By Tank Burt
“Wear those black heels,” were my last words to Jane before I took two tokes of God’s Gift, then headed out the door. My weekend bag over my shoulder and the extra pounds of “meat” between my thighs, getting to the train became a task. I took a moment to adjust, making sure no one saw, for fear of looking like a perv. All I needed was for some woman to see me and think, “Who’s that guy with a hard-on touching himself?”
Jane Chen and I had been dating for months after a false start a few years prior. Our sexual chemistry was unparalleled. But that night we would take it to the next level which, In our case, meant going old-fashioned with “Jake,” my dildo alter-ego. No vibrator. It was all, literally, on me now. My advance preparation eliminated the normal lag time between strapping on and getting the right pressure on my clit as well as the perfect angle for her maximum enjoyment. I could walk in her door and when we were ready to go at it, we would.
After I adjusted Jake I continued almost floating to the train in a kind of slow motion. Besides slowing time, weed makes me philosophical. The audaciousness of what I was doing hit me. There was a time when I didn’t know who I was and now I was creating a night of intimate ecstasy. Up until that point I had never loved anyone quite like Jane. No matter the drama, the stay/go, I was in—all in.
Jane opened her door in a too-tight T-shirt, shorts into which her ass didn’t quite quite fit and those shiny black heels. As we kissed, I made sure our waists never touched. I pardoned myself briefly from her warm mouth to put beer and mango in the fridge. Then I watched my hot dancer girlfriend walk down the short hallway.
“Stop,” I said, low and firm.
She froze and glanced back at me.
“Put your hands against the wall.”
She fought a smile and complied.
I whispered, “Spread your legs.”
Standing behind her, I placed my hands outside of hers on the wall, and pressed Jake into her. She gasped. I kissed her neck. She moaned and tilted her head back. My want, my utter desire to consume her compelled me to get on my knees.
I slid her shorts off and ate her until her legs started to buckle.
Then I arose and carried her to the couch. She unzipped my pants and I ripped off everything I had on in seconds. We kissed and the length of our bodies pressed together. I slid in, slow and deep. We both moaned in exultation. All that mattered was the thrusting, her opening legs wider, my growling, the sweat, our breathing faster and faster, until…ecstasy.
We dissolved on the couch into a heap. She caught her breath and sighed, “Oh my God, that was so good.” We both chuckled.
“You wanna smoke?” I asked. She nodded. I brought Purple Haze for just this occasion. We blazed, drank beer, laughed and fed each other mango. Then we fucked until 3am that night, and the night after—until Monday morning came around.
She got up and dressed for work in a black skirt, white shirt, and those black heels. Chic, simple, and sexy. I wanted to eat her pussy right then. At 7:49, I wanted in.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” she admonished.
So instead of heavy panting, off to work we went on our separate journeys. Our relationship suffered a similar fate: separate journeys. But I remember those days and nights so fondly and long to create them with someone new.
*A version of this article was previously published in Honeysuckle Magazine’s CANNABIS issue.