Disclaimer: Mom, Dad, siblings, and anyone else who wants to sleep OK at night, don't read this one. I'm serious. Stop now. Go to bed and pretend like your dear Whitney is still that sweet little innocent teenager who used to be a cockophobic.
Thursday. Day 6 of Cayden's visit. Everything had been perfect. Too perfect almost. Surely, something had to go wrong, right? Well of course it did. But luckily for me, things went really, really right before they went really, really wrong.
You see, not only was Thursday day 6, Thursday was also Kickball Day—my most favorite day of the week. I had a weird obsession with the sport, and mostly with my kickball team. So when I got the email saying kickball was cancelled because the fields were wet from some random rainstorm none of us remember, my heart sank. My mood seriously went from 11 to 1 in a matter of seconds. Yes, I have an unhealthy obsession with kickball. I'm aware.
And I'd been so excited for Cayden to meet the rest of my team and play with us that night. But luckily for us, my teammates are just as obsessed as I am, so we decided drinking and some sport was a must for the night. So we decided on beer and bowling, and of course we rocked our kickball jerseys. How could we not? Check out our kick-ass logo:
And we each have nicknames on the back. Mine says "Peachez" because after our first kickball practice, the whole bottom half of my right shin was a giant bruise. I blame this on nerve damage from linedrives in the shins back in my softball days. There is nothing soft about that ball. But my favorite shirts are Bryan's and Joey's:
We weren't meeting at the bowling alley until 8.
"You know what that means?" I asked Cayden.
"What? We have time to grab dinner before we meet up?" he asked.
Yeah right, like I would think about dinner when we had the place to ourselves.
"Well, that, too. But I was thinking..." I let my voice trail off as I trailed my hand down to his belt. I took a few steps forward, forcing him to take a step back toward my bed.
"Oh, well, I was thinking that, too," he said. "I just didn't want to jump to conclusions."
"Jump away," I said, giving him a quick shove until he was seated on my bed.
I didn't have to ask him twice. Seconds later my shirt was on the floor and Cayden's hands were at my bra clasps, determined to redeem himself from his earlier mysterious-third-hook incident. One hook. Two hooks. Three hooks. And my bra was on the floor without Cayden asking for help. I wanted to give him a high-five, but decided to keep my hands busy with his button and zipper instead.
My roommate, Stephanie, was in her room, and I prayed to god she was listening to music. Loud music. Heavy metal, maybe. Which was wishful thinking, considering she preferred Lilly Allen over Alice in Chains.
[Sidenote: I just now came to the realization that sex is so much easier to write about the foreplay leading up to it. For whatever reason, I cannot bring myself to write in detail about second or third base. So, even though in my blog it sounds like we skip from 1st base to home plate, please know that we spend a lot of time on second and third, each of us playing offense and defense. Oh, and we're both kind of amazing at it.]
The rest of our clothes either joined my bra on the floor or got tangled up somewhere in the depths of my sheets, never to be seen again (I still can't figure out where that shit ends up. Happens every time). Cayden repositioned himself with his back leaning against my pillows and my headboard. I stayed on top, straddling him.
Now, as I'm sure I've mentioned before, I suck on top. (No, I'm not talking about 3rd base). When I'm on top too long, my legs start to shake. I lose rhythm. I become uncoordinated and somehow manage to poke myself in the eye or head butt him or slip off of him in such a way that I fear I broke his penis or bruised my... umm.. myself. So I usually find some creative way to switch up the positions before I embarrass myself. (hint: Leg cramps always work.)
But for whatever reason, this time was different. I hadn't lost the rhythm. His hands were on my hips, pushing and pulling to help with the rhythm, or quite possibly to make sure I didn't fall off and hurt one of us. Leave it to me to need a seatbelt during sex.
I didn't head butt him. I didn't bite my tongue. Or his. I wasn't on the brink of an asthma attack (although I did glance at my headboard just to make sure I had an inhaler nearby. You know, just in case). My legs were only shaking in the good way, not the bad way (you know, a quiver versus a 7.0 earthquake on the Richter scale). My mind wasn't focused on trying to figure out the best way to suggest a new position. With my mind at ease, I was able to forget about the motions, forget about the mechanics of it all, and just enjoy the feeling. Instead of worrying about me moving this way or him moving that way, we were moving as one. In one fluid movement.
Now, keep in mind, as I think I've mentioned once before, I had never gotten off from sex. Sure, I'd gotten off from what happens on second base and what goes down on third, but being on homeplate without a little second-base action happening as well just didn't garner a standing ovation for me. I always thought girls who could get off with no hands were a myth, a big bunch of liars.
But that day, day 6, kickball-turned bowling day, well, that day was one for the books. As we moved together, back and forth, faster and faster, I felt a tingle moving up my thighs, a quickness in my heartbeat, shudder at my core. For a brief second, I thought I might be having a heart attack. But were heart attacks supposed to feel so good? I ignored my self diagnoses and kept going. Faster and faster, the tingle crept higher and higher, the shudder crept its way up on the Richter scale. Cayden sensed it. He knew what was happening. Well, that made one of us.
He looked into my eyes as he pushed and pulled at my hips, giving me a look that said, "Just go with it." And finally, I went with it. Whatever IT was. It consumed me. Made me stop dead in my tracks. Caught my breath in my throat.I couldn't rock back and forth with Cayden anymore, but his hands and hips took over so I didn't have to. I didn't have control over one muscle, one tendon, one fiber of my body. I kept breathing in, and in, and in. Without knowing it, I'd grabbed Cayden's wrists and my nails were digging into him. And just when I couldn't breath in anymore, just when the shuddering moved up and down my spine, the tingle creeping up each thigh met in the middle. I thought I'd died. I thought my body had exploded into a million pieces and there was nothing left of me but splattered guts across my bedroom wall. Everything was black.
But I knew I wasn't dead. I was buzzing. Every inch of my skin felt like it was buzzing. But I was breathing. And I was warm. Very, very warm. Was this hell?
No. It was Cayden. The heat I was feeling was Cayden's body. Everything was black because my eyes were shut and my face was pressed against his neck, my body collapsed on top of him.
Movement—he laughed. I pried one eye open and used every ounce of my strength to lift my head up enough to look at him. He brushed my hair away from my face, slick with sweat.
"Are you alive?" he asked me.
"Did I...? Was that..? What just happened?" I asked, trying to remember the correct words, or basic English for that matter.
"Yes, you did. Yes, it was. And I can't wait to do that to you again and again."
And THAT, my friends, is how everything went oh so well before it all went down the shitter.