Sounding Off

I have never ended a relationship with a lover.  Sometimes things have fizzled out and messages are spaced further and further apart, going from hourly to daily to weekly before tailing off completely.  I have been unceremoniously dumped several times, ire warring with heartache to varying degrees.  When R (a fuck buddy of several years standing) announced that either we move in and have children or we end things I chose the latter option by default, because I certainly wasn’t going to have children.  Things between us limped along for a few weeks more, before he told me that his dealer’s sister was carrying his child so he wouldn’t be coming round again.

I learned a lot from my years with R.  He was incredibly reliable, visiting every single Saturday and not leaving until I was a dehydrated, limp shell of a woman.  He was also extremely jealous and would attempt to play the sort of emotional games that are best suited to a primary school playground.  I changed a lot of my normal routines in order to fit with him, and when he asked for monogamy in order for us to both get tested and dispense with condoms I agreed, though I made sure to have a contraceptive implant fitted at the time of the first test so it was active by the time it was needed.

When the eventual split happened it happened with good grace.  I wished him well, he shed some tears, I reactivated my Adult Friend Finder membership, all was well.  He then started sending messages via Facebook (ah Facebook, famous enabler of emotional scenes).  I am not blessed with an over-abundance of patience and I quickly reached the end of my limited supply.  Things turned very nasty very quickly, before I found my balls and blocked him.

It’s always a shame when something good is soured by the way it ends, but I tend to take the view there is always another man out there.  Ordinarily starting from cold it takes me around two to three weeks from activating an account on a hookup site to meeting a potential paramour.  When things ended with R it took less than a week before I was sitting in the bar of a chain hotel, considering how soon I could reasonably get into C’s suit trousers.

The answer, as it happened, was as long as it took me to drink a wine spritzer on a hot and sunny late spring/early summer day.  Not long at all.  We removed to his room and removed our clothing posthaste.  C had the most beautiful golden skin, the colour owing more to his Mediterranean heritage than to the sun.  He was in his late 50s, with a little loose skin across his otherwise splendid chest and well-defined abs, a sparse sprinkling of white hair only adding textural interest to the sight.

His skin was velvet-soft, so much so that I became positively feline in my desire to rub myself against him.  R had been in no way undersized, but I had become used to him and had stopped noticing some of the fine detail.  C’s cock was large and proud, the skin just as soft as the rest of him, what lay beneath hard and weeping.  Is there such a thing as a pretty cock?  That’s certainly how I would describe C’s manhood.

I knelt on the floor and took him into my mouth, one hand reaching up to fondle his balls while the other stroked the base of his shaft.  He quickly pulled away and asked me to get on the bed, where he kissed me thoroughly while his fingers explored my folds.  I confess to a little disappointment, though it’s probably for the best that my oral efforts were short-lived; much as I enjoy giving head C was a little too large for me to be able to get a satisfactory rhythm going.

After more than two years of not using condoms it seemed a shame to start again, but I wasn’t about to wait three months to allow two rounds of STI tests, so I rolled a condom down his hardness and prepared to enjoy myself.

The first slow slide into me is always the sweetest possible pleasure.  In spite of the condom there was a delicious friction due to the size of C stretching me as he pushed forwards.  He adored my breasts, fondling them and sucking on my nipples, then as his hips found a rhythm he gripped them more tightly, squeezing them together in order to tease each nipple with his tongue.

His weight pressed me into the bed and he held me down and kissed my open mouth as my orgasm smashed into me.  I was grunting and moaning into his mouth, my body taut as he continued to thrust into me.  As the first orgasm died away he pulled out of me, repositioning me on all fours before kneeling behind me and easing himself into my wet flesh once more.  As he arched over me he reached around to grip my breasts once again, pulling me upright so we were both kneeling, me almost riding his hardness.

I’ve never been a fan of positions where I’m on top.  Part of it is an emotional response to early sexual experiences, part of it is self-consciousness, but I find it difficult to get into the moment enough to relax into orgasm.  For whatever reason that wasn’t an issue with C in our half-kneeling position.  He hungrily found my mouth and resumed kissing me while I ground myself against him.  As another orgasm subsided I arched my back to the point C slid out of me and was left humping at air.  We quickly fell to the side and he spooned against me, sliding into me as my orgasm built once more.

I am a noisy lover.  Out of respect to my neighbours I make huge efforts to hold noise down at home, but I find it incredibly freeing to be in a remote Airbnb where I can really let rip and spend my energy on sensation rather than neighbourhood courtesy.  Since I didn’t want C to be asked to leave his hotel room I was making some attempt to hold the volume to a minimum, knowing that I would still be relatively noisy.  As I came down from my orgasm it occurred to me that C was making absolutely no noise.  Not a moan, not a grunt, not even heavy panting.

Bemused, I pulled away and moved back onto my back.  As C moved over me and pushed into me once more I could see that his skin was glistening and sweat was beading on his forehead, but there was still zero noise coming from him.  So engrossed was I in his silence that I was taken completely out of the moment with no hope of another orgasm (though as I’d already had a few I can’t feel particularly short-changed).

C’s thrusts grew more urgent, yet still the only noise was that of wet flesh meeting.  As he pulled out of me had I not seen the condom I would have had no idea whether or not he’d had an orgasm.  Quite a reversal of stereotype, a woman asking a man “well, did you…?”.

The silence was vaguely unnerving.  After he came back from the bathroom we settled into that post-coital bollocks-talking stage, and I couldn’t help but ask about it.  Honestly, start to finish, not a single moan, not the slightest whimper.  Even as I welcomed him into my mouth, not the slightest bit of noise.

C told me he’d spent much of his adulthood in the military, so he’d become used to silence and never made any sound during sex.  There is a certain logic to that if you’re living in barracks and sharing your living quarters with a heap of other men, but… No, I can’t quite get my head around it.  I can understand masturbatory silence but truly, no noise at all during some pretty damned hot sex?

I don’t expect sex to be performative.  I like my partner to feel comfortable and I can understand getting lost in the moment and in the sensation, but truly, some feedback is necessary so that I at least know he’s still alive and hasn’t become so bored he’s dozed off.  Weirdly, C was one of the loudest snorers I’ve ever heard.  Maybe he saved all his vocal energies for sleep, who can say?

I liked C a lot.  He was fun, his body was a thing of beauty and his cock was an absolute joy.  In spite of all that, I couldn’t deal with the crashing awkwardness I felt as soon as I noticed his silence.  I made my escape in the morning, changed his contact details to Silent Bob and didn’t meet up with him again.  In fairness, although we exchanged a few messages over the following weeks he didn’t mention meeting up again either.  Maybe my noise unsettled him as much as his silence did me.