tagHumor & SatireHis Big Tent Pole

His Big Tent Pole

byMsQuote©

It was my first summer living in the Bay area. Aside from my brother and his family who had moved out this way before me, I really didn't know anyone since I started my new job as a marketing manager and writer a few months earlier for a Silicon Valley firm.

"You need to get out, meet people, date," my brother said after dinner one night. "There's so much to do."

I got the feeling that I was overstaying my welcome by coming over every weekend for dinner, but he was right. There was lots to do in the area, but my social life was lacking for someone to enjoy all those things. Even though I loved my work and did it well, I just didn't quite fit in socially. I could write about the apps and services my company provided and make them all sound so necessary and appealing to everyone from the Wall Street executive to the high school kid in Topeka. However, I just couldn't get into the conversations about how to create the next big ideas at our unofficial after-hours staff meetings that took place at a craft brew pub we frequented after work. I didn't speak code.

I heard that lots of people headed out to the coast to get away on the weekends, and I had kept coming across ads for a writers' retreat at a resort between Santa Cruz and Half Moon Bay. Now this was the kind of place I could get away and have fun with some like-minded people. Plus, I was missing the smell of pines and the feel of the wind and the sun on my skin from the time I spent at my family's vacation condo when I lived in Michigan. Surely, I could book a room in the lodge, take the classes, and have some time to explore the beaches and the trails.

Wrong. The lodge was totally booked as were the cabins and the tent cabins. I didn't have an RV, so my only option was to bring my own tent. The only thing was I had to buy one -- and the gear to live outdoors for a couple of days. It couldn't be that rough. I only needed the tent to sleep. There were comfort stations that had heated slate floors and saunas. It would be a comfortable adventure. "Glamping" was one word that described the accommodations in the one of the reviews I read about the place.

When I got there, I completely underestimated how posh getting out in the outdoors would be. The little pup tent I picked up at Target was an embarrassment compared to the setup in the spot next to me -- a six-person tent with zip-up screen windows and a covered entrance. It was too late to change my accommodations to a bed and breakfast 10 miles down the road. Besides, what I spent on my camping gear was about as much as I would have spent on more comfortable digs if they were available in the first place.

I pulled the tent pieces out of the box, looked at them, and wondered. How am I going to sleep in that? The instructions read as if they were written in a foreign language. Actually, they almost were. They were written in broken English with formally awkward verbs, and not all of them were in the correct tense.

Over my shoulder, I saw a man who was amused with my befuddlement. He just stood there and chuckled under his breath, and let it come out completely when he saw that I did not appreciate being his source of humor.

"Here, let me help you with that," he said as he walked over.

"That's OK, really," I said, rolling my eyes.

I was sure he wouldn't have offered if he didn't see that I caught him getting his giggles at my expense. I'd figure this out eventually. I was a smart woman.

He picked up the metal supports and snapped and connected them together as quickly as 1-2-3. He unrolled the tent fabric and instructed me to follow his lead from the other end. Of course, I fumbled as I twisted instead of straighten the tarp.

"No, no ... the other right," he said with a chuckle as I tried to follow along.

His mockery didn't help in alleviating any embarrassment of my ineptness, even if he was a genuine help. It also didn't help that he was also incredibly handsome -- tall and lean with a solid physique that towered over me by a good 10 inches. He had gorgeous lapis blue eyes and a charismatic smile. He was incredibly neat and polished in a proper way for a camping trip. His T-shirt and khaki shorts were immaculately pressed and clean. At least I got my secret revenge laugh in when I noticed the graphic on his shirt: Arrogant Bastard Ale. How apropos. I couldn't help but to let out a smirk.

"What's so funny?" he asked in almost a teasing way.

"Oh, nothing," I said as I covertly gained my sense of dignity.

I thanked him, threw my laptop and notebook into my backpack, and said I had to run. I really hoped that I wouldn't see him again the rest of the weekend.

But there he was holding court at the campfire with some of the workshop attendees later that evening. He was charming the women and had the men in awe if he were some kind of elder statesmen of swagger.

It turned out that he was. He was leading a workshop the next day on "Erotic Fiction: How to Turn Smut into Seduction." It was just my luck. I signed up for his seminar, and there was no getting out of it.

As the wine flowed freely, so did the conversation around the campfire. It got bawdy in a perfectly academic way, of course. We had the master of erotica, Morgan Joseph, in our presence. He managed to turn quite a profit on the kinds of books that were usually relegated to back rooms that now took front and center in front door displays in book stores and on the top of bestseller lists. He had niche for writing stories that appealed to both men and women that doubled his audience and exponential outpaced his competition. Rumor had it that most of his stories were based on real-life experiences. He certainly had his pick for his next story. All of the women had their ears open to his every word and their eyes glued on every single one of his body parts -- and he looked as if he knew it.

I was determined to launch an attack dismantle his immodest air of superiority down just a notch around this flock who wanted to be (or be with) and write like him.

"OK, tell me this," I said. "Is there any other way to describe a penis beside 'My throbbing eight-inch cock?'" I asked.

I got the bursts of laughter I was hoping for among the cliché-busters in the group, which was basically all of them.

"Obviously, you've read too much Penthouse Forum," he said.

Wow. This smug son of a bitch just wouldn't let up on me. The crowd turned their chuckles on me as if they were a bunch of school kids on a playground watching the smart, popular boy tease the awkward girl who failed at her attempt to assert herself.

Unfortunately, he was spot on about Penthouse Forum. I didn't read it, but my last ex-boyfriend did. Sometimes he'd read the stories to me, thinking it would get me in the mood because he did him and I liked to read. I found it amazing and infuriating that he just couldn't tell the difference between Larry Flynt and D.H. Lawrence. All they did was make me laugh as soon as I heard "my throbbing eight-inch cock," which was usually somewhere in the first three paragraphs of any story.

Before I got to explain the reason for my question, he lit in with the alternatives: "My monumental eight-inch penis? My Statue of Liberty that needed to be set free?"

The laughs turned into guffaws and cackles. He glanced over to the trees behind us.

"My big tree trunk of a dick?"

"My big tent pole?"

He nodded in the direction of my puny bargain basement find of a tent that looked as if it violated some sort of taste and size standards next to his grand testament toluxury outdoor living. That one really got the laughs. Thank goodness no one knew that sad little thing was where I would be sleeping the next few nights. But he did, and he was having too much fun with it.

I got up and said I was going to call it a night, but he protested.

"Don't. It's the wine that's talking and this conversation is just starting to roll. Here, try this," he said as he poured some of his white wine into my plastic tumbler.

I took a sip. My tongue lit up my eyes.

"Apples?" he asked, referring to the undertones of an especially complex Chardonnay.

"Green apples. Granny Smith apples," I said.

"Aren't you quite the foodie?" he asked.

Well, I was.

"I love your interpretation and how you think metaphorically," he said. "That's where you'll find the answer to your question."

I sat back down in the two-seater patio chair next to the fire pit (this was "glamping" after all) and he took the seat next to me.

We got lost in our own conversation about writing and our lives. He showed me some of his work in progress on his smart phone. It was beautiful and exquisite. The words came on to me just like the way I wished a man would come on to me. I also wondered if it was a convenient excuse for him to slide closer to me on that chair so I could read the tiny font on his touch screen.

For someone who took as much pride in the accolades over his work, it took me by surprise that he took just as much interest in what I did professionally as a writer.

"It's not like you get to make up and choose what you want to write about," he said. "You have to produce according to other people's specifications and deadlines whether or not you feel like writing. I could never do that."

Wow. He did have humble thoughts. I was surprised and flattered.

As the fog rolled in, the air got cold and damp on my skin. I thought a T-shirt and a pair of yoga pants would be the warmest things I'd need all weekend. I leaned toward the fire and rubbed my hands to get warm.

"You should probably put on a sweater or a jacket," he said. "It can get pretty nippy here on the coast."

"I didn't realize that," I said. "Where I'm from, I'm used to the humidity being about as high as the temperature this time of year."

"Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," he joked.

"Actually, I'm from Michigan," I said.

He took off his heavy cotton Fair Isle sweater and draped it over me like a hug. It was the sweetest thing a man had ever done for me, well, maybe except erect a tent for me. I was beginning to think he was a perfect gentleman until he asked me to spend the night in his tent.

"Really, I insist," he said. "I have the heater on and the tarp on my tent is much more insulating than the nylon on yours."

"No, I really can't ..." I started to say until he went inside my tent and pulled out my sleeping bag.

He walked out laughing. Hard.

"Strawberry Shortcake?" he howled.

I swiped the bag out of his hand and lit on him like white on rice.

"It's Rainbow Brite and I borrowed it from my 5-year-old niece because I didn't think I'd have a camping Nazi invading my privacy!"

He pulled the thin and limp sleeping bag out of my hand and started walking toward his tent.

"Get in," he said. "It's late, it's cold, and I don't want you freezing your ass off tonight."

This time I was quick. I beat him inside and got into his ample down sleeping bag.

"Fine. I was going to be a gentleman and offer you my sleeping bag anyway," he said as he tried to get his six-foot frame to cover him past this arm pits when he slipped under Rainbow Brite.

I knew that exact tone in which he said, "Fine." I invented it, I mastered it, and I knew he was anything but fine. It pissed me off all the more, and it didn't help that he didn't stop fidgeting around for effect trying to get comfortable.

This man exacerbated me. The prince of all princes one minute, a monumental jerk the next. I couldn't sleep, so I went outside and sat next to what little was left of the fire. There weren't any extra logs around so I just leaned in as close as I could until I had company ... the four-legged black-haired kind, the one with the white strip down his back and tail. I let out of a yelp.

Morgan popped out to see what was going on. He saw me not daring to move from my chair until that stinky mammal moved on someplace far away, but it just stood there as if I was invading his space.

Morgan ran over with my niece's sleeping bag and threw it over the intruder. It ran off, but not without leaving its mark on the sleeping bag.

It was beyond rescue. I threw it over the fire hoping it would reignite some flames. I didn't count on it to be fire retardant. The only thing did was intensify that trademark sweet garbagy smell as the last of the embers dissipated.

He started laughing and came over to hug me.

"We both lost that fight, but you were amazing," he said. "You're smart. You're funny. You're feisty. You're independent and resourceful, even when you're misguided and out of your element."

It was a fair concession and his attempt to save me from the skunk was noble and gallant, even if he was misguided and out of his element, too. It was why I could not let go of his hold on me. He felt warm and protective. It felt nice to have a man hold me without the expectation of tearing off my clothes and groping me.

He pulled back to look and smile at me.

"Do you trust me to share a sleeping bag with you tonight?"

Considering the circumstances, I couldn't have been more trusting or appreciative to sleep with a man I didn't know. After all, I really didn't have a choice.

We climbed in the bag together. We couldn't keep a respectable distance, but he was respectable about the way his hand draped over my side as we lay side by side like two interlocking puzzle pieces. It felt nice, and felt even nicer when his hand slid under my shirt to rub my belly. I wasn't expecting this and I didn't expect to want this, but I couldn't find a reason to refuse. It felt comforting.

It wasn't long until his hand found a silent courage to wander over more of my skin and pull me closer to his body. It seemed to crave the contact of a sweet and mellow moment that had no words -- not even quick-witted twists or metaphors. His kisses on the back and sides of my neck spoke volumes of sweetness.

From behind me, I could feel a bulge of desire growing against me. I tried my best not to ignore it, but just hoped it was just a reflex. I was flattered, but thought it was something that would subside as soon as he fell asleep until I heard him whisper, "I want to make you feel like the most special woman in the world tonight."

I squirmed out the bag to look him in the eye. For half a second I thought about saying something flip like, "Because you're horny, right?" But his returning gaze in the darkness said something else; something more along the lines like he really meant it. Neither one of us wavered from our glances or said a word. I wanted to see where this would go.

Slowly and simultaneously, our eyes drew nearer until our lips met with a gentle seal. It set off a caressing wave over the very top of my skin that tingled all over.

He undressed me with care like a delicate package, pulling each layer of clothing off slowly one at a time. I tried to do the same, except he pushed my hands away.

"Right now, I don't want to be distracted," he said. "This is all about you."

He laid me on my back. His hands explored every curve, nook and cranny of my body, softly touching the most tender parts of my skin ... on the bottoms of my arms, the crooks in the inner parts of my knees and elbows. He rubbed his thumbs in the joints and muscles of my hands, feet, and shoulder blades, making them feel relaxed, limp and flexible. I wanted to reach out to touch him, but his touches left me in a state of blissful submission.

He backed away and worked his hands over my legs and parted them when he came to the top. His thumb and finger strokes toyed with the crease between my legs and my pussy. My hips shifted, begging for attention, but he refused, even when I was sure he could see that I was getting wet.

"Please," I muttered.

He paused before two fingers took their time to slide along my bare and engorged outer lips and make a brief pass over my clit. I arched my back. It was the most intense tingle I ever felt.

"My goodness," he said. "You are responsive."

He did it again. This time he blew a cool breath over my open pussy after his fingers made a pass. This time, his finger circled my clit just a little bit longer.

I let out a drawn-out "Oooh." The words, "You're doing this right," couldn't come out of my mouth.

His fingers delved a little bit deeper into my folds and stroked them up and down several times, making me purr and say, "Deeper ... deeper."

He complied. He had a look of amazement on his face.

"My dear, do you always get this wet?" he asked.

"Yes ... I mean no ... no ... never like this ... more ..." I stuttered, almost unable to get any words out of my mouth.

The more I said "More," the faster and deeper his fingers plowed inside of me. I tried to keep my cries of passion silent, but they kept building louder and longer.

He pulled his fingers out and his tongue dove in between my legs. His tongue lapped at my juices as if he were a man that hadn't drank for days. His tickling and probing set off non-stop trembles like a series of aftershocks that set off and a constant stream of fluid from deep inside of me. My legs felt like they were rattling. My cervix pushed against his mouth demanding even more. I couldn't stop screaming because there was no stop to this orgasmic bliss. Not even for a second. Not even at times when it seemed that I couldn't catch my breath until I said, "Take me! I want you!"

He pulled away and knew exactly what to do. He pulled off his shirt, practically tore off the button at the top of his jeans, and yanked down his zipper. He couldn't kick his pant legs off fast enough.

I lifted my hips and he kneeled above me. His cock was long, hard, rigid and pierced right through my tight, wet pussy. He pumped slowly and deeply. The slickness that came from inside of me coated his shaft with every stroke. I could tell by the way he looked and the way he moved that he was in this for the ride and not necessarily the destination. At times he would pull out just far enough to marvel at cock and look at it in a way that seemed to say, "Is this happening to me?"

At the same time, I wondered the same as he built up speed and rhythm that kept me the edge of combusting, and then slowed down as if to keep me from exploding. He'd build back up again and took me even farther than before. I knew I had to have a breaking point, but he kept me so close to getting to it over and over again.

"Deeper! Harder! Faster!" I cried. "I promise, I won't break."

He looked at me as if to say, "Are you sure?" but my hips bucked out toward him, urging and encouraging him.

He slammed into me more furiously than before. Despite my cries for, "Yes! More! More! Yes!" I could tell it was a challenge for him to hold back. His body stiffened with each thrust. He moans and groans grew in intensity until I demanded, "I want you to come! I need to feel you come!"

I swore I could feel his cock widening, making it more difficult for him to navigate inside of me. I swore I could feel a kind of stirring inside of him that was going to bust loose.

I was amazed at the raw power that came upon his climax. His cry was loud and long. The stream of cum was continuous. And he never completely went soft when he was done, and I was far from letting him finish.

"My god, woman," he said. "How did you ever do this to me?"

"I don't know," I said. "I'll have to check to see who took over my body and get back to you on that."

He collapsed on me and laughed giddy and hysterically.

"Having fun at my expense again?" I asked, this time not taking offense.

"Not in the least," he said. "But let me propose something to you. I want to replace your niece's sleeping bag and get you a real one -- a grown-up one -- if you promise me one thing."

"What's that?" I asked.

"That you will not use it the rest of the weekend."

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