Reassembling the night - Sex Stories

Reassembling the night

... sported posters of the bar of soap from Fight Club , and a tasteful nude partially clad in a towel. Photo frames flanked bookshelves lined with the likes of Harlan Coben, Andy McNab, Philip K. Dick, and a smattering of textbooks with dog-eared post-its sprouting from worn edges. The only other sign of life was his Japanese peace lily on the stand in the corner, away from the direct morning sunlight that streamed in from the East window. The plant helped oxygenate the room apparently, but the primary reason he had it, besides it being difficult to kill, was because Simon Pegg's character had one in Hot Fuzz . Having something to regularly nurse other than a hangover not only added to his allure, as if he was in touch with his inner self, it was also a great ice-breaker. His eyes tracked from the spray bottle of distilled water, following the trail of clothes that led from the doorway in a circuitous path to the bathroom, then to the bed. He shuddered again at the thoughts of what might have been. Fucking alcohol. His best friend and worst nightmare. An overwhelming urge to urinate overcame him so he padded naked across the room, having to woozily stop twice en-route to prevent himself careening into first the wardrobe, then the door frame. The en-suite hadn't fared much better than the bedroom. Dribbling tap. Soaked bathmat scrunched up on the toilet seat. A previously white bath towel streaked with orange, piled on the floor. He swept off the bathmat, kicking it and the ...

... towel into a corner pending some plan for them, and took a long, satisfying leak before washing his hands. Barely recognized the guy staring back at him from the mirror and ran damp fingers through medium-brown hair in a futile attempt to tame the sticking up parts. Bloodshot eyes stared back where brown used to reign. He knew it was the result of too many nights like the last, but just couldn't stop. Or wouldn't. Deep down he knew, as his mother loved to opine, that burning the candle at both ends would do him no good, but he loved the city too much. The pace. The bars. The women. Especially the women. So many drinks, so many girls. It wasn't so much the sex he adored, it was the screams and taste as he delivered what they all craved, yet were too often conditioned to deny. He loved the loud ones. Those unafraid to let go. He'd noticed a marked improvement in attitude towards sex recently – probably had that God-awful Fifty Shades to thank for that – but while there was still breath in his body and wood in his pecker, Ryan wanted to ride the wave of sexual empowerment the likes of which hadn't been felt since the burning of bras some three decades before he was born. He didn't have any specific blueprint for what made the perfect woman, beyond being sexy and trim, with little make-up. A primary criterion was being dirty in bed; the dirtier the better, and he was refining his technique at spotting the signs so he could improve the odds. Age played a big part. The closer they were ...