I’m literally on my way out the door. He really should be getting ready to leave for that meeting. I have to get going to pick up the kids. But neither of us cares, because we have another, far more pressing need. I drop my purse, raise an eyebrow and move toward him. He tells me to behave in a tone that says the opposite. I cup my hand over the bulge in his shorts, calling his bluff. Now he’s kissing my neck, and we’re tugging at each other’s clothes like the fate of the universe depends on their immediate removal. Before my pants can hit the floor, he’s inside me…
That’s not erotica, per se, but an excerpt from a true story. You might think that someone who’s very much into sex toys and various forms of kink would scorn a simple, quick and dirty hookup. If that someone is me, however, you’d be mistaken. Quickies make me feel sexy, powerful and irresistible. It’s desire so strong that we can’t wait for a more opportune time, it’s an urge that absolutely will not be denied. Neither limited time, nor clothing, nor lack of “suitable” location can hold back the tide.
I love the raw intensity of getting it on when I know time is short. As a person who tends to overthink almost everything, acting on pure instinct is an amazing release. It’s one of the few times I can be exclusively focused in the here and now, the pure pleasure of living in the moment. It’s concentrated and potent. It’s a shot of 100 proof whiskey, packing an intoxicating punch in a hurry. And like that whiskey, it obliterates inhibitions. Some of the best, magnificently filthy dirty talk happens during brief encounters. That same lack of restraint has also left me with epic rugburn, which I wore like a badge of honor until it finally faded.
Quickies could also be compared to fast food, in the right circumstances. I’m not talking about blasting through the nearest drive thru because you need to grab a bite and it happens to be there. I mean it’s near midnight, after you’ve been driving for hours. You passed hungry fifty miles ago, and there’s nothing resembling civilization in sight. You suddenly find yourself overcome with the desire for French fries. Perfectly crisp, salty, hot and fresh from the fryer. You crave them desperately. You can’t think about anything else but those sultry slivers of spud, no matter how hard you try. They are the only thing that can truly satisfy your appetite, and you need them in your mouth right now.
Then, as if conjured from your fantasy, golden arches appear on the horizon. You can practically smell those fries as you exit the highway, and it’s a wonder that you can place your order without drooling. You can’t even make it out of the parking lot before grabbing a handful and chowing down. That first bite is such a heavenly explosion of flavor, you reach for more while still chewing. Those fries, in that moment, are better than a five course gourmet meal. They disappear in a few brief minutes, devoured with shameless abandon and glorious greed, leaving you with a smug, slightly greasy grin of satisfaction.
Quickies also feed my love of being the secret bad girl. It’s fun to walk through the grocery store with sex-mussed hair, or pick up dinner while I’m still dripping wet. It’s excellent arriving at a party ever so slightly late with flushed cheeks, lips plump and rosy from sucking cock. It’s even better when friends comment on how nice I look, never guessing the nature of my secret beauty treatment.
Do quickies ever leave me wishing for more? Sometimes, yes, but usually in a good way. Circling back to food metaphors, sometimes I’m greedy and wish I could have seconds. But all things considered, I’d rather grab a quick, delicious bite at the bar than go hungry waiting for a table. Besides, if the food is good, I’ll make a point of coming back for a full meal later…