The painful lesson of chess

I forgot how to play.

My father taught me when I was thirteen. I promptly forgot, as I tried to forget everything he attempted to teach me then. Algebra and problem solving trains at certain speeds meeting each other at certain times and it was summer outside and the pool was glistening diamonds and sweat was collecting in the air and boys lived around the block, up the block, down the street, over in the city.

The Russian girl friend told me I have penis envy and I thought she was talking some Freudian bullshit. And thought it meant I wished I had a penis, which supposedly has the power of the world. At least, that's what my limited conception of penis envy was. She realigned my thinking and told me that it meant I wanted the power behind the penis. That men to me are power-weilding and by "taking" their penises I get some of their power and then "control" them in a way. It's all feminist crap philosophy but it kind of makes sense. While I'm submissive to the core for some things, for others I'm the cock in the room. (And you know what I mean when I say this, don't you?) I woo, I entice, I "ooze sex" as they say, and then I get it, fuck it, get bored. There are few men who have kept me entertained and drawn and intrigued and interested and in love. So, in a way, I can comprehend this penis envy thing. Although I would call it power hungry. As James once pointed out, I am attracted - and always have been - to power.

So the dance of dating or sexual relations or fucking or pick-ups or wooing or fuck buddies or friends with benefits continues. I like it on my terms. I like it on days that work and nights that are free. And within those days or nights or moments, I want to give up my all and be beautiful in submissive worship or objectification. (Yes, badman, there is feminist freedom in submission - don't let women tell you otherwise.) I have no problem with setting term limits, and then giving up the veto pen. In fact, I need to do this. I need to micromanage my time and lifestyle, supervise those around me, and then relinquish all hope of deciding which tool to use on my supple skin.

But getting to that point is a disaster of missteps waiting to happen. A minefield of delicacies. You say, women make a move, give a number, say hello. It's not that we won't, it's probably that we take rejection harder than you do - albeit you it take it more often. There's a difference in egos here. To stereotype: men get rejected a million times a day but keep on trying. Women wake up rejected - pay differentials, societal history, a fucking "Women's History Month," the feminist revolution that never ceases with our mothers, magazines, tv ads, not good enough, too fat, not blonde enough, get a new diet drink, smoke more cigarettes so we stop eating as much, try the new lipstick, get the new car, become more like a man in the board room, leave the board room for children. What the hell is the perfect woman? And, no, I think it's easier for men, but it's not as hard. Sure, there are the same deodorant pressures, car models on the market, competition for the raise, etc, but you can't tell me we have equal rejection or equal challenges yet. Perhaps, in two generations we will have bred equally lazy and equally ambitious "people."

So, no, I won't walk up to you and say hi. You'll probably think I lack good skin, good bones, cute enough laugh with just the right amount of intellect, big enough tits without being too faked out, eyebrows tweezed without needing a pencil, breath just right.

I guess we'll both just remain on separate sides of the room. But at least I'll make eyes at you. Will you make eyes at me?

And when we cross. Fuck, fuck fuck. The longest history of genetic risk.

There is a subtle game of chess. Make a move but with caution. Come together, but there are always unspoken rules.

And last night, I blew my game. I moved too many pawns around thinking I had liberty. Thinking I had waited patiently and was back in the power position. Juggling. Thinking. Playing carefully. Not too excited to scare anyone away. Not too eager to keep anyone secure. Not too transparent in thinking five moves ahead. Not too coy to be misunderstood.

And my flatmate thought I was romantic.

Oh, no. This is a sexual chess game. Queens are naked, Kings are dominant. Rooks are rookies. Knights wear spurs.

I thought the message I sent Wednesday night was clear, "You aren't really getting 3 together for Jeudi night. I have to work Friday."

(During fucking Tuesday night, I said I wanted to see him with other women, see him fuck another woman. "Verdad?" he asked as he pulled my ass cheeks apart with his thumbs and pushed back into my cunt. "Sí, me gustaria." I was smiling over my shoulder. "Conozco a una... podemos el jueves." He slid back out and in. "Sí sí sí sí" not sure to what I was saying yes, but it all seemed yes.)

Thursday night I was clear, but hinting: "Pienso que me debes invitar a pasar la noche de viernes contigo
si no - pronto, porque es tiempo perfecto para eso"

He SMS'd on Friday that he didn't understand. "...no he entendido el mensaje... beso..." (How dense could a person be? I mean how much more clear is "I think you should invite me to spend Friday night with you / if not - soon, because it's a perfect time for this.")

I SMS'd that he should deduce what he wants to.. Then I thought I wasn't transmitting well over the waves and followed with "Lo siento - el mensaje era al azar" (Sorry - the message was random)

The hours and hours of silence following were deafening. I had moved to a vulnerable position, let down some of the intrigue and some of the hidden strategy. I had unveiled some moves, reacted too suddenly and repetitiously. (Or, I am starting to dramatize what needs not be seen under a microscope right now.)

Regardless, when I got home from work it was officially the weekend, and I had plenty of time between the dinner with colleagues and Monday morning. I wanted to plan a bit of the games. I wanted my cake, my checkmate, and eat it, too. There's the Economist and the Bike Man, both available in the same town. The Russian girl friend is gone, so no long day travel plans. And the weather is supposed to suck. Perfect combination for a weekend of fucking.

I'm just not good at choosing the next square, the next move. I was trying to plot a way in which I could have both men at some non-coniciding time. I have found myself preferring the one who is more like me, the playboy Economist (although completely not like me at the same time). His cock is worth mentioning, as it's more than a mouthful, almost painful as it knocks my cervix, thick enough in diameter to make him think he needs lube to get inside, and attached to hips that are rhythmically aware to bring me pound-pound-pounding to hungry climax.

His skin looks like cherry brownies, or, as I told him, like Neapolitan ice cream without the vanilla, but a shade of maple where his bathing trunks should have been while he sunbathed nude on his boat in southern Spain. He has a terrifically funny and yet sexy, haphazard tic when he drinks. His right eye squints half-way closed, or can't quite catch-up to the left eye when it blinks so it looks like he's winking at me in some slick, 1970's cheese porn way. The bottom of his feet are somewhat blackened from walking barefoot in the apartment, wearing flip-flops out in town, and espadrilles on vacation. He's not the best kisser, but his hands make up for that, as does his face when he buries into my pussy lips.

He told me over drinks on the plaza that he liked how we varied. Fucking sometimes with nothing, like on Sunday morning, sometimes with drinking, sometimes with drugs. He laughed as he remembered when I asked him to spank me. Me, gripping the mantle over his fireplace, leaning forward to push my ass out. Him, running to the window to close the blinds from the neighbors seeing anything and shutting the window for them hearing the smacks. His slaps were light and misdirected, unsteady and unsure. But a few landed with just the amount of force and sound to cause sonar waves of warmth throughout my skin.

Meanwhile, the Bike Man shocked me on our first date by spanking my ass with the window ajar and blinds half-way open. And on hearing me moan and seeing me not pull away, rolled me over his lap and repeated the act. The differences in action between the men were so pronounced. Even throwing in the Parisian Butcher. Bike Man must have practiced often on other lovers (European men aren't easy to discuss their other conquests), for he knew how much strength and moved his spanking around my ass and thighs with good direction, and repeating in one location only when he could tell it was raising my temperature, "You know you can take it."

And when he - unsolicited - climbed on top of me and face fucked me, I was shocked, a bit afraid, nervous, excited, wet, thrilled, and so naughtily happy.

The second time was similar. Fuck me from on top, turn me on my side, from behind. The fantasies were hot - he had been with a few prostitutes and told me the stories. But his rhythm seriously lacks any stamina and once in a while he does this strange stir-the-pot-of-honey move where he gyrates in a circle as if he's literally trying to "turn" me on.

I'm a steady pace girl. I like my vibrators to have multiple speeds in a sliding direction that I can control from low hum to high speed red alert bone-breaking electricity. I like my cocks the same. A nice, slow entry - especially if I haven't fucked in a while - followed by a build-up (nothing like a juicy plot). The build-up, of course, can include many peaking out moments. One climax on my back, one on my knees, one on reverse cowboy, change positions whenever - or don't. While missionary is boring when done every date, there is an art which can be achieved and has the same results for both me and my partner of repetitiously increasing speed while in the same position, and it won't bore me. Since there are position changes within the position itself, like the knee-pull (pulling my knees wider apart), the watch-it-like-it's-porn (me looking down and watching his cock go in and out), the push-lips-together (making a faux tighter hole), the low-saw or the top-saw (cock pressure higher or lower on the cunnie opening), the legs-on-his-sides or the wrap-around-the-waist, the legs-up-on-his-shoulders (I don't know the official names for these), biting his arm, rubbing the sweat around on my tits, reaching around to caress his balls, a finger in the asshole (of course, both the latter require a communicated interest on behalf of the partner). All of these things can make missionary a delicious position.

But not all the time. Nothing should be done the same all the time. Not even kinky fantasies.

Anyway, after the fucking, and I was spent, he hadn't cum and told me to suck him off. This seems to be his biggest fetish. Not only oral but climbing on top of me, gagging me slightly, and watching my lips around his cock. The ending to this time was me on my knees on a pillow (thank you) stroking his cock to cum in my face. I told him afterwards that it was hot and all, but frankly, I'd prefer if he was jerking himself. Maybe he prefers the debasement more if I do it, but I'm just not into jerking some cock on myself. I wouldn't seek it out - hey, can I jerk your cock into my face cuz I love it?! - and hence, not so interested in doing it. But him, jerking himself onto my face totally turns me on. That type of denigration I would ask for - hey, would you like to jerk off on my face and tits cuz I love it?!

The next date was the schoolgirl fantasy - one of my favorites. It was fun to play with the Bike Man. He sent me shopping and in the last 20 minutes before the store closed at 7pm (this fucking city is so totally lame in so many regards) I grabbed all things cheap and slutty and cute: skirts, white thongs (with or without Hello Kitty - who knows what specific kind of schoolgirl he had in mind), knee-highs. And I got spanked over his knee again and fucked with panties on (not the Hello Kitty type). He wanted some high heels and lipstick to go with it, but I'm not a lipstick-wearing girl and I didn't bring any high heels with me.

And, again, we ended with me sucking him off. On my knees, on a pillow, on the floor, and instead he jerked off on me and took photos (yet to be sent to me). I'm not one to rush to the toilet after sex to clean up (cuz I'm a dirty whore like that), but I had to wash my face off right after just so I could see.

The next date was all very similar - minus the dress-up. Fuck me from on top, turn me on my side, from behind. And end with cock sucking, laying on my back this time, after dozing off for a short nap after dinner. Not that I'm wholly complaining, because, fuck, I got off. But the repetition of kink positions and activities isn't fun. Even of kink, or especially because of the fact that it's kink, it seems even less fun and less attractive.

Since our last date, he's SMS'd me about buying a crop and is excited to use it on me. Nice to throw in a new prop, but then today, prior to our date tonight, he asked if I had lipstick to bring. Bo-o-o-ring hint that things might go the same way.

Hence, the Economist is in first place in this race, the first choice for playing games, and really the only one who requires chess strategy. There's a bit more variety but a bit less reliability, and I don't *really* like the games or the strategy I feel like I have to have.

So, I am seeing the Bike Man tonight and last night saw no one. I thought I might see the Economist last night and sent him an SMS asking very directly if he was free any time this weekend and he sent back that he was going to see his son "veo mi hijo la tarde... te llamo despues." Well, "la tarde" couldn't be Friday afternoon because it was night when he sent it. It could be Saturday or Sunday -- and I don't wait for phone calls. This was the response to my bad moves. (Or my over-dramatizing right now.) He's a playboy - although he does have a son - so I don't know what any of that meant. To me, it means: chill. Thus, it means Bike Man for sure and Economist whenever (flippantly) later. It means he has the ball in this court and I don't like that. Penis envy or not, checkmate or not. I prefer a bit more control in my playdate calendar.