It didn’t matter because on my flowery bedspread, under the twinkly string lights, it was a race to get naked. We pulled off his sweater, and as I sat on top of him, feeling his stiff, denim jeans, I relished in the success of my sexual pursuit.
Andy was gorgeous: young, fit, and very good-looking.My husband Terry has always had a fantasy about me being fucked by a black man, especially in the back of a van for some reason.He went on and on at me for ages to live out his fantasy, and I must admit, the thought of it had my juices flowing, so I decided to go along with it.Maybe this turned him on because despite his earlier hesitation, we promptly continued hooking up.My fixation with pleasing him turned into this endless cycle where Sam would stop and tell me that he “felt bad” even though we would continue to touch each other anyway. I cynically told him that I didn’t know he had feelings, to which he responded he was trying to have fewer of them. I didn’t waste my time trying to be nice anymore because I was aware of what I had become: the irrelevant Asian girl in a budding Scott Pilgrim-esque romance.