Dry Humper Says

The thought of rubbing up against a man’s groin makes me want to cum. Especially if that groin is all bundled up in jeans. I can picture it all so clearly: the scraping sound it makes, the burning of the skin, the temptation to put it in. It reminds me of being back in high school, you know, the days when you were convinced that making out in the bathroom stall at the mall with the school’s prime rib was the reason you were born. I don’t know about you, but back then I could dry hump for hours, or at least for as long as my pelvis held up. But by the time graduation rolled around, I was ready to take it to the next level. It still involved sneaking off into a bathroom stall, but this time you can bet your silver dollar I was ripping off his jeans with one hand and grappling his manhood with the other. And that’s when the disappointment set in. It wasn’t nearly as good in reality as it was in my head. I would just stand there, bent over the toilet seat, like a cardboard cutout of myself.
There have since been some hits and misses (more misses than hits), which is why I’ve decided to bring dry humping back. You see, I’ve learned that sometimes imagining what that person would feel like inside you is far better than him actually being inside you. And it is better still if your imagination is on overload. And the best way for that to happen is to have something constricting and heavyweight; something almost inescapable between you and your man. Like jeans.
I wonder, though, when it comes right down to it, would I be able to resist going further? Would he? Surely there are a few men out there who feel that dry humping is the epitome of pleasure; men who could resist until they’re blue in the, well, balls.
Now, where do I go to find a pool of men just waiting for some horny girl to come along to pique their interest? The answer swims past me in a flash: Internet. Armed with only my profile, I plunge into an online dating service with a posting that states my one simple need: that I am a dry humper looking for a man in jeans to dry hump with.
DRY HUMPER says: Looking for a man who likes to dry hump—specifically one who wears jeans. We’d begin the evening with a bottle of peach schnapps. Initially, it is to ease my nervousness, but soon I am drunk and ready to dry hump. First you hump my leg like a dog in heat, thinking that I like it, but I don’t. (I'm too impatient for the good stuff.) Then you slide up to my...special spot. Mmm...I like the way it feels; the scraping of jean on jean. Gasp! What's that poking out of your pants?! Get that thing back in there! I won’t continue unless you do. Okay, that’s better. Now let’s get back to it.
DONGTHONGS replies: You know there is something to say about a name and when it comes to you, I guess I'm going to have to make you cum at least 30 times to keep everything nice and wet!

I was online for literally two seconds when the man of my dreams popped up. Firstly, in his picture, he’s sitting slumped in a chair with his pointer finger poking out of the opening of his unzipped capris. Secondly, he claims he can make me cum 30 times! That’s more times than I’ve cum in the past year! I’d be stupid not to bookmark this guy.
FULLYERECT says: I have an 8" you-know-what that would feel pretty good rubbing up against you and your special spot.
I’m not sure if size really matter when it comes to dry humping. Not if he keeps it under wraps, so to speak. But then again the thought of it alone is a turn-on. Of course, it matters.
PAN65 replies: Your profile is very enticing and you will never find me in anything but jeans.
Love2Lix replies: Effin serious????
Effin serious, Love2Lix. And though there seems to be a handful of men within my district ready and willing to dry hump, I’ll choose only one (after all, I never said I was a slut). Pan65, you’re the one! I know, I know, I can already hear the inward gasps, just as loud and clear as I can hear the following thoughts: "What about the eight-inch cock or cumming thirty times?" Well, it’s the commitment that most caught my attention. "You’ll never find me in anything but jeans." I’m wet already.
Dry Humper replies to Pan65: When and where?
After the first exchange of emails, in which we introduce each other with our pseudonyms (I’m Claire, he’s Rodney), I ask him to book a room at a somewhat pricey hotel. Not only is it the safest way to meet a stranger, but it’s the most effective way to diffuse your disappointment if you end up not liking him. Ain’t nothing like a nicely decorated, comfortable room to ready your "special spot" no matter what kind of loser he turns out to be. Am I right? That and maybe a couple of drinks.
I shoot back a gin while I pick out a pair of jeans. I choose something a bit loose in case the dry humping doesn’t go well and I start feeling claustrophobic in my own clothes. A dark colour in case the dry humping does go well and my wetness shoots right through my panties, leaving an unattractive spot on my crotch. Stretchy so that I can manoeuvre myself according to my dry humping needs. The shirt is just as important. If this is to be done in true high school fashion, chances are he will want to cop a feel, possibly under my shirt for full-on breast access. Something somewhat loose, low neckline and white, no bra. I pour myself another shot of gin and pick a pair of panties, something soft to minimize the chafing.
As I sit outside, stuffing my gin bottle into my purse, I think about what I’m doing. I’d be lying if I said I thought this was a good idea. It’s not. I know that. It’s downright stupid. And even though there are many people who have done this before (yourself included, perhaps), it doesn’t make it any less stupid. But it’s the stupidity of the situation that makes me want to do it even more. I thrive on it. I always wonder just how far I can take it. I always wonder what kind of disaster could arise.
Right on time, at 5:00 pm, I arrive at the hotel. It’s decent-looking from the outside; modern, somewhat charming, but nothing to fax home about. I take one last shot from my bottle and then pay the cab fair. As I step out onto the curb, I think to myself, "If everything goes as well as planned, there will be no reason to be disappointed ever again. Nor will I be sneaking off into a bathroom stall at the mall any time soon."
Rodney instructed me to look for a tall, skinny guy with blond curly hair. Out of the handful of men I see in the bar, there’s only one that comes close to fitting this description. Tall, yes. Skinny, extremely. Blond curly hair, no. This guy’s hair is a dull mousey-brown colour, and kind of matted in the back, as though he had kept it in a ponytail all day. But what do I care about such trivial things? What I do care about is the fact that this guy isn’t wearing jeans. He’s wearing golf shorts. This can’t be him, then. Obviously my guy hasn’t arrived yet.
I take a seat at the bar, placing my purse down carefully onto the floor so as not to break the gin bottle. There’s only one stool between me and this guy. I want to keep him in arm’s reach just in case Rodney doesn’t show up. You would do the same if you were in a similar position. I mean, it’s just common sense. While keeping one ear peeled to the door, I order a gin and tonic and wait for this guy to notice me. It shouldn’t take long. I’ll just employ one of my many sure-fire methods. (Read the following carefully. You may learn a thing or two.) I take an ice cube out of my drink, bite it into halves with my back molars, take one out, turn on my stool at a 45 degree angle, and throw the cube at his head. It hits him on the side just above his ear. He jerks back slightly, touching the spot in his hair that is now wet. Disgruntled, he turns, preparing himself, no doubt, to face his enemy, but instead finds me looking at him with a smile on my face. Judging by his expression, I must look like I’m just two stones short of having special needs. Needless to say, he doesn’t smile back. Instead, he returns to his drink. You may be thinking that the ice cube method has failed, when in fact it’s exactly what I expected. I repeat the procedure and throw a second one. This time, it hits him on the side of his neck. He turns again. I smile again. He opens his mouth to speak. I wait.
"Can I help you?" he says, trying to convey politeness, but the curtness of his words is a dead giveaway to his annoyance.
"No."
"Then can you please stop throwing ice at my head?"
I don’t say anything. I just stare straight ahead, pretending to ignore him. He gets up and shifts his stool a little farther away from me. Now for my main move.
"Are you gonna sit there all night or are you going to come over here and buy me a drink?"
"I can’t. I’m waiting for someone."
"Me too," I say as I pull the straw out of my drink and start gnawing on it. "My name’s Claire, in case you were wondering."
"Claire?"
"That’s right."
"Claire, as in..." he looks around embarrassed and then continues in a low voice. "As in Dry Humping Claire?"
"Yeah," I say, thinking this is either a lark or I’ve just embarrassed myself horribly." Rodney?"
"Yeah."
Not a lark. I drop my face from his and stare at his shorts. He follows my gaze.
"Oh, sorry," he says. "I had to come straight from golf. Didn’t have time to change. I figured these would do."
Figured? He figured wrong. "But, in your email, you said..."
"I didn’t think you were being all that serious anyway."
"Well, I was."
"Oh," he says, eyeing the seam running down my inner thigh. "Well, your jeans are nice."
"Thank you." I scrutinize him from bottom to top. I take stock of his face. He really isn’t bad-looking. "Do-able," I tell myself. "Dry Hump-able." And if, for whatever reason, I need to justify my actions at the end of the night while lying in bed feeling disgusted with myself, I can always chalk this up to being an anthropological study. The study of dry humping a man in golf shorts. "Well," I say, jumping to my feet. "Shall we?"
Within two minutes, we find ourselves in room 203. The first thing I notice is the bed. It’s a single. "Is that going to be big enough?" I ask.
"Yeah, well, I figured we wouldn’t need that much room, so..."
There’s that word again. Figured. "I guess."
"And we agreed not to sleep here."
"Right."
I stare at the bed, not having a clue how to get started. How exactly do you make the transition from mindless chit-chat with a stranger to dry humping with a stranger? It’s obvious he won’t be making the first move. He’s standing a good two feet away from me, staring at the floor as though this were the first time his feet ever grazed a hotel room.