The Over-Educated Nympho

When you start dating or sleeping with someone, it seems natural that you would take each other to your places. Apparently I am freakishly protective over my apartment, because I have no desire to bring back Jazz Man or The Marine to my apartment.

Maybe it’s the clutter, the messy kitchen, my two clit-blocking dogs, or maybe I just like to keep certain things private. Like fundamental parts of my personality.

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Call me a dirty whore, but I love it when a guy cums on my face. I think there is nothing hotter or more animal than a guy hovering above me with a hard cock about to shoot his load. When he cums on my face I lick it all up, and if any goes on my tits I rub it all over my skin. I’ve been that way since I gave my first blowjob at fifteen.

As Jazz Man made clear, not many girls feel that way. Last week he gave me a very long and impassioned speech on how much he has wanted to cum on a girl’s face, but has rarely been accommodated. I politely waited for him to finish talking (the poor guy obviously needed to vent), and then I said, “I’ll do my very best to make up for what you’ve been missing out on.”

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Dating again is awesome. Dating two guys at the same time is double awesome. Writing about dating two guys is exhausting. After a Saturday filled with helping some friends move, a crawfish boil with The Marine, a friend’s dinner party, and naked time with Jazz Man, I spent nearly all of Sunday sleeping.

Not that I am complaining. Oh no no no. I am basking in the awesomeness of it all. Just, um, come back tomorrow after I’m done basking in the exhaustion. Until then, I have a date with my bed. It has been feeling neglected lately.

Within minutes of walking in The Marine’s apartment on Wednesday, he gave me a present. On our first date I had mentioned that I love collecting weird little things for my desk at work, and I could tell he was storing that information in the “ways to make Vix happy” mental filing cabinet somewhere between close the door when you pee and always have chocolate in apartment.

So yesterday I was delighted when he handed me a cute little box covered in cartoon elephants and lions. It said ANIMAL KINGDOM in bright letters across the box.

“What is it?” I asked, assuming it was a toy of some sort. Then I read in the corner “bubblegum flavored.”

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This evening I went over to The Marine’s apartment to “not watch a movie.” Without being cramped into the front seat of a car, we were able to have a lot more fun. Now let me just say–

Wow. The Marine has the biggest cock I have ever seen in my life. When he pulled down his boxers my jaw dropped to the floor.

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Last night The Marine and I went on our first date. We met at a little Vietnamese restaurant that he swore was the most authentic Vietnamese food he could find in the city. When I walked in and saw that I was the only white person, I knew he was serious.

The Marine lived in Vietnam years ago, so he actually knew what everything on the menu was beyond “chicken” and “noodle.” I told The Marine I trusted his taste and he could order whatever he thought was good. When the waitress came over The Marine started talking to her in Vietnamese, which impressed me, the sucker that I am for all things foreign. I liked that he chose a place for the authenticity and not the big prices, because the food he chose was excellent. I couldn’t identify a damn thing on the whole table, but that didn’t stop me. We ate and talked for hours.

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Okay, I’ve had The Talk with Jazz Man and now The Marine about where this is(n’t) going (a.k.a. Schmoopie Town, a few stops before Babyville), and I’ve let them know I’m casually dating other people. Since I think it’s safe to say both will be in my life for a while, I want to make some things clear with my beloved readers:

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Tonight I finally went on my first date with The Marine, postponed from Friday due to an ill-timed sore throat. We had a fantastic time together.

I’m going to keep this short because it’s two in the morning and I’m still recovering from my cold. Details to follow later. Here’s enough to keep you going until then:

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I’ve got my first date with The Marine in an hour and a half. I love this phase of the dating… specifically, before I know any better. I love fantasizing about how much fun the date will be, how nice he’ll smell, how cool he’ll be, how much I’ll want to rip his pants off. Nothing but promise fills the evening.

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Last night I was supposed to be going on my first date with The Marine, but I came down with a nasty sore throat. When I called earlier to postpone, The Marine said he’d call me back later that night. I dismissed that as him saying what he thinks he’s supposed to say to a girl who’s sick and growing noticeably worse throughout the day.

Well I’ll be a son of a bitch, The Marine was serious. A couple hours later he did call.

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The other day I got a letter from my apartment complex saying that my lease will be up soon and I have ten days to decide if I want to keep it. The rent hike they listed for short- and long-term renewal was insane. It was over a 30% rent increase, which they had the hairy balls to state as “a reduced rate for new complex-wide upgrades.” A 30% rent increase? On top of the high rent already? Surely the upgrade is a second bedroom, right? Or it comes with a live-in maid/cook? Or a SEX SERVANT IMPORTED FROM THAILAND?!

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I’m sick. I’m fucking sick. I felt a sore throat early this morning when I was coming back from Jazz Man’s place, but I assumed it was because I was really tired and had enjoyed a much-needed mouthful of cock all night long.

Sleeping for only two hours didn’t help, because I felt worse when I woke up. At work I felt crappy and looked pouty so my boss sent me home.

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