The Wall Is What You Make It

The Wall is What You Make It - Just Ask Trump Supporters, Zionists, Palestinians, Women in Their 40's and Me

               I followed my usual routine of wistfully browsing all the hot food I couldn’t afford, the whiskies I vowed not to drink, and the colorful vegetables at the salad bar.  I grabbed a pair of tongs and sifted through the garbanzo beans, salivating.  I laid the tongs back down and gulped before I headed across the store to collect some overpriced veggies in the produce section.  I grabbed some angel hair, red pasta sauce and a loaf of bread.  My date was going to get a nice, home-cooked Italian meal.

               I answered the door when she knocked and she immediately threw herself upon me.  Her hands were on my chest and her tongue was in my mouth.  I felt my cock begin to shrivel up, a bit disgusted.

               I pushed her off me and said, “Dinner’s almost ready.”

               “Good,” she said, and tried to smile seductively.

               She was forty-two and I was twenty-seven.

               She couldn’t keep her hands off me while I attempted to finish fixing the meal.  It was horrible.  It was all I could do to keep my pants on.  Her tongue flicked in and out of my mouth like she was a snake as I stirred the pasta sauce with a wooden spoon.  She grabbed my ass and pinched me, hard.

               I cried out, “I spent eighteen bucks on this meal!”

               “No, you didn’t,” she said, and kissed my neck.  “There’s going to be leftovers.”

               I broke free of her grasp and managed to dish out her food.  She calmed down and we talked as we ate and did the dishes together.  As soon as the last dish was clean and air-drying in the dish rack, she threw me up against the fridge.  I pulled her off of me and got out of the corner, off the ropes.  She wasn’t going to knock me out that easily.  But she threw a few more jabs, got inside with her tongue, and sent me reeling toward the ropes at the other end of the ring with an upper-cut.  I was backed up against my bedroom door and the referee called the fight.  I opened the door and threw her down onto my futon mattress.

               “Take your fucking shoes off,” I ordered.  “That’s my only rule.  No shoes in bed.”

               She complied.  I unlaced and removed my chucks and went to work.  Her cunt wasn’t as loose as I prefer, but we found a decent fit after awhile.  I looked down at her beautiful hood and back up at her face as I pumped.  She kept her legs tight.

               “Let me,” I commanded and narrowed my eyes.

               She looked at me, giddy.  She kept it tight, wouldn’t let me in all the way.  I got my retracted foreskin to smooth out completely, but I still couldn’t get it in all the way.  Her legs were preventing me.  It was rock-solid, a wall Donald Trump could only dream of building: a right-wing, Israeli apartheid border violating countless United Nations resolutions, illegally annexing the head of my cock.  I was swollen and fat like the stomachs of starving Palestinian children.

               “Let me,” I ordered her.

               Finally, her legs opened a bit and I got the rest of me in, firing rocket after rocket into Zion.  I lowered my lips to hers, and she smiled after I kissed her.  The rapture finally came.  I looked at my cell phone as she cleaned herself up with one of my sex towels.  Six minutes – not bad.  I was shooting for inside of five, but you can’t win them all.  I collapsed onto my back and spread myself out.  I closed my eyes.  She fell down beside me, resting her head on my chest.

               “I liked it,” she whispered, trying to reassure me, as if I was insecure.  I tried not to laugh but half a smile escaped.  I guess she imagined I was telling her to “let me” get my cock all the way in.

               I was telling her to let me come.