Monthly Archives: April 2012

My ejaculate landed on the walls.

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16

Another from the catacombs of my past.  This was my one-on-one encounter with Ryan.  Before the threesome, after an MMF.  Enjoy.

Ryan and I went on a date last Thursday.  We hung out at a dive bar near his apartment, chatted up all the locals and generally had a great time.  He wasn’t affectionate or touchy-feely and I had a moment of panic that maybe he’d decided he didn’t like the way I looked upon setting eyes on me again.  I shouldn’t have worried.

We fucked like maniacs all night long.  I rode his mocha-colored body while we were both bathed in the blue light from his TV.  He lapped at my pink folds and delved his fingers deep inside of me.  He turned me around and bent me over and pounded me so hard from behind we moved the couch a foot.  We finally decided to move to the bed once the rug was soaked from my streaming cunt.

I’m pretty sure some of my ejaculate is on the walls of his bedroom.  He would take his huge cock and  slap it on my clit with quickfire movements and I’d squirt uncontrollably.  I had to hold my hand over my mound to stop the splatter from dusting my own face.  Then he’d slide deep into me, exclaim at my wetness, and how I’d clench down on him.  An hour or more and he never came; he’d stop, yell out at how good it felt and then laugh at what torture it was for him to fuck me.  He wanted so badly to cum, but also didn’t want it to end.

Eventually, he fucked the shit right out of the both of us, sans orgasm for either, and we passed out in the mighty wet spots on his mattress.

I slept fitfully, if at all, and finally decided to go home at 5.  But, I told him, not before he came.

He smiled and rolled over on his back and I nipped his neck, his shoulders with my lips and teeth.  Trailed my hair down his muscled chest and found his turgid shaft ready for me.  I sucked for a few minutes, learning what he liked and what worked best, and when I sensed he was finally ready I sucked harder, though still slow, steady and silky.  He came in a rush, his cum mild and pleasant in my hot little mouth.

“I see why Troy says you’re the best!” he chuckled.

“I want to fuck you again.  Soon. Wanna come over before my date Saturday afternoon?” I boldly ask.

“Fuck, yeah,” he agreed.

I’ve gotten tangled up here lately.

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18

I never wanted this blog to become a dumping ground for my dating travails. I find it boring and embarrassing, frankly, that I have lost myself in the minutiae. This is behavior better suited to a young girl than it is a fully grown woman.

I also realize that as I’ve weaved this tale of love I have done my friend a disservice. When I write I can only say what I think and feel and I have somehow earned an army of friends who are devoted and want only the best for me, therefore when there is a perceived slight, they charge loyally at my foe. And I feel guilty for it.

I say all of this because I spent last night with The Neighbor and it was nothing like what I expected. My need to dump my heart out here has put the horse before the cart and I am reminded that I need to embrace patience, not thrash around like a wounded dog.

The second we laid eyes on each other I could sense a reconnection. He asked me how my day was, my week. Turns out we both had really shitty weeks and were hardly sleeping. Yes, he was entertaining Vanilla Ice Wednesday night, but big fucking deal. We’re not monogamous. He made no promises to me that night. He only ignored a text of mine. Big fucking whoop. I have to grow up about this.

My unrequited feelings aren’t his fault. He’s everything I’ve said he is and more I’ve yet to unearth.

As we crossed the busy street to the grocery store I spread my arms wide and tilted my face to the night sky, “Goddamn, I love summer nights! I hate the heat here, but I love the nights no matter how hot they are.” The warm, 80 degree wind gusted against us as if to prove my point.

“You know, I wasn’t feeling up to going out, but now that I’m out here in this, I kinda wanna do something. You willing to go out?”

“Yep, sure am!” I say.

We flirted and played on our little errand — my hand deep in his jeans, his hands on my ass — and on our way back he asks if we could go to dinner. “Can you go out like this?” he motions to my apparel, a low-cut purple shirt with Little Miss Sunshine stretched across my tits, a navy corduroy skirt, black flip-flops and braids in my hair.

“Sure.”

Dinner was awesome. He ordered us a bottle of wine and I took pictures of him snuggling his wine glass. I posted them to Facebook and even tagged him with his permission. I secretly reveled in knowing his jealous ex-girlfriend was going to have a fit seeing those. I’m sure he did, too.

I opened up about my week, some of my confusion and discomfort. He set my mind at ease with kind words and ribald humor, said he wanted to fuck me immediately.

I told him about The Beggar from the night before and we laughed. He said he was proud of me for saying No. He’s the one, after all, that’s always saying I’m more than just a pussy.

I also discovered that some of my hurts were misunderstandings. Thursday night he’d come by and knocked, but I wasn’t home, then he’d gone straight to sleep. – This is where patience must needs enter my life, friends.

In the car ride home I folded myself over the console and gave him road head. I’ve never had such a willing and happy recipient in my mouth, so big and swelling as I lapped and sucked. When passing a truck he would shove my face down hard on his shaft. “That was for the truck, wasn’t it?” I observed.

“Yep.”

Home, happy, and horny we tumbled through his front door. Minutes later my pussy is stretched wide and he’s buried deep and I’m soaking the both of us. When I sink down on top of his mast and feel him in the middle of me, just there, I place my hand on my belly and press. “I can feel you,” I say and start to rock, and then his hands grip my hips tightly and I’m sliding back and forth like a piston, my arms heavy and tingling, my cunt clenching down hard.

We flip a few times; sometime my legs are hitched up on his shoulders, sometimes they’re splayed open as a smile.

I cry, I laugh, I dive head first into the sensations I experience with this fellow both in and out of bed. When we banter it’s easy and fun; we trust each other. I’m so relieved to be here with him, grateful that this exists in my world, less afraid of losing it somehow.

I start to cry harder when he’s on top of me, our pelvises slamming against each other, and when he hears my sobs he begins to lose control. He grunts, rails into me and empties a load of semen, falls limp on top of me, kisses my neck. We pant together silently.

We’re sideways on his soccer-field of a bed.

He asks when the last time was that I’d gotten a good “dicking.” I had to think for a minute. “Whenever we fucked last. Sunday. You??”

“Same.”

Never mind that I fucked Kevin Thursday and he likely fucked Vanilla Ice on Wednesday. That’s not the point. What I told him was true. The last good fuck was him, hands down.

Some of you have been asking what I want out of this and I’m flummoxed. I haven’t thought that far I’ve been so busy dealing with a melting heart. My excitement over not being dead inside has taken priority over what happens after I disclose my feelings. Who the fuck knows??

Right this second I would say I want him to want me as much as I do him. That would look like him inviting me to hang out with his friends, plan things together, trips, outings, whatever. Boyfriend-y stuff, but I wouldn’t want to not date other men, either. I love first dates, absolutely love them; the rush of the hunt, the dance of words and bodies. And don’t get me started on first fucks. I go into each pairing like a skeptical believer. I plan on being disappointed, but the Gods will rain down tears of joy upon our writhing bodies if I’m wrong, my cunt a cathedral of pleasure.

So what I want is simply for things to stay the same, but for me to have a little more access to him, fair warning when I won’t, and a tentative blending of lives.

As for me, I’d like to accept the fact that I need a lot from a lover, be open to finding someone who really wants me, and fill every cell I have with patience. I hate that I’ve painted The Neighbor into a corner of youthful disregard and ignorance because he’s none of those things. He’s young, yes, but he has always been straight up with me; he’s never lied, he’s always present when we’re together and he’s a big, big fan of mine in real life. I doubt I’d handle myself as well as he has if a fuck buddy reneged on the arrangement like I have — Nah, of course I would. I’m a nice lady.

Having such a strong connection with someone both in and out of the bedroom without a commitment is an advanced emotional move for me; I can barely handle it. I want to apologize for taking you all on this roller coaster with me — or maybe I should charge admission?? — you have all stuck so close by my side and I have relied heavily on your feedback and love. Up, down, angry, happy. But I’m going to work harder at not pitting Me against Him anymore. It’s exhausting for me, unfair to you all, and especially rude to him. His ability to compartmentalize is more honed than mine (go figure), but that’s not his fault. His life has made him that way as mine’s made me.

All I know is this fucking learning curve has fucked my game something fierce and I’m going to work hard to get back on track so I may milk this amazing situation to death… and his beautiful cock.

I get begged, I get ignored.

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24

The candle on my bedside table gutters under the ceiling fan as I stretch out naked beneath my dark sheets.  I imagine my creamy whiteness and soft curves stand out like the flesh of an eggplant against its skin.

I hear you push through my front door, the puppy wriggle, and then see my bedroom door push open.  It’s “very late,” just like you said it’d be.

You come to me, closing the distance, and remove what little clothing you have.  Your meat hard and hot in your hand is by my face.  I lean over and suckle the glistening head and push my face down farther.

“I’ve missed you this week, Hy.  I’m so sorry I’ve been distant.  There’s no excuse for that.  You certainly don’t deserve it.  But I’m here now if you’ll let me.”

My answer is a harder suck…

…

Only, that’s not what happened.  At all.  Instead I woke up to a warmly lit room at 1:30 am alone and with no returned message.  My phone tells me the last of our correspondence went something like this:

A little after 11 pm, when I got home from a first date with a handsome 30-year-old, I asked, “You win??”  And when I awoke, restless and unnerved at close to 1:30 am I checked my phone.  Nothing.

I texted again, “Why do I keep waking up and you’re not here?? :(  And you haven’t said boo.  So not like you.”

It’s almost 9:30 am and I still haven’t heard from you.  I’m sure you’re headed to work.

This just isn’t the man I know.  All week I’ve struggled with this “no plans” thing.  It feels like a line out of He’s Just Not That Into You.  Just the week before you were laying plans with me and then I reneged on our “no feelings” policy and here I sit.  Angst ridden and feeling slighted. This is, I’m certain, all my fault.

Monday night you met the friends I’ve wanted you to meet.  We drank and laughed riotously and headed down to the hot tub.  Seven of us, you the only stranger, and you fit in and were charming and gracious as ever.  And as I let you out of the pool gate you whispered to me that maybe you’d come fuck me that night, but later said no.  Instead, you promised you’d fuck me the next night.

Tuesday night you cancelled on me with a genuine apology, but no promise to come over either.  I left the door unlocked hoping you’d come over anyway, but instead you called to say you wished you could get both 8 hours of sleep and fuck me, but that you were opting for the 8.

Wednesday you flat-out ignored a text of mine asking if you were busy and to come over, the door was unlocked.  The next day — after I inquired — you said you hadn’t seen my text till 1 am because you’d been busy.

Thursday, I put myself out there again and felt good about it.   You gave me hope with your filthy response only to detract it all with silence and absence and yet another feeble “maybe” in your language.

What is going on, dear Neighbor? 

Tonight, you need a favor from me and I must admit I’m ill inclined to come through for you.  This is bullshit.  No one else treats me this way and I plan on pointing this out to you.  I’ve been thinking long and hard about my feelings and I’m confident that I’m reasonably upset after this week.  And reason is always paramount for me.

I miss you, friend, and yet you are handling this poorly all of a sudden.  Where’s the man who was checking in with me nearly every day last week?  The man who cleaned my apartment, met my friends, silently got me a chair to sit on unasked before their watchful eyes?

Where did you go??

The date helped peg me back to earth as I cheekily declined a quick fuck with him.  I didn’t feel the chemistry. He was extremely handsome and charming, but lacking in some invisible way.  Perhaps it was how he told me he loved the idea of a 17-year-old lusting after him and that 18-year-old pussy was a delicious treat.  I’m certain the disgust on my face was more than a flash, the look in my eye more than disdain.

But he begged me to come back and to let him fuck me.  Begged.  I told him I didn’t need notches on my belt anymore and I felt proud of saying no, of doing what you’ve been coaching me to do for months.  “But I’ve never fucked someone I’ve only just met!” he pleaded.

“I have,” I replied, “And frankly, I might get fucked again later.  How many men am I going to fuck in one night?  If saying No to you tonight means I’ve wrecked my chances for a second date with you, I’m ok with that.  I don’t need this.”

His pleading was embarrassing.  He wouldn’t stop.  He was throwing out everything he could think of to turn me around, desperate.  I hung up on him and drove the rest of the way home hopeful of seeing you, my young friend who lives next door.

(Funny thing is that dude texted me at 12:30 to ask if the fuck I’d been looking forward to with you was worth passing up on his offer.  Oh, the irony.) 

I’ve run out of plays this week.  I’m not sure what my next move is.  I want to hide away and be left alone.  I fear you asking me to fulfill that favor in equal measures because I don’t want to and I want to.  I never say no, remember?  I’m bothered that I’m afraid of the word with you when you are so comfortable using it with me.  And that bothers me.

Actually, none of this sits well with me.  You are a wonderful guy and I hate that I have these sniveling little things to say.  I like being proud of the way you treat me and this week… well, I’m not so proud.  Not proud at all.

I hope we can talk today, but the ball’s in your court.  It will be up to me to have the strength to leave it there.

Fuck.  I hate that that this is what I have to say.  Hate it.

There is a need inside of me.

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32

This post was going to be very different from what it’s turned out to be.  I was going to share with you some of my marital history, but that proved too heart-breaking.  I was going to tell you about my relationship with my pathological narcissistic father, but that proved too misleading.  Instead, I want to tell you about being too much.  Always too much.

…..

I’ll survive this nonsense with The Neighbor.  As much as it pains me to say so, I’ve been through worse heartache.   The death of my father, for one, the end of my marriage the other.

So there I am a year and a half ago.  The proud owner of two hurts so great I feared I’d buckle in half and never open up again.

…..

I was promiscuous in my 20s.  You might all think I say that with mirth, but I don’t.  I lost my virginity at 19 to a boy I thought I loved.  We were drunk on room-temperature Costco wine, locked away in my bedroom with my family somewhere outside those walls.  He stuck his tiny little penis inside me and broke my hymen, pumped twice and was done.  I got up off the floor and sat at the end of my bed looking out at the night sky.  The stars held no new message for me that night and I sighed.  “That was my first time,” I said.

“Oh, wow, really?  Um… sorry, I haven’t had sex in, like, six months.”

“It’s fine.  Really.”

I started racking up lovers swiftly from there.  Not at an alarming rate, but a swift one, nonetheless.  The animal had been released from inside of me; my fear of boys beaten down by  alcohol and a lifetime of impatience to feel that thing finally addressed.

A few months later, college found my face buried in my girlfriend’s pussy for a while and after graduation, instead of finding my face buried in musky folds, my nose was filled with cocaine, my system with just about any drug I could get my hands on plus all the alcohol I could buy, and my cunthole stuffed with cocks from every walk of life.  Barbacks, bartenders, grad-students, travelers, neighbors, friends, foes, strangers, friends’ uncles, drunks, coworkers, Swedes, married men, friends’ ex-boyfriends, boss’ little brothers, internet friends.

When I met my husband at the age of 27 I’d slept with 33 men and 4 women.  Since leaving him a year and a half ago I’ve nearly doubled that number.

Finding who I thought was the love of my life, I thought that thing inside of me was all taken care of.  I was grown up, I had a man at my fingertips, I loved myself.  Only it didn’t go down that way. Too late I realized that I had banked my entire sexual future on a pony with one fine trick who was gun-shy of its master and I never really knew I needed a goddamned destrier instead.

Nothing this man could have given me would have been enough.  That hole, that little hungry beast inside of me, was insatiable.  Not only were we mismatched in life in general, despite deep fondness and caring for one another, but we were like oil and water in the sheets.  And I didn’t come out of it unscathed.

I’ve spent years rejecting myself — before my ex, during my ex — always denying that I need so much because, I’m told, I’m supposed to need no one, love myself, be enough for myself.  But how is that even remotely possible when I yearn for another there.  To be high on a pedestal, matched, loved, pounded.  It’s always been there.  I can’t get rid of it.

I remember being 6 years old and laying in the bathtub on my back, touching my hips and flat nipples, the spot where my legs joined, and staring at the little rectangle window high above imagining Billy Valley peering in watching me.  He was 7.  Over the years I always had a longing to be watched.  I believed they’d truly see me then and I would be more than a particle in a sunbeam, I would be light.

Billy was first, but then it was Ben, then it was Jason, then it was Zack, the boy for whom I’d undress in front of my bedroom window for from the ages of 7-13 — a strange little gift he doubtless saw.  As a teenager the thing inside of me only grew darker as I realized I wanted to touch a girlfriend and taste her lips, stroke her skin.  As an adult it’s a raging inferno inside of me.  My pussy dampens when I think of my loneliness and my cravings.

There is nothing about me that isn’t “too much” to someone on this planet.  My boisterousness, my ribald humor, my filthy language, my energy, my volume, my sexuality, my need.  Over the years I’ve mastered the burden on friends and family, but for a lover, I have fallen short and I am at an impasse.  I don’t know how to fill the hole alone.

I am working on being all those things to myself, but this experience with The Neighbor has illustrated how I have once again found myself in a “be yourself, get rejected” type of situation.  I understand that not everyone would reject me, but I am continually rejected by those I form close bonds with, with whom I find inspiring and with whom I let in.

I have received the kindest, wisest counsel from friends through the 1s and 0s with whom this medium has connected me and it seems to all be clearer, like seeing headlights through fog.  Maybe I allow this last bit of hollowness to just be a part of me; walk into it with open arms and accept my darkest depths and hope I find someone with whom I can travel them.

It’s not about change.  It’s about acceptance.

I am in completely uncharted territory and I’m so scared.  I thought for a little while that my sweet, sexy, demanding lover next door wanted this of which I speak, but I’m not so sure anymore.  He’s said some things that have made me wonder and I realize my journey is very different from his.  Yes, we both aim to get laid, but it’s so much more for me.  I’m experimenting with the devil and it’s a dangerous game.

I wish it was him, I really do.  I trust him, he’s seen me, but maybe I need to regroup.  I don’t know anymore.

In an effort to fill the hole that The Neighbor is leaving unattended this week I have a rendezvous planned with Kevin tomorrow afternoon.  His big cock is going to give me what I’m longing and then he’ll go back to his girlfriend.  Later, after Kevin, I have a first date with someone else.  I am going to put my young lover out of my mind for a bit and just focus on what I’m discovering in me.  If he falls between my legs, so be it.  If not, I’ll live with the loss for that day.

[Update: It's 4:45 am, the puppy woke me up twice earlier already and I have a 6 am alarm.  In this dawn I am not at all looking forward to my dates today and I am sad that TN never returned my texts to hang out last night.  But then I think of cock, any cock, and I feel better and worse all at the same time.  I want his heavy hand on me and his beautiful cock inside of me.  My emotions are ruling.  I don't know why I haven't heard from him, but I'm waiting patiently to find out and I'm not too concerned about it.  Maybe I'll take the day off and sleep.  God only knows I'm fucking beyond tired.  I have been doing heavy emotional lifting lately, after all.]

I have a houseboy.

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31

He was going to vacuum my entire apartment wearing my black lace panties. I stood him in front of my dresser and laid out three pair, reached around from behind him and grasped his giant cock in my hand. “I’m going to let your cock pick which pair it wants to wear, like one of those metal detectors. It’ll let me know.”

He laughed incredulously. I was dead serious. His cock picked the middle pair.

And then he proceeded to clean my house. I took a picture and he said I had to find a way to put it on the internet. I told him I’d do my best.

The last room he cleaned was my candlelit bedroom. I’d been skipping from room to room, beaming, slightly pink from my first time in the sun this year. He’d noted I looked like a kid in a candy store. Indeed, I was.

On my bed, I languished in my tangled sheets as he moved the machine slowly back and forth. I imagined it was his cock in my sheath. Slow, steady, deep. He finished and we grabbed wine glasses and spent all of 30 seconds on the couch before he said we should go lie down for a spell.

Naturally, I acquiesced.

In my room, on his back, we laughed about what he’d just done. I stroked his bare member and pulled my dress off in one motion. I had on nothing else. I don’t remember how it came up, but I was then in my closet rummaging for my tie. “I love wearing ties,” I told him. I found it, slipped it over my head and let it dangle between my heavy breasts.

“Mmm, I like that,” he murmured.

I trailed the end along his stomach, splayed my fingers through his chest hair, licked the precum from the helmet of his cock, engulfed the rest in my hot mouth. I licked and sucked and we chatted in between his moans of pleasure. He found the tie and hauled me up and I mounted him and sank down slowly for a bounce or two before he flipped me over and pummeled my insides.

I drenched the joints of our bodies and cried out. “God, I love how your pussy feels,” he breathed into my mouth as he kissed me.

He flipped me again onto my stomach and began to rail into me, my buttocks slapped against his thighs softly. He grabbed my hair for purchase and yanked my face up out of the mattress. I gasped and cried some more. Then he grabbed the tie from behind, slipped it in my mouth and rode me like the mare in heat I was. He wailed on my flanks with one hand, held my head high with the bridle in the other. I ejaculated each time his hand met my skin.

Then he pressed my face down into the wine-colored sheets and pistoned into me some more. I rocked back and pivoted the way I know he loves. He was close, I could hear it in his pants and grunts, I clenched hard on him. Almost there, and then he slipped out and punched the bed with his cock and cried out in pain.

“Ahhhh, fuuuuck!” he lamented. “I think I half came all over your bed and broke my cock!” I lay panting on my stomach for 30 more seconds before I had a suggestion.

“Why don’t you put it back in? My pussy will make it feel better.”

He seemed to agree and he impaled me for a few minutes more.

And then we talked and laughed for two more hours. He complained about the women he kept dating. No life experience, no ambition, no direction, not intellectually interesting or stimulating. He basically was saying, “Not you, Hy,” but I’ve traversed that impasse. It was nice to hear, but my heart did not flutter like it would have days earlier. “You’re beautiful and interesting and ambitious, you’re smart as fuck and have so much life experience.” Naturally, TN, naturally. Moving on.

When he said it was time to go I helped him find his shorts and kneeled on the bed beside the candle, the tie dangled down my body. He noted how it almost reached as far as my pussy and kissed me again.

Ready for business.

We made no plans for this week deliberately. He said he hates making plans. I agreed to do it his way this time, though it’s frustrating. I also plan on fucking as much as I can this week. I don’t have any idea how often it will be with him.

Control feels good. And so do clean carpets.