Barbie DavenporteA pseudo-young gentleman had been captivated by my brain, beauty and (probably) ass for more than a year before we found ourselves in a hotel room with an older gay man who'd been enthralled by the gentleman for half a decade.
I made them both come — hard — without laying a finger on their bodies. Steady eye contact and a strong presence (two of my specialties) were enough to send them into separate realms of ecstasy, both very aware of the male presence laying next to one another. And honestly that realization likely helped them along.
In my numerous years as a single, powerful Los Angeles female, I've found (and placed) myself in enough mind-blowingly inappropriate sexual situations to grant a high-5 from porn legend Ron Jeremy — though that's honestly a lot easier than you'd think.
My gentleman friend, let's call him Kyle, was introduced to me in a business setting and there was instant attraction, mine admittedly fueled by the knowledge that his admiration of my intelligence was as significant as his desire to fuck me.
Kyle and I flirted with the professional demeanor of a librarian with a steady flow of witty innuendo worthy of The Second City. But his pants remained buttoned and my bra buckled, for he was in a relationship, the supposed strength of which I respected enough not to question.
And then I met the gay man, whom I'll call Grant. Grant had maintained an infatuation with Kyle since the day they met, and though Grant was a single gay man uninterested in monogamy, he didn't want to fuck Kyle so much as watch him ravage a straight woman.
This was revealed at an industry event during the kind of nonchalant chit-chat that drives me wild, and once the seed was planted I was no longer capable of focused conversation. My steady eye contact went from attentive to penetrative, as it was all too clear that Grant had chosen me as his fantasy Kyle-fucker.
THIS I've gotta share.
But I knew that it would never come to fruition, so the evening wore on with a sort of sad understanding and acceptance, which I casually mourned over vodka, ice and lime wedges.
Then it was time to leave the party and I found myself accepting two separate offers to walk me to my car. So I strolled sandwiched between the tall salt-and-peppered Grant and skinny, tattooed Kyle with a hand holding the crook of each man's arm.
And — what a coincidence! — Grant's hotel room happened to be en route, and we all agreed it'd be great to have one last cocktail before calling it a night.
Holding a glass that had yet to be filled, I found myself being lightly pawed by Grant who complimented the shape of my ass in the tight black pencil skirt that stretched over it. And then it was Kyle's cue to take my hand.
The two men led me to the bed where they laid side by side, staring at me waiting to make their next move. Fully clothed I stared right back and watched them slowly unzip their pants, compelling me to remove my blouse.
So there I stood, topless in a tight skirt zipped up to the smallest part of my waist, watching them tease themselves with their own hands. And as I ran my fingers over the smooth fabric covering my thighs, making a point to give my ass a squeeze, Grant and Kyle took care of themselves without request for — or expectation of — assistance.
Fascinating, for of all the boundaries being broken by their simultaneous self love, the line they chose not to cross was the one between where they lay and where I stood.
Grant and Kyle finished — on each other — and there was no need, nor obligation to return the favor. For what I left the hotel with was evidence that there are men in the world who turn on by the presence and steady stare of a strong woman.
And knowing that I hold that power has provided more masturbation fodder than any wild and crazy sex-fest memory ever will.
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