"TWENTY-MINUTE MAN"

Twenty-Minute Man tomorrow morning. Ugh. Who the hell wants anal at 11:30 a.m.? Wait, don’t answer that. Nevermind. Not me, and probably not most women. But, if you pay me, then poof! I love anal in the morning. As I wrote that sentence just now while sitting here at the bar, it went to the tune of the song, “I Love Paris in the Springtime”. How in the fuck did we get to eleven thirty in the goddamn morning anyway? I used to see him after work. When my make-up was all lovely and ho-y, and I smelled like candy, vodka and cash. Now I’ve got cat fur and sleep in my eyes. And what, I’m supposed to put on a full face of hooker make-up at 11 a.m.? No. He gets me showered, shaved (hopefully poo’d), perfume (if I feel like it), light hair styling, and some make-up. Truthfully, I think he’d be just as happy to pop in (literally) minutes after I wake up. I don’t know why I bother with any of it.


He requested that I wear a mini-skirt, tight tank top and high heels. My worst nightmare. Well, the tight tank top part anyway. Great for my tits, not amazing for my not-so-flat belly. Whatever. I failed to mention that I have a fractured bone in my foot. Broken hookers aren’t a turn on. I just answered yes to his request. I’ll figure it out. I’ll do the tank and the skirt, and will either bare the pain or do the “oops, I ran to the door and forgot my heels”. Either way, I ain’t sweatin’ it.


Anal in the morning. I wore the uber short skirt and tank (actually, I overrode him on this and went with a tight strapless top so I could just pull it down), and found that I could wear a pair of my work heels—the ones for the floor, not stage—without hurting my foot. As I suspected, I had them on for a whopping three minutes. Too bad no one wants to fuck me in yoga pants. Why don’t I ever get that request?


As I was showering, I remembered that I would try to trick him with my vagina—make him think it’s my ass (this happened once and it was brilliant!). But I botched it. I put him in my pussy when I was on top—it took a second to ease in, but not nearly enough effort like the ass. Dummy. I had made myself a vodka gimlet with ginger beer while I was getting ready, and it hit me nicely. Although a little more than I expected. I don’t normally drink at ten in the morning. So it did the trick, but it also made my genius plan fly out the window. He seemed like he was going to come almost right away, which made me happy, but he was on a mission, and he was sober. We had rolled over and he was on top of me when he stopped moving, clearly keeping an orgasm at bay. I asked why he had and he said, “I want to come in your ass.” I kicked myself, and reached for the lube. He was futzing with the condom as I prepared the ass. It took deep breaths, some tricky maneuvering and a few minutes to get in. Thank fuck, him and his horsecock are quick out the gate. No way could I take him longer than five minutes. I never should have let him have it in the first place. We went for years pre-anal and everything was just fine. Tough to go back on that sort of thing. I mean, I could try, but then I don’t think I’d see him again. It’s the main reason he keeps coming back. Not many women would let him put that thing near their butthole. I’m willing to bet that his girlfriend (or wife, I’m not sure, and I don’t ask) in Denver doesn’t. But I do, because I’m apparently nuts, and because he’s the easiest john I’ve ever had. Bar none. Eight, maybe nine years and he never asks me questions. He doesn’t care about my life or what I do. I’m not even sure he knows my first name. It’s fabulous. I need ten more like him. Can I advertise that? “Twenty-minute anal”. No muss, no fuss. Just not at the crack of fucking dawn. Evenings preferred, or even late afternoon, then I have the night free to take my used butt out to drink with friends. Let the lube squish out over a well-made cocktail.



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