I Miss My Twenties

An ex-fling thing put some pictures of him and his fiancée on Facebook today, all dressed up and ready to go out, and I had so many thoughts that I felt it might be fun to write a few of them down. 

Couples get a bit weird once they’ve been together for a while, don’t they? The Facebook album titled “The Big Night Out” ends up sprinkled with an unhealthy amount of nice hotel bathroom shots, images of towels folded into weird shapes on freshly-made beds, photos of plates of food so tiny that it must have been made for teeny-tiny people, and oh-so-obligatory elevator selfies. 

Same pose, almost the same outfits, three nights in a row. 

How much fun are these people really having if the bird-shaped towel on the bed gets more photos than the couple actually on the night out? 

(I’m just jealous, really.)

But when I saw the album, I didn’t instantly mock the couple. Instead, I thought of a time that man and I shared a hotel room together. There weren’t that many nights like that, but this particular night was a special occasion. A wedding. Birthday. Anniversary party. Something like that. Despite both of our houses being closer to the venue than the actual hotel was, we still went right ahead and booked the room, more than happy to make a drugs and alcohol-fuelled night of it. Going home to your parents’ after an MDMA binge is a rather tricky experience, requiring a shitload of forward planning.

£60 to avoid all of that?

No-brainer.  

There were no photos of the swan-shaped towels on the bed, or artistic shots of plates of food, or elevator selfies. We didn’t even make it to the actual event before his cum accidentally stained my dress, one purchased specifically for the occasion and deliberately worn without panties. We’d popped to the hotel “for five minutes” on the way to the party venue, to drop off my bag and get things ready for when we’d drunkenly return. But we all know what “for five minutes” means, really … don’t we?

I can still remember the exact excited, far-away look he got in his eyes as I dropped to my knees in that blue and gold polka dot dress in the bathroom and unzipped his smart black trousers. I can also still remember the exact way his cock looked as the full length of it slid slowly in and out of my mouth, a few moments later, fully taking advantage of the large wall mirror and the marvellous dual-vision it allowed us both. 

We would be late. We were always late. Sex was almost always the reason why. 

The white floor tiles were cold and hard on my bare knees, but I didn’t care so much. The cock in front of me was beautiful enough to hold all of my attention, if a cock can even be beautiful. My version of beautiful is gloriously veiny, with the kinda girth I can barely fit my hand around. I want to struggle when I try to swallow it whole. I want to watch myself struggling with it. There’s something so very erotic about watching yourself devouring a cock, and there was something so very erotic about watching myself devour his cock. It was virtually perfect. Virtually. I could barely fit it all in my mouth but I persisted again and again, admiring the way that my throat would bulge every time I forced him into me, learning just how much I can swallow before it all gets a little too much. He always loved it when I’d gag ever-so-slightly, and that made me push myself even further. I’d gag a little, he’d moan, we’d both love it. 

I remember him grabbing fistfuls of my hair with both of his hands and jerking my head so that my eyes met his. He loved staring right down into them as I sucked and played, lapped and nibbled on him, almost as much as he loved to hear me gag on him.

“Look at me, beautiful.”

That’s what he’d always call me – beautiful, and that’s always how he’d make me feel. 

I knew him well enough to understand that the subtle change in his breathing meant he would soon start shooting thick loads into the back of my throat; and just in case that didn’t give me plenty of warning, the juddering motion in his hips would give the game away. And if that still wasn’t enough, it would be the way both of his hands would roll up into tight little balls that told me what I needed to know, almost like he was fighting to hold back the waves of pleasure deep within and losing the battle. 

It’s funny, the little things I remember about him … the intimate ways I remember knowing him. I wonder if she knows him that well? His fiancée. If she could predict when he would reach climax just from the way his chest would rise and fall? If she could control when and how he came in the same way I did, holding him right at the very edge before letting things cool back down again. Up and then down. To the edge and back. Over and over again and then again some more. 

I wonder if they take drugs together? Or if they ever did? If they ever had the kind of irresponsible, drug-fuelled, CRAZY sex that we did? I’m a responsible adult that doesn’t do anything harder than “waccy-baccy” now, but there are still days that I would give anything to be that drunken, drugged-up moron again — to have sex for so long and so furiously that I can barely walk the next day. I’d probably choose to avoid the two or three-day hangovers, though. That was one of the biggest reasons I quit the booze in the first place. 

But I wonder if she’s ever dropped to her knees in front of the bathroom mirror of their hotel room to suck his cock before they went out?

Or if they made it back to the hotel before they fucked again? 

Because we didn’t. 

His fingers were deep inside me in the taxi on the way back home from the club, and I definitely left more than a damp patch on the back seat. I cringe a little when I think of the public viewing our poor, innocent cab driver got, but back in those days, getting it on in the cab on the way home was a regular occurrence. I don’t remember every part of the night, but I do remember getting asked to leave a club by a very sturdy-looking man dressed all in black. There’s a chance we might have been kicked out because of our sexual escapades in the bathroom. Maybe I was a secret voyeur? I would never have admitted to that (and probably still won’t), but cab drivers and bouncers weren’t the only people blessed with a free ticket to one of my showings. 

It’s nights like tonight, as I look back and remember really amazing nights I’ve had with people like him, that I get a pang of something. Nostalgia? A yearning to go back to my well-lived youth? Some light voyeurism? Maybe I’m just missing how good it feels to get to grips with a hard, willing dick? I’m not sure, but it’s definitely something. I’m missing something. Probably all of the above.

Even though he doesn’t look the same and I don’t look the same, I wonder if we’d have the same crazy sexual chemistry that we had all those years ago … and then again a second time around, a few years after that? He still sends me messages every Christmas and birthday (and also the occasional drunken night out when she’s not around), so I know he still thinks about me. But how does he think of me? Is it in the same ways that I think about him? 

In reality, I shouldn’t care if he does or doesn’t, or how — and I don’t care. Not really. I’m happily coupled-up and just reminiscing over times gone by. 

Sometimes, though, I just really miss my twenties.

And dick. I really, really miss dick.  

[P.S. I’m not taking applications for dick. Please don’t apply.]