He watches me go.

The sun warmed my back as I climbed the three sets of stairs to The Neighbor’s door.  It was barely 8 am and the morning chill was already beginning to fade.  I slipped my key into the lock and turned the handle.  He’d left the deadbolt unlocked for me.

I stole into his quiet space, kicked his shoes out of the way of the door and crept quietly across the apartment to his bedroom doorway.  He lay tangled in his comforter, the ceiling fan whirred overhead.

I set my purse and keys down and cringed when they jingled.  He didn’t stir.  My zipper sounded like a roar as I undid my jeans; I quickly kicked off my shoes, followed by my cheap Target Harvard sweatshirt and climbed into bed with him.  He continued to slumber.

I pressed my cold skin against his back and let his round ass fill out the cradle of my pelvis.  He was a warm cloud and I clung to him and breathed him in, his entire backside pressed against me.

“Good morning, Hy,” he said to the window filling with light.

“Good morning, TN,” I whispered into his neck.

I stroked and scratched him and he stretched and purred, climbing his way out of a Lunesta haze.  I pulled him over onto his back and grabbed his giant morning wood and began to gently pump it as it pulsed and flexed in my grip.

We didn’t say much; I let the silence wrap around me as I gently lured him to greater consciousness.  I knelt between his knees and took him in my mouth.  Soft, wet pulling.  Soft, sweet moans.  I kept at him imagining my greatest morning hope of his release into my mouth, but he stopped me and roughly grabbed my shoulders and pressed me down into the mattress.

“You are the best alarm clock ever,” he said, his gaze intense.

He was wide awake now.

I spread my knees and he plunged into me.  Our eyes locked on one another like long lost lovers.  No sentiment, just hunger.

He moved in me and I closed my eyes, felt him fill me to the brink. “God I fucking love your cock,” I moaned.

He pumped and ground and rode me like the little morning whore that I was.  He curled into me and growled and I held on for dear life, then my ankles went up to his shoulders.  Orgasm burst through me and I shook my head from side to side in desperate protest.  A tear slipped out and ran down my cheek.

He stopped and I lay panting.  He looked at me for a moment then lay to my side and put my legs over his hips.  He was buried deep inside of me.  “Use the *Doxy,” he said gently with a lift of his chin to the British magic wand that lay beside me.

“We haven’t done this in a while,” he added.  It’s been almost a year since my Hitachi died.

I punched the On button and adjusted the speed to the middle setting and thought about Goldilocks and all her choices.  I pulled the comforter between me and the buzzing head and instantly blasted off, my pussy stuffed full of his rock hard cock.

He thrust, just enough, and with each penetration I climbed higher until I fell off the fucking mountain with a yell and many expletives.

“Again,” he said the instant I landed.

I felt like saying, “Ok, Coach!” but only nodded instead and started the climb.

But two wasn’t enough for him, no, he coaxed 3 more from me.  By the fifth, I was trembling, damp with sweat.  His cock was as hard as ever, his hands filled with breast.  I dropped the speed down to the gentlest and let my clit meet the challenge with less intensity.

His body nudged mine with a rhythm matching that of his alarm clock.  In the past, fucking to his alarm reduced us to giggles.  Not that morning.  I ignored it and concentrated on the pulsing in my hole, the stretch and swell, and came with a boom a fifth and final time.

I hung on his cock, limp and satiated.

I turned to look at him, the treetops in the window a bright green.  “And here I thought I was just going to give you a blowjob this morning; I had no idea I was gonna get some morning sex!”

He grinned and looked at his phone.  “I really have to get up now.  I have to be at work in 20 minutes.”

He pulled out and left the room for a minute.  I laid in his bed feeling motherfucking lucky.

He came back in and helped me up and watched me as I got dressed.  At his door, still nude, he gave me a kiss and a hug and I walked out into the bright morning light.  When I turned around he was standing in his doorway.

The bright sun reflecting off the building nearly blinded me and I could only make out the dusky pink cock that hung like ripe fruit between his muscular thighs,  his white body glowed from the shadows behind him.

TNdoorway

I’m lucky.

I could tell he was smiling at me, watching me watch him.

“You’re beautiful,” I called as I started walking down out of sight.  “And you can do that every time I leave in the morning!”

And he has.

 

[Ed. note: TN Tuesdays is a semi weekly meme which will share more of The Neighbor with my Internet Boyfriend.  All photos have his approval before I post them.  As always, he's eager to see what you guys think and has requested that I share any comments.]

TNT#8

 

 *Doxy post coming soon!

I found Two More Dissolutes – October edition

N. Likes  and I have fallen off our wagon.  July hit and neither one of us passed on a blog to the other.  Then August, then September.  It wasn’t until this month that I felt inspired and apparently he felt the same way.  Anything on a schedule is hard to produce when your blog is literally an extension of your id: feel, do, done.

Having said that, we’ve gotten our acts together and refined our goals.  Our Two More Dissolutes will come once monthly — hopefully – and not necessarily at the first of the month, but whenever the mood strikes us.  I think this will lend a more authentic feel to what we bring to you.  It’ll be an organic secret sex blog or two!

Hy’s pick:

Cara Thereon

Hy’s thoughts:

My original hope for Two More Dissolutes was to bring my readers someone as yet unfamiliar, but what I’ve found is that I have my haunts and I stick to them.  I thought that listing them in my Dissolutes tab was good enough, or even my sidebar called More Dissolutes, but it’s not.  Y’all are still missing out on some of my favorite writers and one in particular, Cara Thereon.

As Cara will tell you herself, she’s a shy person in real life and uses the internet as a tool to open up and push her boundaries.  For the past 10 years she’s been honing her writing skills in one form or another and when I first “met” her online, she had a different pseudonym and a different blog name.  The content has always been stellar no matter what nom de plume tops the page.  I was instantly drawn to the fragility she inadvertently let bleed through her personal posts and titillated by her vibrant fiction.  She is an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, inside a mystery and I’m happy to count her among my favorite writers.

I don’t typically read erotic fiction, or even erotica, believe it or not, but Cara inspires me to plug in to whatever it is she writes.  She’s passionate, intelligent, sexy and thoughtful.  As with any blog I read, I much prefer the personal anecdotes — such as her Obscure Blog post  — but still adore her flash fictions, such as her Stories I Create on the Train series (click here and scroll down to suggested posts for all the links).

Most recently she published an “unedited sketch” as she calls them and blew me the fuck awayI couldn’t tell what I was reading; it put me on edge, made me feel off balance, turned on.  It was fluidly jagged, brusque, deep.

Here’s an exerpt:

But I watch him in the moonlight. Watch the play of pleasure on his face, watch the controlled thrusts into my body, watch the way he holds me down. I watch every move, my body all his, my mind far off.

His face becomes familiar to me in that time. I know him by the end. I’ll have memories of the feel of him inside me, the shape of his body, and his scent lingering beneath the smell of sex.

So please, if you haven’t already, make Cara a regular part of your reading repertoire.

N.Likes’ thoughts:

I’m a big fan of Cara, too. I linked to her as recently as a month ago, and I read her religiously. (I have a list of about ten-fifteen blogs of which I read each entry; hers is one. Honestly, I’m not sure why she’s not on my blogroll – I really should fix that.)

I’m with Hy – I prefer the posts in which Cara writes explicitly about herself, rather than the ones in which she writes explicitly about sex, actual or fantasized. Cara is vulnerable, and self-disclosing, and raw, and she trusts us readers with her insecurities and rawness, and it’s awesome to behold.

She’s a terrific, fluid, elegant writer, but what I really like on her blog is her exploration of her discomfort, and pain, and anxiety, and uncertainty, and loneliness. Not in a schadenfreude way – in a “she makes me care, and interested” way.

Definitely check her out.

 

N. Likes’ pick:

N.’s thoughts:

Cande – The Secret Diary of an Online Stripper – on paying for sex

Cande, who writes one of the few blogs I follow, has posted a couple of times recently on the behavior of men, some of whom are her friends, with respect to sex tourism and commercial sex/sex work/prostitution.

I’ve written a lot on commercial sex, but I had a strong reaction to several bits of her recent posts, and my response was a little more than fits in a typical blog post comment. Cande has seen much of what I write here. We’ve had a really good, robust conversation behind the scenes in the lead-up to my posting this. So please don’t read any of what I write here as in any way suggesting I don’t think highly of Cande. I do. Sometimes I disagree with her, but mostly, I’ve just been impressed with her willingness to consider alternate ways of thinking about things.

First, her posts:

1) this one, in which she described some friends of hers who recently went to Budapest on a sex tourism jaunt, and
2) this one, in which she revisited some of the things she previously had said/thought, and wrote a bit more about prostitution in general.

I think the best way for me to do this is simply to quote her, and then to offer my response, but before I do that, a thought on the set-up: in my life, the vast majority of sex workers I’ve paid for sex, I’ve paid on my own, outside of a social context (and in a fairly shame-ridden context). There are exceptions. I have, on a couple of occasions, had “erotic massages” with a date. I have brought dates to strip clubs. And I’ve been to bachelor parties in strip clubs. (My own bachelor party, a co-ed affair, featured a stop at a strip club.) But in general, my relationship to commercial sex work is a highly personal one. When I’ve paid for sex, I’ve been paying for a highly personal experience, not one that I’m enthusiastic about sharing with others. And I’ve done it in the United States, almost exclusively. Not in Europe. Not in the developing world. Where, I imagine, things are likely very different. And even here in the U.S., I have the sense that the sex work industry really isn’t one place – it’s lots of places, with lots of different types of things going on. I find that I can rarely go wrong by imagining that things might be more complex than I imagine….

That said….

The thought of joining hands with five friends and heading off to [insert destination here] for the explicit purpose of procuring sex is unthinkable to me. Not unthinkable in a judgmental way. It’s simply not something I’d ever do. It just doesn’t appeal. So I start from there. What she’s talking about her “friend” having done is wholly unfamiliar to me. And, if I’m honest, it’s pretty distasteful to me. Not so much because of the transactions and actions, but because of the un-self-conscious importation of it into the social sphere where it just feels a bit… icky… to me.

Now, on to the quotations:

“The whole story had me disappointed in men. I found it rather nasty and off putting to be honest.”

Disappointed in men? This was six men. If they had been six black men, would you have been disappointed in blacks? I don’t mean to be harsh, but how can you extend whatever judgment you feel of these six louts to my entire gender? (I’m not often a defender of my gender. We do a lot of bad shit. But this feels to me unfair/wrong. Or at least, not quite as thoughtful as I might like.)

[As I wrote above, I showed Cande this before posting it here, and she had some thoughts on it. I expect she may expand on them further over at her site. I don’t want to characterize them here, but suffice it to say, I think that, for the most part, she agrees with my point.]

“These guys had even looked into paying professionals for sex, but when they got wind of prices he said they were much too high, somewhere around 300 euros. 300 euros doesn’t sound like a lot to me.”

My experience as a consumer of commercial sex services was that, as with anything, there are different products at different price points. I have a good friend who had some behaviors similar to mine once upon a time, but his tastes brought him to Asian massage parlors, where the cost was a quarter or even less what I paid in the “college- and grad-student” parlors.

My tastes in sex (as in Scotch) tend to run to the expensive. But the truth is, the product is different. There are some sex workers who probably don’t make 300 euros in a night. And there are others who make more than that in each encounter. I have the sense that what you mean when you say “300 euros doesn’t sound like a lot to me…” has a predicate to it that’s unspoken, “… for what this poor woman is doing to herself/giving up/giving away.” I’m not defending these guys. They sound a bit like louts. (If I did go on a sex tourism jaunt, I sure as hell wouldn’t talk about it with female coworker acquaintances I barely know.)

But I wonder a bit about the construction of sex work you have that says that 300 euros doesn’t sound like a lot. Many (most) white-collar professionals earn less than 300 euros per hour (or per two hours, or per job, or whatever). Is it possible you’re contributing to the stigmatizing of sex work/ers by the internal conception you have of the job, of how distasteful/unpleasant/unfortunate you imagine it to be? In other words, 300 euros is a LOT. It may not be enough for you to consider having sex for it. But it is, objectively, a lot as an hourly wage.

“The price thing especially bothers me because I know that 90% of the girls here are imported on false pretense and they have a whole organization who takes most of the money they earn.”

Um, huh? You “know” that? Which parts of it do you know? 90%? False pretense? Whole organization? Most of the money?

How do you know that?

Here, I refer you to Maggie McNeill, the Honest Courtesan, a former prostitute who has written extensively on “sex trafficking.” She argues, persuasively, I think, that the vast majority of “sex trafficking” is simply “economic migration,” but for people migrating to engage in sex work.

To be clear, I’m not saying that there aren’t women who are victims of exploitation. Surely there must be. But the way we tend to think, and talk, about sex work, and economic migration associated with it, and the organizational structures that support it, has a lot more to do with our biases about sex work and sex workers than it does to do with the way the world actually works.

Incidentally, in all of my years as a CPOS, with the hundreds (literally) of women I saw, I sincerely doubt that I ever saw a woman who was “imported on false pretense,” or who was working for “a whole organization who takes most of the money.” I don’t think this is naivete. My friend who frequented Asian massage parlors surely had a different experience than did I. But it’s a mistake to generalize. Sex work is an industry, and it’s hardly monolithic.

One note here: I have the sense that sex trafficking – to the extent that’s a thing – and economic migration associated with sex work probably look very different in different parts of the world, and from different parts of the world. Just as economic migration associated with any form of work looks different in different places. My knowledge is limited to my experience. I don’t pretend to global knowledge here.

“If I had to choose between the bf falling in love with another woman and cheating on me that way, or him going and having sex with a prostitute, I’d likely be more upset about the prostitute. Especially if I put it onto equal ground saying unprotected sex in both cases”

I find this fascinating. Obviously, it’s Cande’s truth. But I’m so curious about why? What is it about “going and having sex with a prostitute” that’s worse than “falling in love with another woman”? This suggests to me that there’s almost a sense of taint, of pollution, that’s associated with the act of paying (a whore) for sex. Not that there’s anything wrong with having such a sense – there may well be, in Cande’s mind. But it’s intriguing to me.

And what is it about “unprotected” sex with a prostitute (as opposed to with a non-prostitute) that’s so disturbing? Again, see Maggie McNeill for statistics on sexually transmitted infections and prostitutes, but my own sense is that prostitutes in general – allowing for exceptions at the very bottom of the sex work food chain – are probably more diligent about safer practices than are sex amateurs. Certainly,

Once again, I wonder if there’s not something… dirty… to Cande about paying for sex. And something dirty about the people whom one pays for sex. And I wonder if what Cande’s really saying is that she’d be pissed off if her boyfriend exposed her to the taint transmitted by an unclean whore, more pissed off than she’d be if he exposed her to the risk transmitted by a non-whore affair.

In Cande’s and my discussion via e-mail, I wrote this to her:

One final thought about “cleanliness.” I think that we think a bit… magically… about sex. Some of this is biological. When women have sex with men, they’re allowing another human into their body. But. It’s not at all clear to me that having sex with a man is, necessarily, “dirtier” (or riskier, or whatever) than shaking hands. Hear me out: which interaction do you think transmits more germs, more diseases? In absolute terms? In relative terms? In my experience, sex is a relatively “clean” endeavor. Particularly, I should say, with sex workers. The sex workers I’ve had sex with had, as a rule, showered more recently than the non-sex workers I’ve had sex with. They used condoms more reliably. … [I]t seems to me like now we’re talking about something other than simple cleanliness or dirtiness, but more like “pollution/taint.” A shower, after all, cleans a cock nicely. And if disease is your concern, there are lots of ways of addressing that concern.

I think, really, what you mean is that a woman who’s been paid to have sex with men (and btw, I think many sex workers haven’t had sex with “hundreds” of men) is “dirty” in a way someone who hasn’t isn’t. And there’s something about the way in which she’s “dirty” that “rubs off” on guys who put their dicks in her.

I don’t think we’re talking about germs, or disease, here. I think we’re talking about purity, about moral valence. And while, of course, you’re free to think that way, it’s always interesting to me when smart people think in terms of “cooties,” of a sort of magical transmission of moral valence.

“What I don’t get though is why men feel the need to resort to it. Don’t get me wrong, I get it on some level but on another I just don’t. It’s like men have absolutely no control over their sexual urges. But they do. I’ve seen it…. Are men totally incapable of dealing with their urges in any other way?”

This last question is interesting, as it proceeds from the presumption that “any other way” would be preferable to paying for sex. I had ongoing relationships with women I paid, women I got to know, to like, to care a bit about. Relationships that had far more depth than, say, a one-night-stand achieved with much uncertainty at the end of a long evening of judgment-impairing drinking. I’m not really defending paying for sex. I’m explaining how what Cande wrote struck me as wrong.

I think that many men don’t “feel the need to resort to it.” They choose to resort to it. (I wasn’t, I should say, one of these men. I was a man who did feel the need to resort to it, and it was because of the shame associated with this that I would keep it so far from my social life.) But most men, I think, don’t pay prostitutes to fuck them out of desperation or “need.” Particularly not “sex tourist” men. I think you’re seeing something else in their behavior –maybe a desire to use their relative wealth and power to provide them with pleasurable sexual experiences. Or maybe a desire to exert greater control over their sexual experiences than “any other way” might provide them.

All of which begs the big question as far as I’m concerned: Cande, what’s wrong with paying a prostitute for sex?

Hy’s thoughts:

I dig Cande’s space, I like her non-North American or Western-ness and I like her candor. I got lost on several of her more recent posts and I really dig her.  I just love it when people put themselves on paper!

In regards to this topic in particular, I think N. is drilling down much further than I would’ve had I read it on my own.  The first thing I thought about was that the BF needed to wrap it up and not be a fucking dick about unprotected sex.  WTF, man??

As far as her belief that she’d be at more risk with a prostitute, it’s not unfair to assume that a sex worker might have more opportunities for an STD to break through her safe sex defenses than one who doesn’t have sex for a living.  In any case, I get that.  And as far as how she’d rate falling in love with a woman vs fucking a prostitute… well, she and the BF have some serious issues.  I dunno… I automatically assumed that it’s much deeper than it appears.

Cande’s critiques of her friend also seems appropriate to me.  My jaw would  be on the floor to learn that someone went with a group to another country to stick it in to someone else.  What?  Can’t get any prostitutes Stateside??  Of course I’m speaking from an American perspective where traveling abroad is a huge endeavor.  Obviously in Europe and the Middle East it’s a lot easier, but the point remains that her friend spoke of the entire trip like he went on a themed retreat, like to a roller coaster park or something.  He bitched about the cost of the rides.  No woman wants to hear of other women being reduced to the dollar amount they charge for being fucked.   It’s just fucking rude because she isn’t just a ride.  Comparatively, I also wouldn’t want to hear anyone bitch about the price of their interior designer, either.  You get what you pay for and the one providing the service gets to set the cost, period. Get over it.

There are so many points “to take up” with the post in regards to sex-work and biases and such that it’s not really worth it.  I mean, she wrote from the heart, and as a woman I get it.  I don’t think she’s at all wrong to feel distaste at her friend’s idea of a great vacation idea and I can see why she’d look at dudes in general and scratch her head at their choices.  Certainly doesn’t mean she thinks all men are dipshits, just her friend, right?

I know how to squirt.

[A re-post from a couple of years ago because I still get a lot of questions.  Also, everything I've written here still stands; I'm a squirting machine!  Apparently, lots of other ladies are, too.  Both Dawn and Caitlyn have written about their experiences with it .  xx Hy]

A lot of women want to know how to squirt. Here’s what I’ve learned to do.

Making G-spot Contact

The first time it ever happened to me was roughly 14 years ago. At this point in my sexual history I had just ended a year-long relationship where I orgasmed from only sex (both while on top and bottom) and also had only ever orgasmed from oral once. I was 25.

This particular squirting night was just your average tryst. Nothing special except that this cock was significantly bigger than the one that had made me orgasm for a year. However, despite being less than 5 inches long and fairly narrow, that smaller penis had taught me to sit low and heavy on a man’s groin, to really sink into it and how to ride him with abandon.

I’d been under the wrong impression for years that making love while on top should replicate the man’s motion like when he was on top, but with a cock that was smaller that didn’t work, hence my new moves: to grind down hard and tilt my pelvic cradle against my lover’s in order to stimulate my clitoris against his pubis, to sit tall and not lean over. I came every time with a big clitoral orgasm.

So, naturally, I applied my new method with the bigger lover. I began to feel a glow in my womb and my chest felt numb and buzzing and then I felt a release similar to the sensation of urinating, but slightly higher than my urethra.  Throughout my body it felt big and blossoming all the way to my fingertips.  It was distinctly different from the orgasms I was used to.

That first time it squirted in my lover’s eye. We both stopped for a second to laugh. I didn’t know what to say. He exclaimed, “You squirted!” I had no idea what that even meant, but I felt no shame about it. He seemed really pleased. And then we kept going.

Looking back on it, that was my first experience with a g-spot orgasm.

Size Can Matter

I never felt that again until the first time I had sex with Troy (story is here) and it was because his cock was big enough to massage my g-spot no matter what position we were in; I didn’t have to be on top. He was by far the biggest man I’d ever been with (around 8.5″). He was elated by my juices and I was utterly incapable of controlling them. They just happened to me. It became the center of our fucking.

Which is what set me off in the hunt of large cocks. Honestly, that’s the only reason. I happen to have a deep well and a larger member hits me just right every time. The smaller ones simply didn’t. Until I learned some new tricks…

Head Space – What I do

Today I don’t need a large cock to squirt anymore – yay! I’ve learned to squirt on command about 4 out of every 5 times that I try, and it’s dependent on a couple of things. First, I have to be significantly turned on, and second, the more I trust my lover the easier it becomes. My head has to be in the right place if I’m the one in charge of my squirting.

When alone, I imagine gripping the shaft of a cock with my pussy like a fist, and then simultaneously I push out around it while relaxing. All my focus, all my energy, all my breath is focused on my cunt. I contract a few times, then release and push out. Repeat. It’s all I can feel. If I squirt by myself, totally alone, with nothing and no one touching me I am a quintessential pussy. I have this, I think, I am this. If I squirt with my Hitachi, which is actually fairly rare, I am typically sitting on the edge of a bed or standing, so there is pressure on my vulva.

When with a lover, tantric lovemaking elicits much wetness from me and my lover doesn’t even have to be participating in the method. Contracting my vaginal muscles as he pulls out – as if I were sucking him back in – and then pushing against him as he pushes back in – like bearing down – stimulates my g-spot. Switching back and forth like this is only possible when the pace is slower. When the pace is frantic I simply grip with all my might.

Skills – What He Does

There are two things that my lovers have done that have caused me to squirt deliberately. One is with their cock, the other with their hands and fingers.

With any size cock, he pulls out all the way or almost all the way, and if I’m doing my tantric gripping, the sensation of leaving my body makes me squirt.

With his hands and fingers, he curls his fingers inside of me with his palm on my pubis and he slams his hand against me in a small, rapid circular motion. It’s a lot of work for him, it’s not gentle. It’s rough and intense and has always, without exception, yielded results for me.

The Neighbor said that technique worked on an ex-girlfriend, as well.

Letting Go – It’s Not Pee

I don’t know how clear a picture I’m drawing here. Of course this is one woman’s experience with squirting, but I have talked to my lovers at great length about this. Troy devoured books about the female anatomy and he understood that the ejaculate traveled a similar path as urine, but was certainly not urine. He also believed that an old lover of his would have probably squirted herself, but each time she felt the sensation she ran to the toilet.

And here’s where I have to agree. The sensation prior to ejaculating is reminiscent of peeing, but that’s it. When we need to pee there’s a pressure in our bladder, unmistakable; with squirting, the sensation is lower, more concentrated around the urethra and clitoris.

We have to trust our bodies not to get wires crossed. It’s really that simple. I know I’ve had my run-ins with poo, so you’d think I’d be the last person on the planet to say TRUST YOUR BODY, but I really believe it. I know my system won’t allow me to piss all over my lover in a fit of passion. And in part my trust in my own body allows me to let go and allow the stimulation to rise and then exit my body via a squirt.

Sometimes the fluid is odorless, sometimes it’s musky, sometimes it’s less pleasant and more urine-like. And it can all come from the same woman on different days of the week. Its scent is tied up with hormones and ph levels. Some experts believe that all ejaculate has some urine mixed in, others resolutely say that’s not true. I’m of the camp that sometimes it can be mixed in with a little urine. My ejaculate, like all the anecdotal and scientific research I found, has varied from odorless to faintly musky to strongly of urine. The Neighbor has never said anything and, in fact, once lifted a soaked towel to his face — which to me smelled faintly of urine — and told me it smelled delicious. His enthusiasm helped me to not care and to truly just let go.

Go For It

And here I have to ask a bigger question in general: Even if you did piss on your lover, so what?? You’re engaged in an intimate, messy activity that is inherently complicated and involved with the bowel, bladder, anus, and vagina just to name a few. Shit might happen (as you all know it certainly has with me). So I say, even if you do fear peeing, just fucking go for it. You won’t die and your lover will have a chance to show his mettle. And that’s the worst case scenario. Best case is that you’ll feel a g-spot ejaculation/orgasm!

I hope this has shed some light on the mysteriousness of squirting. I’d love to hear from other women who do it and hear your stories. Are they similar to mine? Different? What do you do to squirt? Do you have any control over it? And to all you women who have never done it, I say to you that you have nothing to lose in trying! Most of you will have the basic building blocks (Skene’s glands are necessary, some think), but at the very least you can have a ton of fun trying!

And here are some articles I liked regarding this whole thing:

Make Her Ejaculate

Female Ejaculation

Shejaculation: Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Gush

Originally published 2/18/12.

I masturbated in his bed while he was at work.

I am a stickler for privacy. I personally don’t need much, but I’m extremely sensitive to others’ needs, particularly The Neighbor’s. I’ve had access to his apartment for more than a year and I think I’ve popped over 5 times while he wasn’t at home and only one of those he didn’t know (I left some things by his front door when I was moving). And even with his permission I feel like I’ve entered some kind of foreign, enchanted forest; I must watch my every step lest I discover some evil troll lurking behind the couch (or in the computer).

I had an exboyfriend years ago whose extra-relationship activities repeatedly — and magically — appeared before me, though back then I had no idea I was in an enchanted forest. I don’t remember the details now (it was nearly 15 years ago), but what I do recall is that I was following my natural, stupidly guileless curiosity down forest paths, my basket filled with cookies for Grandma and my little red hood over my eyes.

Imagine my surprise while looking through boxes of his old photos with a little nostalgic smile on my face thinking, “Aw, look at Joey, isn’t he so young and sweet?” I also stumbled upon negatives of his exwife in various stages of undress. I can’t unsee her negative-vulva, guys. Or my surprise when I went to my History in our computer’s browser to find a link I’d used and I found links he’d used to post pics of the exwife on some kind of file-sharing site. He wasn’t posting pics of me, just her. Or my surprise when I found their polaroids in the same box he said he stored the Polaroid camera. UGH.

To say that I learned my lesson is an understatement. While I may not need much privacy, others certainly do and I honor that. The Neighbor, being wildly different from me, covets his and far be it from me to ever shake his private, furry tree.

That being said, I’m not beyond using those invisible parameters to my advantage.

A couple of weeks ago TN gave me permission to enter his apartment to borrow a cookie sheet.  I climbed the 3 sets of stairs and took a deep breath when I saw his door at the top.

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Love those loafers.

I opened the door and peeked inside, his clothes were strewn about everywhere and nearly every light was on. Different world, indeed. That sense of being where I shouldn’t was as strong that day as any other despite my pass and I practically tip-toed into the kitchen to get the sheet. I pulled it out and set it on the kitchen island and took in my surroundings. It was quiet, masculine. The work I’d done on his place made it homey and his own contributions made it look decidedly lived in. I looked at his bedroom door and at the unmade bed beyond. And a decision was made.

I smiled, gathered my courage (and my phone), and walked in. Kicked off my loafers, peeled off the cardigan, grabbed the *Doxy from his nightstand and laid down.

My heart beat fast and heavy. The scent of a slumbering TN surrounded me in his pillows and bedding, his fan whirred quietly above me. I snapped some pics, began to relax.

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I punched the ON button on the Doxy and let its deep, gentle vibrations begin to scour my senses clean of concern. I kept my eyes open, drinking in all his stuff. The clothes on the dresser, the candles, the lamp. I came hard and writhed on his sheets. I switched my phone to video and came again and talked to him, let him see exactly where I was. Then a third time. I thought about all the times he’d sneaked into my bed while I was away and jerked off for me there while wearing my panties, him pulling on his big dusky pink meat until he choked out ropes of semen all over his belly. I came a fourth and fifth time then was spent.

FullSizeRender

Satiated and feeling like I belonged, I texted all the photos and the video. He was very pleased.

Before I left I needed a pen and padded softly into his office, opened the drawer I knew I could find them and gingerly pulled one out. I kept my eyes down away from whatever might be laying around, the monitors were dark. I quickly used the pen and gently closed the drawer when suddenly the monitors flickered on. My eyes were instantly drawn to them and my heart lurched.   No!  No forest trolls, please!  Memories of Joey’s escapades flashed through my mind then in a split second washed away.  There was nothing there.

I breathed deeply and quickly left. But not before I turned off all the lights.

 

[Ed. Note: *Doxy post will be coming soon!]

WordPress ate my comments.

I fucking hate WP.  I also fucking hate self-hosted blogging today.

1) The WP-hosted app on my phone ate my comments on your blogs.  With the exception of one or two of you yesterday (Hi, Noods!), they were ALL sucked up by the ether.

2) I just wrote a very nice, organized post about #1 and the self-hosted site ATE THE POST.  Is it a conspiracy?!  Does Mr. Internet hate me today?!

sigh

So, I’ll try to recreate what I just spent 45 minutes doing in about 10.

Long story short, my WP-app on my phone has both my WP-hosted and my self-hosted blogs.  I use the self-hosted one to create posts and respond to comments from you all and I thought I was using the WP-hosted one for liking and commenting to those of you in my WP reader (the self-hosted one doesn’t have a reader within it).  I now know definitively that it is unreliable: I spent the better part of an hour yesterday morning responding to a handful of you and most of them never posted.  And this has been going on for months!!

I can go the way of the crazy person and think that you all hate me or I can go the way of the reasonable person and blame WP for the disappearances.

My only point to this is that I want you all to know that I have been responding and connecting to you.  Problem is, you’ve had no idea!  It’s like I RSVP’d to your party, but showed up in the Invisibility Cloak.   Fucking fuckity fuck.  It makes my gut ache to think of all the comments I’ve attempted to leave since March; I must have appeared much more absent than I actually was.  /sad face.

To avoid future snafus, I’ll be relying on Bloglovin’ from here on out and you might want to follow my blog with Bloglovin, too, if you’re unhappy with your current system.  I like how they’re organized and I especially like the naked lady.

In lieu of going back and trying to recreate the magic, I’m going to list the posts I responded to yesterday because I found them to be beautiful, relatable, hot, interesting and/or touching:

Cara – Dangling (my comment posted, but I wasn’t notified of her response)

‘Tis – In one year

Jayne – I am courting hopelessness and I am wrung

Dawn – Sweets

The Lively Wife – On this side and on that side

Elle – My hands

 

The whole point of me going self-hosted was to avoid getting shut down for Terms of Services violations and to possibly monetize the site somehow.  Guess it’s time I get on that latter point to make all this worth it, huh?  Otherwise this all just feels like an exercise in futility.

So, that’s that, I guess.

Aaaaaaaand, now I’m spent.  Sexy post I was writing simultaneously will be up later.

xx

Hy

 

 

My dildo nearly killed him.

Stability, like a rock, can sometimes squash creativity.  It happens to all couples.  After the first 6 months routines are instituted, all the right buttons pushed, switches flipped.  Where’s the passion?? we wonder.  Well, I can tell you.  It’s beneath the everyday maintenance and all the layers of intimacy.  That sexy new man is right in front of you, but you have to see his otherness first.

This is a nice place to be.  The Neighbor, always a goddamned enigma to me, has become tenfold more attractive.  I like his mysterious, unfathomable ways these days.  It turns me on. 

I focus on the fact that I simply cannot know everything about him and while I know enough to say I love him and want to stay, I am allowing his strange newness to step forward and surprise me more.  Yes, I know “he’s mine,” but life gives no tidy contracts.  I gotta work for this fool; think about the next big thing we’re gonna do.  The familiar embrace of possible rejection keeps me alert and focused on keeping us both interested in each other.

And so this weekend I planned on tying him up again, something which I haven’t done in far too long.

I heard him come in first, quietly, before I saw his head pop up from my spot on the couch.  “Are you alone?” he asked.

“Yep,” I answered, slightly confused.  He disappeared for a moment and then walked out from behind the room divider buck naked with a nice, heavy chubby cock.

“Good.  I didn’t want to scar Peyton just in case something had changed and you were on kid duty.”  He walked towards my smiling, appreciative face.

“Nope.  All alone,” I answered and grabbed his cock.

He was clipped and clean and I smelled soap.  I wrapped my hand around the base and sat up just enough to take the tip in my mouth.  I looked up and saw him watching me.  “Put your arms above your head,” I said succinctly.

He giggled, but complied and I turned my attention back to his hot meat.  Every so often he would moan and I would look up.  The points of his elbows high in the air brewed something deep down in my center, the soft tufts of hair in the arm sockets, the trail of hair leading to my face.  I lapped and sucked and he said how much he loved my mouth.  When he tried to lower his arms I commanded he put them back up immediately.  He smiled broadly and did as he was told.

When his breathing was labored I stood up and led him into my room. The bed was made and cat on the windowsill.  A clean palette for the mess I was hoping to make.

He asked me to keep sucking from my knees.  “It’s so hot,” he explained.  I encourage him to be vocal about his wants and so I dropped immediately, used my knees to spread his feet a little to bring him lower; up went his arms again.  His passion grew and he lost some control; he wanted to stick it in.

“Not yet,” I said.  “Lay on your back on the bed.”

I went around and got my Box o’ Toys.  “What are you doing?” he asked a little nervously.

“You’ll see,” I replied as I pulled out two silk scarves and quickly tied his ankles to the foot of the bed.  Then I reached in and grabbed my dildo, a massive, beautiful beast of silicone and jelly.

TN's Christmas gift to me

This shit ain’t no joke.

His eyes widened.  “What re you going to do with that?”

“None of your business,” I answered curtly.  “Now keep stroking your cock.  I’ll be right back.”  I left to rinse off the beast and smiled because I knew his strange man-mind was thinking I actually planned to put this up his tight, sweet ass.  I’m not so naive as to think it would even be physically possible — I had other ideas — but I quickened at the thought that he truly didn’t know.

When I came back in I knelt beside him, nude, but for my knee socks, and wagged the thing above him.  “Open your mouth,” I said firmly.  He looked at me and squirmed.  “Do it,” I added.

Struggle played across his face and I delighted in it.  I dragged his left hand between my legs and let him feel my wetness.  He pushed in two fingers as I pushed the dildo past his lips and he took a little taste.  His brow was furrowed with embarrassment and I placed his other hand on my hanging breast as I leaned over and controlled the depth of the cock in his mouth.

He popped it out and asked me what I’d put on it.  Confused I said, “Nothing, just water, why?”

“My mouth is burning a little,” he explained.

“Nope, just water,” I reassured him.  “But do you want to stop?”  He answered by taking it back in his mouth.  I gasped a little and watched, transfixed.

He was an image of sex: ankles secured so he couldn’t move, his hands full of pussy and breast and his mouth stuffed with this big, fake cock.

I let him take the cock from me so I could stroke his real one as I whispered fucking unbelievably hot he was, then I’d had enough.

I climbed up on him and wiggled down, my eyes latched to his face as I watched his performance anxiety melt away and his energies focus on me, not himself.  He was doing all of this for me.  All of it.

This knowledge kicked my hips into motion and I rode him hard as he did a better job of deep-throating that thing than I ever could.  I came in little bursts and squirted like a fountain as  my breasts pulled at my chest as they bounced all round.  Sweat prickled to the surface all over my body and I felt like a live wire.

Exhausted and panting I climbed back off, untied him, and grabbed my Hitachi from up high in my closet.  He looked at me knowingly and I lay down beside him, turned on the wand, and watched him suck my fake cock.  I imagined a real man above him fucking his face and I came loud and hard then went limp.

He set the cock between us with a quizzical look on his face.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, concerned.

“My throat is burning and feels tight,” he said.

“Oh shit!” I exclaimed.

“Yeah, it’s like that feeling when I take Benadryl or Tylenol PM.”  Shit, fuck, damn!, I thought.  He’s deathly allergic to those things!

It’s funny how quickly one can accommodate life’s demands.  Think of all the times a rutting couple has been interrupted by a small child’s cries.  I sat up and asked, “Can you breathe ok?”

“Yeah, for now.”  He stood up and I could see he was checking his own vitals, his hand on his chest.  “It’s really burning,” he added.  “But I feel ok enough.”  He took a big drink of water.

“No, we’re just going to pause here,” his “I feel ok enough,” an implicit go-ahead to keep doing what we were doing.  “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to dress an unconscious, 200lb man for EMS?  We’re going to just chill here for a bit before we do anything else.”

He laid down next to me and I stroked his chest.  “Maybe you’re allergic to the dildo,” I offered.

“What’s in that thing?” he asked.

“I dunno, I suspect silicone?  Are you allergic to that?”

“I highly doubt it.  Wouldn’t I know by now?”

“Probably.”

“Your plan for murder didn’t work today.”

“Damn, you figured me out.  I can see it now: ‘DEATH BY DILDO.'”  We giggled and chortled at that.

“What would you tell the paramedics?”

“The truth!  I’d tell them and the ER docs that I’m a kinky fuck and that you adore me and would do anything for me so you sucked a big fake cock that tried to kill you.  I’d want them to have all the facts.  I’m not embarrassed.”  We laughed and he hugged me.

“Are you feeling better, yet?” I asked, genuinely concerned.  He took another drink of water.

“I think so.”

We rested some more before getting up and going about our day.  I checked in on him later and he said he’d done some research and discovered that silicone allergies are incredibly rare, but that there could be some kind of manufactured jelly he may be allergic to.  “I’m just gonna have to suck that thing with a condom on next time,” he concluded.

“I’d never make you do that.”

“I know, but I’d do it anyway.”  I could feel his smile through the phone and I felt lucky that there are still so many things about this young man that surprise me, namely that he’ll do anything for me, including not be afraid of giant, beastly killer dildos.

 

 

 

I think we’re a real couple now.

Hy and her zipper

Me and my boring ol’ shit.

The Neighbor and I have come through the swamps of change and reality.  When I told him I loved him in December after two years of dating [mostly on] I irrevocably changed our dynamics.  I had the willful kind of naivete that only a love-starved divorcee could have: I told myself I couldn’t live with myself a day longer without him knowing.  What if I got hit by a bus and I’d never said the words?!

So, I said them.

And it was anti-climatic, like an ice cream cone in December.

What ensued were months of struggle for the two of us as we tried to recalibrate our feelings with the patterns we’d established.  Patterns like he came and went mostly whenever he wanted to, he never stayed the night, I never spent any time at his place, I kept him and Peyton separate, I kept him separate from my family and most of my friends, we fucked A LOT and late at night, I was kept separated from his friends.

Let me simplify it even more: we had a glorified friends with benefits situation going on where he got his cake and ate it, too.  I felt like I had a pseudo-boyfriend.  Then the L word came between us and shook our silly little asses all the fuck up.

I love you.

Just like that I expected something different.

Naturally, I drove the changes.  TN, I’m willing to bet, would have been perfectly content to never have changed our arrangement.  The man had it made, after all.  I sometimes wonder if he was just waiting for me to pull the plug on it all and walk away.  He’s just that inert kind of guy sometimes.

The first few months post-I-love-you were sticky and weird.   I looked forward to moving away, to getting some space.  Guilt weighed on me — I shouldn’t want to get away, right??  But I did.  I needed air to breathe, sweet and open.  Now that I’d closed the gap I was hyperventilating; the weight of what we’d done suffocated me.

And what happened?  I moved a minute and a half away because it was the best apartment for the best price.  I sagged at the irony, but embraced the distance nonetheless.  TN started staying over for the first time ever and we both realized that Peyton had come to rely on TN’s visits, too, so now there was a day just for the two of them to see each other.

But I still chafed.  TN was often, if not always late.  He changed plans frequently.  He was weird and vague when answering questions.  I felt off, scared, vulnerable.  Too vulnerable.  And the sex dropped off.  Not a lot, but something about the whole shenanigan just changed.  It was the same thing, different day, and instead of pushing boundaries, we were pushing the clock.  Quick, stick it in before I pass out from sheer exhaustion!

When he moved into my apartment complex my hyperventilations increased.  Did I want to do this??  Was he the right man for me?  I’d slipped back into this weird, my-partner-must-be-next-to-perfect mentality.  His likenesses to my exhusband terrified me and seemed all-consuming.  The sex continued to feel rote.  The occasional blowjob, the requisite orgasms and squirting.  It was nothing to complain about — it wasn’t bad — but my mind was elsewhere.  It was in the courtroom deciding our fate.

And then one day close to the end of summer something happened: I began to be honest with him about my apathy, my fears, my knee-jerk clinging reactions to my feelings of vulnerability.  It’s funny how injecting yourself with some no-bullshit bullshit can really work.

The sex got hotter, our times together more sweet, TN and Peyton began to cultivate a special kind of relationship, too, where my poor little baby finally got someone to help diffuse Mommy’s intensity.  Most importantly, I let go of these traditional ideals of “forever,” I swatted away the notion of “wasting time,” and I embraced the fact that I never had him in the first place so I had nothing to lose — relationship Zen and all that.

I felt free to enjoy him and all his differences for the first time in forever.  That space I’d worked so hard to ascend when we were just fuck buddies was once again under my feet.  I’d climbed Relationship Everest once again.

We don’t have sex as often as we did when we shared a wall and my baby wasn’t in school — I’m just too damn fucking tired at 10 pm when he’s raring to go — but we do other intimate things.  He fondles my breasts, I suck his giant cock, he watches me writhe and cum under my Hitachi, we cuddle like beasts.

I feel like we’re finally in a good place as a real life couple.  For the first time ever.

Not surprisingly, it makes all our old, boring moves in bed all the more gratifying.  The same old fuck is now a potent encounter. The same huge cock stuffed in my mouth as I cum is dirty and titillating. The same grope and squeeze is delicious and sneaky.  When he looms over me with a sweet smile and a smack on my ass it blasts through me like a sunbeam through a misty morning.

I feel that unmistakable lift of love: the birds twitter, the leaves whisper, and the wind whistles to me.  I think of him and I smile and when my eyes land on him I swell with bona fide happiness.  I’m almost afraid to be this happy, but then I ask the all important question we should all ask ourselves, “Why not??”  And then I go right ahead and feel the fucking love.

 

He wakes me up with a side of morning sex.

My alarm oozed into my consciousness and I peeked my eyes open.  It was still dark, the hill outside my window was backlit with a deep glowing blue from the city lights beyond.  I closed my eyes again and sank into my pillow waiting for the next round of chimes.

His hand came out of the darkness from my right, warm and heavy.  It gently groped my left breast and eased its way over to my right.  Back and forth it went between the two and I lay there wondering if I were dreaming, but the stroking continued.  My hand went down to my parted legs and my panties, loose and comfy, had pulled to the side while I slept.  I gingerly touched my warm lips.

I took his wrist and guided his hand down between my legs.  “How is it that you’re already wet?” he said huskily.  My elbow bumped into his giant erection.

“How is it that you’re already hard?”

“I wake up like this every morning,” he replied getting up on his knees and pulling off my underwear.

“Well, I wake up like this every morning, too.”

He licked his hand and rubbed the head of his cock and pushed against my hole.  His lick was totally unnecessary.  He ground in like a delicious, deep massage and held himself there.

“Good morning, Hyacinth,” he said smiling.

“Good morning, TN,” I whispered back.

We moved slowly in the dark dawn glow, the dark purple sheet pulled up over us to ward off the ceiling fan.  My alarm chimed on again.  Nine minutes had passed, though it felt like 9 seconds and 9 hours all at once.

I dug my fingers into his meaty buttocks and pulled him closer, he grunted in my ear and began to move faster.  My body temperature rose to meet our tempo and I got tangled in my shirt; I gave up with it wrapped behind my neck.  At least my fucking tits were free.

We writhed and moaned and I filled my nostrils with his scent, his beard scratched my neck and cheek and face.  I began to lose myself in the movements and my demure little moans morphed into bursts of sound as he slammed into me.  My pussy made her presence known, too, with slick squelching noises.  The Neighbor growled louder and I came in bubbles and blossoms wishing with all my might that he may lose himself, too.

Instead, he powered away at me and I clung to him for dear life; I wasn’t going to give up first, I didn’t care how close to dying I thought I was.  He panted hard and drove into me one last time as if to cum, but relaxed and rolled off of me instead.  “Where’s your Hitachi?” he asked.

“In the closet,” I answered, sprawled in the dawn’s light-blue light.

He brought it back and I turned it on; he lay next to me and stroked his aching hardon.  I marveled at its slight arch.  I came harder with the vibrations and he held my face and kissed me as I breathed into him and turned rigid with the orgasm that washed through me.

“So, is this the first time you’ve ever fucked a guy who had his lights turned off?” he asked me referring to the previous night of zero electricity in his place.

“It is!  Congratulations, TN,” I laughed.  “You’ve got yet another First under your belt.”

“What can I say?  I’m The Best Deadbeat Lover, ever!”

“Yes, you are.”

I smiled again and got up, the light outside my window burst with pinks and oranges.  “And you’re the best fucking alarm clock.”

He came round and held my face, looked into my eyes, icy blue to dark, and kissed me square on the mouth.  “Well, thank you for letting me stay at Hotel Hyacinth where the morning sex and continental breakfasts are free of charge.”

We laughed again and left the bedroom to start our day.

It’s that time of year again!

How did you find me?  How did you find the other bloggers you enjoy reading?  Likely, it was some random click-thru from another blog or a Google search (ghost penis, anyone?), but for a lot of others, it was a list, a type of directory.

Rori of Between My Sheets started throwing a list together 7 years ago and today it’s a reader-driven mega-compilation (side note: she’s looking to hire a Virtual Assistant!).  I can’t imagine how many hours this woman must spend reading every blog and trying to get a sense of its energy — purely mind-boggling — and this year, nominations have just opened up to start the list-making all over again!  My hat really goes off to her to even think of tackling this kind of project.  I’m pretty sure I’d curl up and just go to sleep for a month!

However, I’m so glad she puts forth the effort for I’ve found several wonderful blogs over the past two years I’ve been blogging and perhaps you will, too.  The rules are simple.  Here they are in Rori’s words:

  • 1. No nominating yourself! I encourage your to tell your readers and social followers so they can nominate you. Click here to easily tweet that nominations are open. (Note: You don’t have to be a sex blogger yourself to nominate people.)
  • 2. Each nomination should include the blog url. I don’t know everyone, and some bloggers have the same names.
  • 3. Blog content can be anything sex related – erotica, sex education, sex news, sexy images, etc. Nothing illegal, obviously.
  • 4. The blog can’t be protected. It’s ok if a few of the posts are protected, but the entire blog can’t be behind a password.
  • 5.  The blog should be at least a year old, but anyone who’s been blogging since at least Jan. 1, 2014 will be considered. Special exceptions will be made for someone who has recently moved to a new blog, but was previously blogging somewhere else.
  • 6. You can nominate as many bloggers as you like, but please try to limit to your very favorites.
  • 7. The blog must be active, which means that the blogger posts at least once every week or so. When I judge, any blog with no posts in the last 45 days will be eliminated.
  • 8. A few blogs have been retired! See the sidebar (These are her past winners.)
  • Nominations close on October 27

Click here to nominate your favorite blogs!

Of course this kind of post wouldn’t be complete without me humbly asking for a nomination to land somewhere on Rori’s Top Sex Bloggers List.  — Ack, I hate this part!  — But, there it is, Internet Boyfriend.  I’m asking.  Humbly.  Please take a minute to nominate me.

Not to be left out, Kinkly is making its own list of what they’re calling “Superheroes” in the Sex Blogging world.  It’s yet another great way to expand your reading list with a whole bunch of bloggers even I’ve never heard of (not that I’ve heard of them all, but you get my drift).

And this is where I ask you again to nominate me for some thing or another, only all you have to do is click on this link and then on the Vote button.  Easy, peasy.  Also, here’s a link to everyone else you can vote on currently in their directory.

Thank you to everyone who comes by and reads my words.  I work hard to put smart, sexy, interesting stuff up here and never really feel like I know what I’m doing.  Landing on either of these lists won’t prove that I do, but I sure would be tickled nonetheless.

xx

Hy

 

 

I don’t know if I’m a good person.

Am I a good person anymore?  Sometimes I can’t tell.

I can say with certainty that I’d help the little old lady in the grocery aisle reach her jar of spaghetti sauce or stop and help someone I saw on the street who’d collapsed.  I’d capture dogs running amok on a busy street and I’d happily sit with a lost child until his parents were found.  I care for Peyton with a tireless passion and all the love in my body and work hard to figure out my relationships with my sister and mother like a good daughter and sister.

But lately I have also been judgmental and almost incapable of keeping secrets (ok, one secret of one friend, which I shared with The Neighbor).  I’m fed up with the decisions my friends (and family) have been making which render them either miserable or powerless or both.  I am a woman of agency: if something isn’t working fix it or end it or stop bitching about it.  Leave me out of it.

I really and truly try to live by that motto, despite what it may have seemed like with my own life.  After all, The Neighbor behaved very badly in the past and many (many) of you thought I should dump his ass.

I was asked by a friend last week why I decided to stay with him through all of that.  We’re new-ish friends and we have only hung out 3 times over the past year.  Our dates are peppered with lots of personal revelations and artisan cheeses and she remembers our first meeting where TN was being distant and non-commital and probably a huge jackass — such a far cry from where he is today.

“What was it about him?” she asked me, leaning forward waiting for my answer. “How did you know things would change?”

“I didn’t,” I told her.  “I broke up with him 3 or 4 times, but he wouldn’t leave me alone.  So, I guess he made that decision in the end.”

“But you could’ve broken off contact,” she pressed, her bullshit-meter going off.  As a long-time singleton who has increasingly entered a black-and-white way of thinking when it comes to dating, she didn’t understand the complexities of our situation and why on earth I’d keep letting him back into my life, and she wanted to know my secret to what seems like a successful relationship today.

“True,” I admitted, “but it’s a lot harder to ignore a knock on your door than it is a text or a phone call.  And, to be honest, it felt good to be chased after.”

And there it was. Was I that friend not too long ago who exhausted her friends and their emotional resources like I feel my friends are doing to me now?

Add to that a growing sense that the friends I do have — many of my decades and longer friendships — feel strangely removed from me.   I am a satellite, distantly safe.  I’m not really all that involved and I kinda like it that way.

Growing up, my  mother taught me that to be a good friend you lavished attention and care on your friends, you never gossiped or shared stories, you exhausted yourself during birthday parties and important events and you were always available when needed.

Today, I realize that is a recipe for disaster because as beautiful a scene it is, it’s a flower-filled meadow with no fence.  When do you stop? When do you rest?  By my mother’s thinking: never; but by most other people’s: frequently.  Which then means you’re the only one going beyond the hills while your friends hang out at their fence replenishing their own resources and maintaining good boundaries and you feel gypped, or worse: unworthy.

So, I’m in a bind.  On the one hand I think I have a right to my compassion fatigue, on the other, I feel like a shit person and even worse, a shit friend.