Untamed : An Erotic Romance Story

I'm a bad girl, sort of, and chronicling my escapades helps me to manage my appetite for the forbidden. Caleb has been my steady hook-up lately. He's the baker at my local market and I invite him over on those Friday nights when I can't take masturbating solo anymore, the relationship based on the doughy stretch of my imagination connecting Caleb's burly, out of shape body,  to Seth Rogen, although I would more prefer the simmering, bad boy qualities of someone like Jonathan Rhys Meyers, what woman wouldn't want to open her thighs for him, especially if he were dressed in his brooding, faux, Tudor finery, but a woman like me will never meet a man like him. Here I pause to sigh with star-crossed eyes.

I'm 33 years-old, faithfully attend the annual Comic Con, collect Wonder Woman and Green Lantern comics, have read every Harry Potter, Twilight, and Hunger Games book twice, and own a vibrator nicknamed Jacob. Yes, I so wanted Jacob to win Bella in the end. I am that kind of woman. I often obsess on the promise of true love and wanton sex, because in my mind you can't have one without the other, fuck Edward, fuck something, but I will not fucking compromise. I am a late stage Gen Xer, verging on a Y, live independently with my comic book collection and a few literary classics that I refuse to read electronically. My love of men doesn't mean to say that if a hot girl approached me, and, if I were just a little high, well maybe we might have some fun, but then again, if Jacob were to appear, or Jonathan Rhys Meyers, or Professor Snape, I'd do any one of them, or all three at once, so you can see what kind lust lies hidden within.

Most men are threatened by  my sexual honesty, as if they were the only ones who could like pornography, which is mostly a bore because it's typically made by them, but there are certain videos that make my clit extend,  try Googling Anna Spann or Candida Royalle, then switch your vibrator on. I also recommend that every eligible man hit up Netflix for Lena Dunham's "Girls", a valuable insight into the realpolitik of a new generation's
feminine mystique.
Only the looming threat of an STD restrains my lust, which poor Lena as Hannah found she had in season one, sorry, forgot to issue a
spoiler alert.

I so do not trust a few millimeters of latex to protect me from Human Papillomavirus or any of the many Chlamydia strains, but must admit I love to articulate their rhythmic names. That's the reason for safe, doughy, Caleb. I mean, really, people hook-up so often these days, it's hard to trust someone new. That's why I never let Caleb inside me. His job is to manipulate Jacob, my ever-faithful, vibratory companion,  and to lick my clit to moderate, little orgasms that I reward with quick hand jobs. His squat curved member matches his Buddha shape and never lasts more than a minute or two. I find more pleasure in Caleb's gifts of day-old bread and  pastries, no small savings for a single girl living on Chicago's Northside, but an ever present danger to the size and shape of my Irish thighs. I mean, it takes me a year to earn what Lena Dunham probably makes in a week, and I'm guessing that she doesn't have thousands of dollars in  lingering college debt.

At least I have fifty fewer pounds than Lena and shoulder-length, natural strawberry-blonde hair, the kind you would expect a woman named Molly to have, along with the pale pink, freckled Irish skin that burns beet red in the summer and never tans. I'm sure that if I were to habituate River North bars or cruise the Viagra Triangle of Rush, Division, and State, I could have plenty of men. I would only have to dress in something tight, revealing a bit of cleavage, but I am better than that. That's how my old friend, Monica, went down, to a fast talking options trader, who had a wife, paunchy stomach, and spray-tan orange hue, who left the wife for her, but kept the paunch and tan. Monica switched from Goth to that
Housewives' of New Jersey
look, which, when you consider it, isn't that much of a stretch, and, though the first wife got half his cash, he's still flush enough to support her idle days cruising Mag Mile stores and she rewards him with little silk and satin surprises from Victoria's Secret.

I don't have any patience for fast-talking guys, shooting every angle they can, even though I'm growing weary of Caleb's tongue and furtive, vibratory manipulations. I spend my free time roaming book stores, coffee houses, and geeky events, like Comic Con, where all I have to do is wave my hand to get anyone I want, and wave it back to toss him aside, merely to satisfy my ego, as in
mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all
?

But no matter how well my ego's served, it does nothing to satisfy my famished id and need for love.  The exception in my coterie of geeks having been Antoine, who may have lived the lifestyle, but never looked the part. Just thinking his name draws a moist response between my Irish thighs, Antoine, six feet of African American male with Bob Marley locks. Antoine with a lean, agile body. Antoine with his sonorous voice, who could rattle off facts from all three comic book ages, Golden, Silver, and Bronze, discuss sci-fi writers from H. G. Wells to Philip K. Dick, and fix anything with a microchip. His lips tasted like costly English toffee and his cock was like an end-of-summer cucumber. Can you sense that I'm dripping wet at the memory of his body against mine? Can you tell that I like to write?

I write for $33,000 a year, as an editor for EJE & Sons Publishing, specializing in industrial publications like
Contemporary Metal Forming
,
Today's Fasteners
, and
Metal Shaping Digest
. I have a three wall cubicle in the company's offices on east Superior Street, taking the Brown line to and fro, from my Southport studio condo, bought with my parent's help at the height of the bubble and am left with a mortgage that is so upside down it makes me nauseous to dwell on it. "Honey, it's a condo on the North Side. It's like owning gold," my father's words, which turned out to be true, since gold has declined just as much in value too.

But all that detracts from Antoine's cock, which filled me so well for an entire fall of Saturday afternoons and evenings on into Sunday mornings. He had the kind of cock Bridget Jones wouldn't dare mention and Lena Dunham has yet to fuck, at least as Hannah on her show, the kind of cock that so many women secretly dream of, but are too uptight to try, the kind of cock that stood so firm and straight as I rode it, sucked it, worshipped it, as his soothing, sonorous voice told me what a
dirty little slut
I was, his large hands slapping my pale pink ass, and, the truth be told, had the thin veneer of latex ever failed us, I would have born his child, without any doubt, that's how sick, crazy in love I was.

That memorable fall was two years ago, a rare, warm fall, walking north together, hand in hand along Southport, the street looking like a forties movie set with its art deco architecture, terra cotta fascia, and quaint storefront shops, snacking on macaroni and cheese at the Noodle  Shop, Irish coffee at the Mystic Celt, and classic black and white films at the Music Box, which set the tone for the entanglement our bodies would become. His black cock buried so deep in my pink fleshy soul. I remember every shuddering, squishy orgasm, having had to change my sheets twice a week-end to keep up with the relentless, juiciness of our passion.

I still tingle each year in the late spring, when I, dressed in my Wonder Woman finery, encounter him, as an eye patch-clad Nick Fury strolling through Comic Con's aisles, me wanting to fuck him right there on McCormick Place's terrazzo floors, my pale body and pink nipples pressed against his umber flesh, he so alive inside of me, producing a living tableaux of our very own graphic novel. But, it's a more subdued encounter instead, with the simple
hello-how-have-you-been-fine-and-you?
intercourse shared by former lovers turned into uneasy friends.

Even though we were both Gen Xers, and the country elected a Black president, a woman named Molly with Westside Irish roots doesn't marry a man named Antoine whose grandfather took the train here from Clarksdale, Mississippi after World War II, not if she wants to keep her family cool, but then again, Antoine never even asked. He took a job as an IT troubleshooter, travelling across the country for weeks at a time. I was his Comic Con fling, not that he ever promised me anything more, or wasn't a perfect gentleman, aside from the way he spun my body atop that cock of his and "talked shit" to me as he did. Can you imagine his big Black cock stretching my pussy to its limit, riding that shaft up and down and down and up, oh my god, how he filled me.

This is where my mind was wandering, when Edward James Edwards II, as he so regally signs his name, interrupted me, in the midst of riding Antoine's cock and composing my latest masterpiece, Lubricity and other Properties of Powdered Metal Coatings, which I could have easily sub-titled The Effect of Antoine's Cock Inside My Quivering Quim, me loving the language of naughty Victorians.

"We've decided to hold a team-building encounter this Saturday."

Without adding
and we hope you can make it.
One simple declarative sentence, another something that I had to swallow, because the economy sucks and EJE gets hundreds of resumes every month from English majors working as baristas and parking lot attendants, which is also why I haven't gotten a raise in five years, since any one of those poor, underemployed Gen Y's would gladly take my job for half of what I make. We already have two interns working forty hour weeks with zero chance of being hired, just so they can put EJE on their resume.

"Where?" was my best and only response.

"Good show, Moll, that's being a team player, the Marriott in Lincolnshire."

I hate it when he calls me Moll, as if I were some monosyllabic thing to be done with as he pleased, and Lincolnshire meant that I would have to rent a car, or beg for a ride, or ask my mother for her car, or take two trains and a cab, another one of those little tensions that make me want to scream "fuck-you", but I contained myself as Caleb and his temperamental silver Jetta sprang to mind, a simple little manipulation, proving that nice guys don't finish last, they get hand jobs.

———

"My car?"

It wasn't fair, I know, I mean he was so vulnerable with his pants and jockeys down around his knees, and me fully clothed,  because I didn't want his tongue to say hello to my monthly, little friend.

"Just for a day." I didn't think that it was going to bother him that much. All he ever did was bake, play Halo, and then bake himself to sleep with a well-rolled spliff.

"It's just that the fuel injector is acting weird and I won't have time to get it fixed."

"It's Lincolnshire, not Cucamonga."

"Cucamonga?"

"An exaggeration to demonstrate how close Lincolnshire is." He was high, as usual, and I liked to play little mind games with him as I stroked his cute cock,  yes cute, I must confess, all four inches of it, curved and throbbing in my right hand as I continued to stroke. I held my
little girl
voice in reserve.

"I have a second cousin there, that's all, so it's like weird that you would pick a town where I had a cousin."

"Yes, the cousin you play Halo with all the time, like duh. So, can I have it?"

"Have what?"

"Your car." I squeezed his cock in deft, sure movements and he groaned with his eyes closed instead of answering.

"Caleb?"

"What if it dies while you're on the expressway, you could be seriously hurt, not to mention the silver diva." He treated his Jetta as if it were a soprano at The Met.

"I'll take surface streets all the way."

"Jesus, that will take you a long time, maybe two hours."

"Yes or no, baby?" I used my best little girl voice, gently pumping his balls as I stroked his cock and bent low as if I were going to open my mouth for his come.

"Yes, yes, yes, oh fuck, yes," he moaned.

I drew back just before the thick, stringy wad of his come ejected with a force and trajectory that nearly overshot the towels I had carefully arrayed.

"Yes,  I can have your car, or yes, I made you come?" I slowly massaged his quivering detumescence, enjoying the slick lubricity of it, as if it were one of the cutting tools I had been writing about, and here, I would like to add that, while writing about machine tools can be a tedious chore, I firmly believe that it is no less tedious than a 300 level survey course on Henry James, as honored as his authorial legacy may be.

"Yes, the car."

I kissed him on his forehead, I know, how cruel can a woman get? But I think lips are more intimate, only to be shared with someone like Antoine, or ...Rafael.