Separating Love and Sex (or not)

I’ve never been good at separating love and sex.


It’s possible that I’m just not great at handling my brain chemistry, so when I’m buried inside someone, looking into their eyes as we fuck, I believe all those hormones that are pumped into my head telling me it’s love. I had a belief as a teenager that sex would fundamentally change any relationship—acquired god knows where—and it stuck with me for a long time. Combined with my physiology, it meant that not only did I accept it, but I expected it as well.


After saying I love you at just the wrong moment, I’ve had a lot of awkward conversations that didn’t always go over as I would have like. You know, when I said I loved you back then it was just as a friend. Obviously. Or maybe it was her who brought it up, often as a rejection formed in a question. You don’t really love me, do you? Why would you say that?


And worst of all, at least most of the time, was I love you too. After that we would both lie there silently wondering if we could take it back, or if we needed to double down on it and see where we ended up. Maybe it was love and maybe it was true. And now where do we go?


This might explain why I mostly fuck my friends now. With someone I’ve known for even just a year, chances are high I’ve been saying I love you for a long time before we ever crawl into bed. When it’s been even longer, when we’ve put off sex for whatever reasons we can imagine, it’s a different story altogether.


“I love you,” I’ll moan as we writhe on the bed, in the bathroom stall, or on the couch at a party.


“Aww,” she’ll whisper back to me with easy sincerity. “I love you too.”

 

-gny

(If you enjoy my writing and would like to support the blog, you can buy my novel or one of my dirty e-books on Amazon here. You can also contribute via pay pal on quickienewyork.com if you enjoy the content.)

©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#760)
Infrared.
©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#759)
Red.
©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#758)

There’s Nothing

“Show me what’s under your dress,” I said, as she lay down on my bed with a shy smile.


“There’s nothing,” she whispered, her knees touching even as she sat up on her elbows. Her cotton dress was pretty and old, and it sat on her thighs completely aware that it was in the way.


“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said. “Show me.”


She bit her lip and reached one hand down to grab the frayed hem. Just hours earlier she had confessed that she would do anything, and as my requests grew more and more insistent her hesitation came with a quickening breath and a flushing of her cheeks.


I leaned in closer and grabbed one knee, pushing her legs open as I watched. She whimpered ever so slightly as she lifted the dress up, sliding it over her thighs until it finally rested on her belly.


“Open your legs,” I said, my voice no longer sounding like my own. This time she leaned back and closed her eyes, doing just what I told her. I slid a hand up one thigh and down the other, listening to her sigh as I quickly passed her over. When I kissed her stomach she moaned my name, and when my fingers touched her lips she nearly jumped off the bed.


Her pussy tasted like summer. She was coconut and salt water; she was hot sun and bare skin. I licked her and kissed her, my fingers pushing inside her as she lifted her hips off the bed and pulled me to her. My tongue found every inch of skin it could, and I tasted her until she was inside me.


By the time I moved up to her mouth, her hands were around me pulling me in. I tore her dress off her shoulders, aching to feel her skin against mine, and I kissed her hard as I thrust inside her. She screamed out as I worked my way in, and when she had taken all of me we paused and kissed until there were tears in our eyes.


We fucked slowly, all the energy of reaching this moment held tightly in. I held her hands, she clenched her thighs, and we nearly held our breaths as we moved within one another. When my fingers touched her chin they were firm and unshaking. When her hands touched my face they were strong and determined.


As our fucking moved in just one direction the tension built until both our bodies were springs ready to snap. I leaned up on my hands, watching the mechanics of our sex before kissing her once more and giving her her final task.


“Come for me,” I demanded, as I thrust all the way inside her. She reached a hand between our bodies, her fingers frantic against her skin, and we climbed the final peak together. We moaned and screamed and made faces that were full of nothing but need. When she finally shouted her release I was right behind her, my cock exploding within her as we kissed between ragged breaths. We came for hours and days. We came for months and for seconds. We came without end, and I stayed within her even when I collapsed against her wet skin and kissed her lips with tenderness once more.


“I knew there was something beneath this,” I whispered, toying with the cotton that still clung to her hips. “Something perfect.”

-gny

©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#757)
 Now I’m just finding all the good kisses.

©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#757)

 Now I’m just finding all the good kisses.

©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#756)
And threesome kissing photos are also nice. 

©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#756)

And threesome kissing photos are also nice. 

©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#755)
Kissing photos are some of my favorite photos. 

©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#755)

Kissing photos are some of my favorite photos. 

Anonymous asked: do you save any of the videos or pictures that are sent to you on snapchat?

I have never saved a Snapchat. I like how ephemeral it is. I like Instagram private messages for things that should last, but Snapchat feels fleeting. I often can’t even read the notes in time. I like it.

Thanks for asking! I’ve been slow blogging, but questions are always nice. 

gny

ps. my snapchat is just guynewyork (if I know you on tumblr/twitter, I’m more likely to respond, but I love everything you all send. Sweet, funny, sexy, adorable…)

Signs of Spring

I haven’t been writing much recently (at least not dirty things) so I apologize if things have been a little slow around here.


New York is still cold, and I keep struggling to see signs of spring. Even the infrequent warm days don’t do much to help, as they vanish quicker than I remember. I haven’t seen a crocus or a bare knee since last year, and it’s pushing me more into myself.


I suspect one of these days I’ll wake up and remember that I like to fuck. I’ll wake up with a hard-on, and I’ll open the window before climbing back into bed with two hot cups of coffee. If I’m good, I’ll wake her with kisses against her stomach even as the smell of cinnamon and dark sugar do the same. In the warm breeze I’ll move lower until all I can taste is her, even as she bring the mug to her lips and sighs with the new warmth filling her.


“It’s spring,” she’ll moan as she clenches the sheets.


When I finally move up and kiss her stained lips, she’ll reach down and insist that I fuck her, loudly and without pause. Together we’ll sweat and laugh until we come so hard that winter is only a faint memory.


One of these days can’t come soon enough.

 

-gny

(If you enjoy my writing and would like to support the blog, you can buy my novel or one of my dirty e-books on Amazon here. You can also contribute via pay pal on quickienewyork.com if you enjoy the content.)

©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#754)
Please say it’s almost time for this again. Blankets, short dresses, kisses on the neck, and grass against my feet are much needed.

©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#754)

Please say it’s almost time for this again. Blankets, short dresses, kisses on the neck, and grass against my feet are much needed.

Needing to Be Loved

“Last night was insane,” she said, walking into my room and climbing into my bed. I wasn’t sure if I could listen to another one of her stories, even if it meant getting laid, but I put my book down anyway.


“What did you do?” I asked.


“Come to bed,” she whispered. “I don’t really want to talk. Come hold me and kiss me.”


I could see the bruises on her body as I undressed her, but her mouth was gentle and soft against me. She touched my cheek, and I brushed her hair behind an ear as we slowly lost our clothes and slid beneath the light blanket. Her neck was red and there were finger marks on her collar bone. Each wrist was marked with lines that were turning an angry shade of green and black. I kissed each nipple, watching them harden beneath my light touch, and she sighed sweetly as she opened her thighs.


“I want you slowly,” she whispered as I rolled a condom down over myself minutes later. I looked into her eyes for a long time as I rubbed against her, but her moans never grew frantic. When I finally entered her we kissed like we were in love.


“I like your bruises,” I whispered as I moved faster, and for a moment I pictured it all in my head.


“Don’t,” she moaned, pulling me deeper inside her as she wrapped her arms around me. “I don’t want you to like them. Just hold me.”


I struggled to hold back and to slow down. I tried not to imagine fucking her with everything I had, slapping her face and her ass until I painted my own picture on her body, but it was nearly impossible. Each time I thrust harder, she held me tighter, her voice a whisper in my ear telling me to be gentle. When I finally came it was all I could do not to tell her horrible things.


“Thank you,” she whispered as we lay next to each other in the dark room.


“Why do you do that? Why won’t you let me fuck you for real?”


“That is real.”


“You know what I mean,” I said, rubbing my hands through my hair, my cock still hard from all the things I wanted to do with her.


“You’re the only one,” she finally said, rolling to her back. “I guess I need someone to be sweet to me, because no one else is. Not even me.”


“Most people are the other way around,” I said. “They love their husbands, but they fuck their lovers like they can’t get enough. They don’t do crazy shit at home and then crawl into my bed needing to feel loved.”


“I know,” she whispered, pulling me close again. “I know.”

-gny

(If you enjoy my writing and would like to support the blog, you can buy my novel or one of my dirty e-books on Amazon here. You can also contribute via pay pal on quickienewyork.com if you enjoy the content.)

 

©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#753)
I love fucking without taking off my clothes. Or hers. A lifted dress, a lowered zipper, and I can be inside her anywhere. 

©2013 by The Dirty Gentleman (#753)

I love fucking without taking off my clothes. Or hers. A lifted dress, a lowered zipper, and I can be inside her anywhere. 

Worry and Control

The first time I asked Maggie if she’d fuck someone else while I watched, I was hoping for control.


We had been dating for a few months, and she made it clear from the beginning that she was not a good girlfriend. But she kissed me slowly and showed up at my room unannounced, so maybe I was different. She came incredibly hard each time we fucked, and I thought it might be enough to keep her from falling into old habits.


Her idea of a bad girlfriend was complicated. Some of it was simply her past that made her convinced no one would love her. Her turn ons and her shame were intricately connected, and somewhere along the line she decided she wasn’t good enough. She was too slutty, too removed, too dirty to be a good girlfriend, so she decided to be a bad one. Days would go by without a phone call, and then she’d show up drunk at my door and beg me to fuck her while I called her names.


“You’re a filthy little whore,” I’d groan as I slapped her and choked her until tears ran down her face. She’d spit and struggle, but the few times I stopped, worried that possibly it had gone to far, she’d roll over and shut down.


“Don’t fucking do that,” she’d say. “I don’t want to deal with you being worried about me.”


When I suggested bringing Max over, she smiled and asked me if I could handle it. I had watched them flirt for weeks, and somewhere in the middle of it all, I decided I could make it mine. Maybe if I told her what to do, if I made her do it, it would feel less hard than when it happened behind my back.


I undressed her in front of him, and she was shy for first time since I met her. I pulled her hair and forced her to her knees, but the look on his face was more concerned than lustful even as she opened her mouth around his cock. We took turns fucking her mouth and her cunt, and there were a few moments when her eyes glazed over in want, but it was nothing close to how she was with me. He was gentle even when I told him not to be, and she kissed me softly while they fucked.


It took her half a bottle of gin to say anything other than, “it was nice.” Three days later she stumbled into my room, her short skirt around her waist as she struggled to get out of her panties. She didn’t kiss me once as she crawled onto my lap and rubbed her pussy against me through my boxers.


“He would have fucked me harder if you weren’t there. He would have hit me and fucked my ass, but he was worried to do it in front of you. I can always tell when someone is afraid to give me what I deserve.”


“Maggie, don’t,” I whispered, even as I watched in horror as I slid my cock inside her. She leaned down and I grabbed her hair as I thrust up into her, but it was too much. “Please, don’t do this.”


She rolled off me a second later, and curled up into a ball. She was still wearing her skirt, and her tank top was down around her stomach. I pulled the blanket up over her and tried to wrap my arms around her. She pushed me away as she rocked on the bed, and her sobs were loud.


“Why didn’t he want me?” she cried.

 

-gny

(If you enjoy my writing and would like to support the blog, you can buy my novel or one of my dirty e-books on Amazon here. You can also contribute via pay pal on quickienewyork.com if you enjoy the content.)

Anonymous asked: Are these stories based on your life or friends as well. They are fucking awesome!

Hey thanks!

They are all based on my life or my friends as well. Except when I make them up. In which case they’re even more true.

(this is why people don’t ask me questions isn’t it)

-gny