodies intertwined and I let out a sigh of relief as his dick entered my yearning pussy. The wait was worth every second we spent sucking and licking and fucking. I came. He came. We slumped over. He lit a cigarette.
“God, I hate smokers.”
“What do you like besides dancing?”
“Books, eggs, and my hair pulled.”
“Read to me,” he commanded and tossed over his latest literary acquisition, a tome about the last empress of China.
I read. He listened intently until I saw the bulge of another erection. He sucked on my nipples and gave me a good smack on the ass. He straddled me from behind and we were at it again this time doggy style. I quivered as an orgasm reverberated through my body. He slipped his fingers in my mop of a curly mass of hair and gave a good tug, instantly sending me over the edge again. I yelped and he thrust harder into my pussy. He pulled on my hair again as cum dribbled out and I screamed louder. Dylan covered my mouth with his hand and shushed me. We were parched and exhausted. After catching our breath, we headed to the kitchen for some water. We were nude and in full view of his roommate. It didn’t matter. We were shameless.
I spent the night and was awoken by the sounds of chirping birds and sea waves, Dylan’s soundscape alarm.
“Ugh, I hate birds.”
“You hate everything. Quick. How do you like your eggs?”
“Over easy and salty.”
“Of course you like them salty.”
He slipped on a pair of boxers and went into the kitchen. I put on one of his oversized t-shirts and watched as he expertly flipped over the eggs with chopsticks.
“How was it?” I asked.
“I expected more Spanish.”
“Why? I didn’t expect you to cum in Mandarin.” We laughed.
Breakfast was delicious. We made plans for a proper date and he dropped me off in time for me to get ready for work. I didn’t hear from him until the next party at the studio the following week. I decided not to attend to avoid awkwardness.
Dylan texted me, “where are you? Do you need a ride?” I gave a bullshit excuse. Twenty minutes later, I hopped a cab. I got a couple of dances in and we were off to his place again.
The sex was even better this time around. We knew each other’s bodies. We knew how to make each other come. And we pushed each other’s buttons over and over again. We didn’t have work the next day and fucked until noon. Starved and drained he said, “I think it’s time for our date.”
We went to brunch at a traditional Chinese banquet hall.
“Don’t get anything with shellfish,” I demanded.
“You hate everything,” he countered.
“I’m allergic. Severely allergic.”
We squabbled. He conceded. We were the center of attention. I was not used to being watched but I understood. I was different. Dylan and the waiter had a congenial exchange at the end of the meal.
“What was that about?” I asked.
“He wanted to know if you were a good lay.”
For months, we were inseparable. We argued as much as we fucked. Nothing serious. It was more like debate team discourse. History was our favorite subject second only to current events. We were on opposite sides of the political spectrum and our heated discussions led to even hotter fucking. One night we calmly spoke about our futures and mutually decided we were not compatible.
We started seeing other people but that didn’t stop our sex or our discussions. If I had a bad day at work, he was the first to know. If a date turned out to be a bore, we texted to meet up before dinner was even over. If a partner didn’t measure up in the bedroom, I shut down completely. Dylan was the booty call I would answer regardless of anything. It had to stop. And we would stop. But then three months would pass, I’d get a text and 45 minutes later he’d be subduing my screams of ecstasy.
We continued like this for two years.
I felt stuck. Our dysfunctional relationship thwarted any meaningful connection with others. I was trapped in our animalistic trysts of passion. Work was increasingly stressful. The promotion I wanted and was awarded was sucking the life out of me. Everything was charts and schedules and projections and quotas. On a particularly bad day, Dylan texted me about a new social location. It was exactly what I needed: leave all my worries on the dance floor, have some drinks, and get my rocks off. But I promised myself it would be the last time.
I was rail thin and a couple glasses of wine had me blustering drunk, complaining about my job. Dylan wanted me to quit it and go back to his place. We were so eager we fell onto to couch – getting to the bed was a touch too far. Dylan pulled my underwear off and began thrusting in that familiar, aggressive manner but my mind was elsewhere. I kept thinking about what I would say to end things. I kept thinking about work. He noticed my distraction and voraciously consumed every part of my body. I relaxed and was well on my way to an orgasm. He rammed me harder and harder and as I came, I yelled:
“JASON!”
He stopped.
“What?”
“I… I was just thinking about next week’s schedule.”
“So what? You don’t say somebody else’s name during sex. What’s wrong with you?”
He stormed off and left me on the sofa. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at my predicament. He was silent and visibly upset the following morning. Ever the gentleman, he made me breakfast and drove me home.
It was a quiet, chilly drive. That was our last time together. We never spoke again. I was free.