For Love of Doggy Style


I came across a post on craigslist asking why men love doggy style so much. I felt I had a duty to provide some sort of explanation. I couldn’t speak for all men, but I shared my own feelings on the subject and the impressions conveyed to me by others – shit my friends say. I was very detailed. I touched on everything from angle of penetration, feeling of dominance, the fact women seem to love it so I love it too, and the pleasure of slamming into a nice round ass.

The chances of getting a reply from someone on craigslist varies with many factors, but let’s say it’s about ten percent, so I was pleasantly surprised when I got her response. Her name was Dawn, and she was impressed by the scope of my explanation. This rewarded me with her correspondence for the next three years. She was always very protective of her identity, since she was married, and we mostly talked about fantasy and desire and slowly but surely I gained more from her. There came the day I got an email with a picture of her breasts and a message saying, “Oh I forgot to tell you I’m black.” I’ve been talking to people online for twenty years so I was used to this odd confession of sorts, where they fear it’s some haunting truth that will drive me away, while simultaneously addressing the fact they know I probably assumed they’re white. I was totally cool with it. And I didn’t mind she was ten years older than me, either.

After I became single, I started pushing to see her. It had been three years, which consisted of mixed touch and go teases and rewards, silences and thanksgivings. She finally agreed to meet, but I was still living with my ex, sleeping on the couch for nine months, and Dawn had her husband. The only solution was to meet halfway, some place inconspicuous. A Wawa. And I kept looking around in case her husband was setting me up, and I was paranoid someone would see us, and I was freaked out because as much as I knew her, I was meeting someone for the first time in my car, and we talked for half an hour and she couldn’t stop touching my hair, and we made out, and she said I choked her perfectly even though I admitted I had no idea what I was doing and she rubbed my cock before leaving and I drove home and slept on the couch with reruns of Frasier.

The second time we met at the Wawa it was particularly cold. I wore my shirt and tie from work and my sweater and she got in my car wearing a gorgeous knee length skirt, purple leather boots, and no panties. I know because shortly after the windows had totally fogged up I had two fingers inside her and the scent of her pussy filled my car. We made out for nearly an hour before she pulled my cock out through my pants and deep throated me right there in the Wawa parking lot. While I lived with my ex, this was basically all I could do, and I thought about Georgina off of Belmont Avenue, and Jamie off of Forbidden Drive, and Julie in the parking lot at work. Dawn could tell I was going to cum, and stopped. She loved having that power. And then she told me her real name and left.

After a few months of meeting at the Wawa, I finally got my own place. I had boxes everywhere but she still came over, with housewarming items for my new apartment. We cuddled and made out and I knew exactly what she wanted me to do to her and we took off our clothes and I paused when I saw her C Section scar because it reminded me of the scar my ex had across her abdomen from one of her many experimental childhood surgeries, and I buried my face in her belly and while she was thin, she was very soft, and we lay naked, kissing, and I was anxious about my ability to please her, but I had been fucking all week, and I was prepared to not let her down, and I put on my cock rings and showed her what I had been dreaming of these last three years.

We cuddled on the couch afterward while Lou Reed’s “Transformer” played on my turntable and the A Side came to a close with Walk on the Wild Side and I held her close and kissed her neck and closed my eyes and the colored girls go doo do doo do doo and I asked her if she found that offensive, the colored girls part, and she said that what she finds offensive is when some old white lady calls over to her and says, “yoohoo, colored girl. Colored girl, over here. That girl, the colored one. This old lady for real pointed at me and said, ‘that girl, the colored one.’ Not the one with the blue skirt, not the short girl, not the one with the braids, not even the black one, the colored one.” And I thought about my weekly visits to my great aunt’s house with my mom. And even though she was my dad’s aunt, it was my mom and I who would visit every sunday. And she told my mom one day, “Mary I saw the funniest thing out the window here, a white boy and a colored boy were walking down the street together holding hands.” And that was it, that was the whole thing, and she was again delighted at the mere thought and cackled alone. My aunt died the following year — to be honest, I didn’t care.

And I asked Dawn, “But what about the song? Is it offensive just within the scope of the song?”

“Oh no, I don’t care,” she replied.

My cum seeped out from between her legs and got on the couch. She grabbed a thin take-out napkin as the record kept looping with a pop and a click.

“No end in sight,” she said while swabbing between her thighs. “Well, you got what you want, I guess I got to go.” And then she laughed while slapping me on the chest. Always in control.

Instinctively I thought about those childhood birthday parties. “Thank you for coming,” I said. “Thanks for having me,” she replied.

And while I cared about her, and liked her, and felt she was special and unique, there came that utterly familiar moment of walking my date down the hall to the door, and closing it behind her.