Ricky Bobby

About a week ago, this southern 6’5″ sequoia of a man texted me through a bad night I was processing- literally all night! He had immediate empathy being prior service, he’s gone through some shit… in and out of combat. The following Monday in the early hours, Charlie Sheen came over and I wrote about that night and the previous weekend leading up to it. Writing about it was cathartic, living it was peptic. I’ve been in touch with this lean, green, killing machine on and off regularly. I can dig him, he’s a good talker. My age-ish, weathered by life experiences, a gentle giant. He read through the entirety of my blog the night we first starting chatting- speed reader, god damn. Our schedules appear difficult to coordinate, so I’ll take what I can get as far as communication and seeing each other. He hits me up in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, and I’m in. I was open to having sexual relations with that wiry giant, mostly though I was excited to meet him in the flesh. He’s been drankin’ and I’m assuming that’s a regular gig for him- not my business, I don’t ask.

He kicks off his size ‘Cadillac’ cowboy boots and posts up next to me on the stacked pallets and condom wrappers I call my bed. We get a couple of hours into some real conversation before he makes his move; we’re lying directionally opposite one another so we can be face to face propped up on pillows. Throughout this get-to-know-you period he’s shown me his tattoos and flexed a bicep, I’m just happy you can’t tell when I’m salivating. His hand had been on my leg, then my thigh. Casual, natural progression. Take a fucking note, those in a hurry. I like the feeling of no pressure, less chance of an awkward shutdown when foreplay is suddenly performed AT me instead of with me. It’s not awkward for me, boo boo- don’t act like ya know me. I won’t be the one with my dick in my hand whining about “really, you’re just gonna leave me hanging here…” Yes. Yes I am. ANYWAY, his hand travels up my thigh and upon meeting my meaty tuck he extends his fingers and strokes what I’m assuming was a fantastic camel toe, with his knuckles. Oh, yeah I wasn’t dressed up at all. Literally in one of my favorite t-shirts and some flannel jammie pants. #SEXY. Long gone are the days when a man wants to come over late at night and I rush to look like I’m not as lazy and disgusting as I really am 90% of the time. Hair up in a big top ponytail, I call this look the “Sideshow Bob” and it’s stunning and brave. Side note, it tickles me pink when I’m complimented for being “so confident” instead of telling me I’m pretty; you can take back a compliment on appearance, but you’ll never reign in my hubris.

Things moved forward expertly. He finger-diddled my walrus snoot until I’d effectively cum all over everything and dehydrated myself. You know what I like about mechanics? They know where the gspot is and how to make it respond positively. Magic hands. The addition of his mouth seals the deal, let’s do all the things! He’s remarkably tall and lean- I am his comically polar opposite. Our beards are comparable, though. His palpable focus of interest is making me squirt. This is why you buy the expensive waterproof cover for your mattress,  or an old rolled up tarp found behind the homeless camp in the woods. Look, if you ramrod my internal idiot button just right there’s nothing I can do about suddenly becoming a screaming, writhing, fountain of ecstasy. My eyeballs roll back and things happen. Take me to church, I’m singing in the choir. Where did all of our clothes go? I only notice because I’m cold and wet. Big guy is positioning himself between my legs and teasing my lady garden by rubbing himself between the inner lips. I’m secretly praying this will be fun for both of us, but have also accepted the final act may be one-sided; there’s an increased chance of intercourse being less than satisfactory if the guy is exceptionally good at foreplay- they’re adapting- but the guy who compensates where he’s lacking by making up for it in foreplay orgasms, is still one I’d have fun with again most likely. Turns out, he wasn’t compensating for anything. He can lay it down and I’m more than happy to take it.

Endowment-wise he’s average, but I’m sure that plays tricks on the brain when you’re Mt. Everest. He has some less than subtle insecurities about his manhood. Call me crazy but if your dick feels good and makes me cum, does it really matter how big it is? Who you tryin’ to impress at that point? Also, if you’re fucking a member of the lollipop guild your penis is about a third of my height. His body is hard in all the right ways and places, his voice is gentle but assertive, his accent makes me want to do whatever he wants, he’s watching me experience him. Making me cum turns him on. He’s intuitive, the kind of lover that follows direction when you say “just like that.” I’m building up to climax and he can feel me tighten around him. Stay the distance. Don’t change the stroke. Right there. Just like that. Yes. I’m cumming hard and am suddenly very slippery, he can’t hold his back as I’m gushing. Gripping him as best I can I hear him utter “oh fuck, I’m gonna cum baby.” Heaving his body into mine he finishes and I wrap my body around him from underneath, he reminds me that wasn’t supposed to happen yet and I stroke his neck. I’m not displeased, we can go again- or not, his hands and mouth are more than welcome to take care of business should I get the insatiable itch.

The next time he comes over our sexy time was less coordinated (turns out more alcohol was not the best of ideas… shocker,) but we did have a good night regardless. Divulging secrets with each other we find a common interest: the two-man threesome. I have yet to explore it,  he’s been the additional cock to an established couple before. Talking through why I haven’t explored this fantasy yet and what exactly I want to get out of it, we agree he would be a good choice. Long ago I tapped Charlie Sheen to be the other one. What do I want out of a Devil’s Three-way? For starters, I am not short on offers- I could have fucked two or more men at the same time, anytime, this whole time. What I’m hoping to coordinate is specific; I want both partners solely interested in pleasuring me throughout the experience, and I’d prefer if they don’t know each other. I’m not looking a couple of guys that “fuck chicks together sometimes.” Preferably both men would have done this before, and definitely I would’ve had to have been with them one-on-one individually and been satisfied with them solo. They’d need to at the very least be comfortable sharing a woman simultaneously without any aggro-hetero bro-bro bullshit. I do not need you to repeatedly establish you’re not gay just because your feet touched. No Eiffel Tower. It would help if both men are heteroflexible or bisexual, but it’s not super high on the list. Charlie Sheen is heteroflexible, Ricky Bobby is straight… but also secure. We bonded over fucking trannies. Both men mentioned they’d have to approve of the other physically- they’re in luck, they’re both tall, lean, good-looking men. Ricky Bobby (he picked his name, by the way- we were cracking jokes all night,) disclosed to me, before any of this threesome talk began, that he liked Charlie Sheen’s story on my blog as a personal favorite- because it was real for him, relatable. Perfect. It’s worth it to wait for what you want rather than rush in and have a less than enjoyable experience because of some feeling of a ticking clock. I won’t settle for less than exactly how I picture this going down.

The real secrets start spilling out and I’m familiar with this scenario- namely, being with a strange man I met on an app that’s been through some shit, and feels inclined to share it with me; listening intently I’m reminded of that time Rufio got a little too drunk and told me about pink mist in Afghanistan. You just don’t come back OK from some of that; the booze covers it up, sure, but eventually you find someone you feel comfortable with that will quietly listen while you tell your stories. Sharing sadness is intimate and there’s strength in being vulnerable. This is hitting my empathy button hard. He confesses he feels like he could tell me anything and I wouldn’t judge him- that is correct. Also I’m working with memory issues, so your secrets are basically still left untold. I have noticed it’s harder for them to talk about kinks than it is to talk about killing people- I guess because the former is just more innately personal. We may or may not have shared our ugly divorce stories with each other, and I might’ve cried a bit- it hits a nerve, mine is still fairly recent whereas his is several years behind him. He holds me tight, tells me I’m a good person and he’d take a bullet for me (he’s shown me his battle scars, I’m inclined to believe him,) then asks if I’d like him to beat up my ex-husband. I can’t help but giggle through my sniffles. Sweet, caring, murder machine. (The answer was NO, by the way. But I do retain a sense of empowerment every time it’s volunteered- I write down in a book all offers to maim or murder him.) We cuddled naked talking for a while longer until we both drifted off to sleep, and both of us slept like the dead. I had to leave him in my bed so I could go to work the next day, and he was STILL THERE when I got home! Done, son. Now I just need to somehow magic up the day I can get him and Charlie Sheen in my bed at the same time and ALSO not too drunk to get down to business.

If you’d like to read more of my stories, or the ones linked to this one, my blog is called All The Dicks. The link below is for this story, which has hyperlinks. Thank you for reading!

Ricky Bobby

This story was originally published here

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