TGGF, MALE MODEL & ME
“Sooooo…how was the trip to Kingsman with Kenya and them?” asked my TGGF.
“Oh, it was cool. I thought we were going on an upcoming Saturday, but turns out-I learned while in church-we were going to be going a few hours after church let out. It was kind of spur of the moment,” I explained.
“By the time church let out, and I ran home and got changed; Kenya’s big sister was pretty much ready to take whomever was around and in the house. She was ready to leave as soon as possible,” I interjected.
“It’s cool. I wouldn’t have been able to go anyways, so, it’s cool,” she said.
TGGF and me had a distant energy between us, splashed with a dash of her attitude with me, but we sat outside into the night on a vacant apartment’s porch, just small-talking. Periodically one or two other people would sit on the porch with us (which helped ease the tension).
As a result of my ripping and running and trying to squeeze everything out of the remaining part of the summer, it had been a short while since I had seen her last. It didn’t seem like she was particularly upset with me (per se’) but it seemed like she could sense a wedge between us. I admit-it was, sort of.
She was kind of a loner anyways, so she was most probably bored without me around for as long as I had been away from her. It made it a lot easier for her to blend into the crowd with our other friends when we showed up together-other than that, she was cool with hanging out by herself, but I could tell she was lonely without me around.
Into the night, the tension in the air got even more strange when this guy that everyone was crushing on showed up.
Everybody liked him: all us pre-teen girls, Dee’s group of older teen girls, the twenty-something’s who were Kenya’s oldest sister’s age, and even the older ladies who were Kenya’s mother’s age.
Everyone talked about him-I never joined in with their talks of lust about him.
The guy was all but about twenty years-old, but every female from 8-80 couldn’t help but lust him.
You name whomever, he held their attention. No one was exempt. He was a delicacy-new on the street and had moved into one of the vacant apartments a few months before summer. And when the weather changed, he would come outside without a shirt on and jog back and forth to Leroy’s two, three and four times a day to get goodies, groceries and such-probably just for a little exercise with a little dash of an ego stroke-because he sure as hell was on everybody’s menu.
A pleasure to look at, he occupied plenty of pages in my red diary and many a sessions in my mind when I’d masturbate, thinking of him. He had that nice v-shaped torso leading down to his shorts and when I would see that, it would excite me. It just spelled: “M.A.N” to me. He oozed sexiness through his pores.
I never spoke to him-not even so much as a mere: “hello.” It would be a cold day in hell before I would ever give him any indication that he was more than a passing thought in my mind, because he knew he was the center of attention-but surprisingly, he kept his cool about it (falsely modestly so. I saw straight through it).
He was friendly with, and spoke to everyone. If he would spend any time small-talking, it would be
only for a seconds. He’d be jogging in place as if in his mind, he was saying: “Make it snappy. I have to go-I’m just stickin’ and movin.’” Outside of his male model good looks, that was the main thing that made him attractive: coming outside only to jog down to Leroy’s, speak, and jog in place, throw his hands up to say hello, give high-fives to guys and jog right back home to his apartment is what made the women and girls wanting to chase and catch up with him-even more. It was funny to observe. He never deviated from that routine. He lived so close to the top of the hill, that his comings and goings could not be clocked. He could just leave his house, hang a left, walk a few steps, and be off of the street and on about his business-unseen. Leroy’s was his only association and connection with the neighborhood-so it was a big deal when he’d come jogging down the hill.
Well, when nightfall came and my TGGF and I were still sitting out on the vacant apartment porch small-talking, he just so happened to have been making his run down to Leroy’s. On his way back up the hill-he decided to stop jogging and make some conversation with the two of us. The night was perfect because no one was hardly outside. There were small groups of people scattered about on the street, but few and far between porches.
About three minutes into allowing him into our small talk; like the grim reaper, up from the basement steps-my TGGF’s little brother started stomping and yelling: “Daddy said it’s time for you to come in the house-Stupid!”
Right about that moment, those were near fighting words to my TGGF. We had already been uneasy with one another, but the porch visitors we had off and on throughout the evening, eased the tension in the air. The fact that Male Model was now joining us, and she had to leave him outside with me-only-pissed her off five times over. She secretly liked Male Model too. Dumb, damp, dyke, deaf, disabled, definite hetero male or delusional; you couldn’t help but stare at him. I mean, he looked as if someone drew him on a piece of paper, thumped it and said: “bring him to life!” and he come crawling off the paper and turned from a mere sketch to a man. He was gorgeous-regardless your flavor and taste in men (or no).
TGGF ignored Baby Bro and continued to sit there as if he was not calling out to anyone sitting on that porch.
“Daddy said get-your-butt-in-the-house, right now! You heard me! Don’t make me go get him!” he repeated-yelling loudly and trying to be heard by their dad.
He then placed his hands around his mouth and whispered loud enough so that TGGF, Male Model and I could hear. But this time, not so loud-so Dad couldn’t hear. As if he was re-enacting “Amityville Horror’s” notorious “Get-Out!” line, he imitated: “Get-your-asssssss in-side!”
He then laughed like a demon-doll. She wanted to kill him dead.
I glanced over at her. She looked at me-giving me the evil eye-while Male Model stood in front of the porch drinking his soda and looking around as if he wasn’t paying attention at all-so as to not embarrass her.
Her anger wouldn’t let her hold it back. She went for it and yelled at me:
“SO WHAT TIME ARE YOU GOING HOME ANGIE?!” she demanded to know, not caring how she or it looked in front of Male Model. She was pissed.
“Uh, shortly,” I replied-simply.
My eyes stretched wide-open, feeling put on the spot divided by caught by surprise.
“Iiiiiiiiiiii hi. Hahahahaha, “ he laughed.
“Time to tuck ‘ya in lit-tle girl. Let’s make it in the house! Come on! Come on!” laughed Baby Bro, feeling like Big Brother in charge-sent to break up her fun. He thought it was so funny to fan toward her the direction of the downward cement steps.
TGGF ran up on him and punched him in his back so hard. He jerked his shoulders up from the pain, but kept on teasing her all the way down the steps until the door slammed.
This fine specimen had no idea how many times in my mind that-as a token of appreciation for loving to look at him-I fantasized about sliding my mouth and tongue anywhere on his body I could guess he-himself loved.
I continued to sit there, still observing [and happy] that no one was near Male Model and me to the left or to the right of us on any porch-all the way up to quite a few porches away.
Pretty much after Leroy would close his store, the lower half of the street and the tether ball corner where a lot of people would congregate, would clear out-no matter the season or the weather.
Male Model turned to me and sipped on his soda again:
“So how old are you?”
“A woman is not supposed to tell her age.” I responded by rolling my eyes and in a way as if I said: “none of your business.”
He laughed and rolled his eyes in his head and replied:
“Precisely! Women usually don’t tell their age, but you are just a girl, a young woman. Girl!”
I knew that he thought that was going to get a rise out of me, but I ignored him by turning my head-just like the way he was all to used to me doing to him at every trip he made down and up the hill.
I always ignored and abhorred anybody or thing that didn’t favor me or me-it, whatever or whomever I didn’t like or didn’t like me, just about as much as I would ignore or abhor what I could not have all to myself or my way. I made him feel really stupid-so he stopped asking.
He then began making small-talk and flicking his Bic cigarette lighter off and on while I stared at him through the blue, yellow and red flame. Before too long, we were into a full-on conversation about everything from school, to people, to where he lived before moving on our street-anything that came to his and my mind-we just kept it going. While in the middle of the conversation, he got bored with flicking the lighter into the air in between us. He then began to pretend to burn the strings on my cut-off jean shorts.
He looked so luscious standing right there in front of me.
His conversation got slower. His voice got lower: “Bring him to life!”
…he slowly began to appear right out of the thoughts I would have of him from the pages of my red diary. I sat back on my hands and opened my legs some. I began to swinging them just enough that it wasn’t too obvious, but in a way to confuse him and make him wonder if I swung my legs to make him stop burning my jean short’s strands, or if I did it to try and seduce him. He was all too confused.
All I know is that my throbbing heart fell down to my pussy. If he could see me through my jean shorts he would have seen my heart all in the wrong place.
“You can finish burning them,” I said-seductively.
I wanted him to fuck me so bad-he had no idea just how much. I was secretly, very hot for him but absolutely, positively refused to blend my desire with the other people on the street who desired him too.
He looked down between my legs. I pushed myself forward while sitting at the edge of the steps-feeling so aroused by him and throbbing so hard. I wanted him to grab my crotch with his hands so badly. I couldn’t help myself. He slowly brought the lighter down to the inner-thigh strands of my shorts rather than the strands on the top and outer thigh. I sighed out impatiently.
He flicked the lighter and slowly burned the strands with his left hand-then extinguished the mini-fire with his right-hand’s fingers. Then the next strand, the next strand-the next strand-the next strand (repeatedly).
I thrust forward, slowly, while still leaning back on my hands.
“This is it. This is the night I’m going to finally do it,” I sighed and said in my head. I had delegated him to be that one-over a thousand times in my diary and in my mind.
The more he stared into my crotch with the fire in his hands, the more aroused I became. The tough inseam of my jeans shorts was all I had for any crotch-grabbing, because he was scared to do it. All he could do was bite down on his bottom lip.
I grinded slowly and forward as if I was moving closer to him. He continued the fire.
I looked up and down the street-still no one around. He never turned away or looked around, up or down the street. I went for it: “Touch it. Touch me,” I whispered to him.
He was stunned and frozen, but didn’t know what to do.
In my mind, I was kicking and screaming: “I like youuuuu! No-I love youuuuu-always have!”
But instead, I invited:
“Just grab it-one good hard time, please,” I begged-innocently, while admiring how unbelievably good-looking he was: gorgeous and older-just like I liked ‘em.
There he was, standing right there in front of me, having no idea that I ever looked at him in such a way-sure that I never even entertained the thought of him in such a way-because of the way I always ignored him so. As he continued to stand there, my mind envisioned him grabbing my crotch. I got more excited because he was sweating bullets fighting hard not to-paying attention to my body and forgetting to care about my age.
In a matter of seconds right then and there, he had slid my shorts over to the side, and manipulated my clit with his thumb until it got tired. He buried his face in it while I begged for mercy as he threw my legs back and shoved himself inside of me and pounded me mercilessly.
Thank goodness my jean shorts were too tight, because instead of that thought being in my head, I probably would have pulled my shorts over or put his hand up in them while sitting there in front of him to see what, if anything, he would do about it. I could feel his desire-it was burning about as hot as the cigarette lighter he kept flickering. I could tell that as long as he could not see (or touch) anything, he had the lockdown on making sure he was going to control himself. All else was fair-game.
He turned me on so badly standing there.
He grabbed hold of himself as best as he could:
“No. No. Stop girl. We have to stop. No. Stop it. Stop thisssss,” he grunted; bunching his lips together angrily-in agony and with a frown of frustration on his face as if he was forced to withdraw out of the best pussy he never had. I wanted his dick so badly. I had been dying to hold one in my hand, my mouth and inside of me-his (to be exact). And here it is staring at me-inches from my face-erect and bulging through his pants and turning me on. He stood there clutching his fists tightly, doing his best not to touch me with his hands or touch himself.
His forehead was shining like glass. He was lit like the fire in his Bic. I needed to feel some part of him, so I slid my right foot from out of my flip-flop and with the back of my foot; I began digging into his leg-trying to pull him closer up on me to make him fall on top of me. I wanted him as close to my pussy as possible. His body was so strong.
I was trying my best not to lean forward, and come off my (now) sore palms that I had been leaning back on, to support me the entire time. He fought like hell standing there holding his fit body stiff as a super-hero, while gritting his teeth and biting down on his jowls. His head was still hanging down with his chin close to his chest as he kept staring smack dead at my crotch as if he had x-ray vision and could see my pussy from behind my jean shorts. It was driving me mad-so mad that I could almost feel rays of heat from his eyes-beaming at my pussy. Thank goodness for the thick inseam of my jean shorts pressing right on my clit while I thrust slowly into it for pressure and pleasure, because he was fighting too hard not to touch me, and was winning his own battle. He just kept staring into my crotch while I kept grinding slowly; gasping and moaning desperately. I could feel him, feeling himself inside of me.
I was fighting just as hard not to grab my own pussy or his dick, as he tried hard not to grab my pussy or touch his own dick. This was about as painful as it was pleasurable for him and for me. I was about to explode-hard. My pussy was pulsating vibrations that could bust an eardrum. The back of my foot was digging into the back of his muscular thigh-hard enough to dig a hole in it. I threw my head, back then clenched my teeth together to keep from screaming out loud while I came.
I collected myself, unwrapped my leg from around his, then sat up from leaning back on my sore palms. I looked at him with my watery eyes trying to focus. I closed my legs. My heart traveled from my pussy, back up to its rightful place: in my chest.
He collected himself and finally took a seat in front of me-placing his head in his hands, wiping his face and grunting aloud. He then turned around, looked up at me and bit his lip: “Ooh ANGIE, I wish you were older! Just a little older!,” he challenged, as if he would have definitely won this game.
“What are you-like, sixteen?” he threw in my face.
“You kill me. You’re not even twenty-one yet. You’re not so grown yourself!” I snapped back.
“And you’re not quite eighteen yet-that I do know-despite…” he lowered his voice and stopped himself from finishing his own sentence, but tried looking in between my virgin and tightly closed legs.
I folded myself back up by wrapping my arms around my legs and sat my chin in my lap. He stood up and folded his fingers to give me a little affectionate thump on my forehead:
“What’s up big head girl? Get your chin out of your knees and that hump out of your back before you end up with bad posture-you don’t want a hump in your back do you?” he said to me-turning his head to the side-being playful.
“Trying to act as if you like me now. You never even speak to me!” he complained and remembered-all too well.
“I do like you,” I replied and stuck my tongue out at him playfully like a girl my age would-whom I snapped right back into being.
I stood up and yawned, stretched and pulled my shorts from being bunched at my crotch. I then began to slowly step down off the porch:
“I’m kind of tired. I’d better be going home now,” I said.
“You and me both,” he replied.
He then yawned and stretched like I just did.
I didn’t say anything else. I just squeezed past him, turned left and began to head home without turning to look back at him.
I could feel him staring at me walk away.
Old Man Leroy’s was good and closed.
There were no people standing around or sitting outside from the left, going down the hill-the direction I was heading to go home.
The only direction for him to head towards his home was to the right and up towards the top of that hill, only to disappear into oblivion as far as I or the situation was concerned.
This night with him was a one-night-chance and I couldn’t wait to get home to write all about it into lines of my little red diary:
“Dear Diary: Progress.”