Yesterday I lounged on my therapist’s large brown couch, a foot tucked under my bottom. I’ve worked with this man for 9 years. Nine. And only after the 8 and a half was I brave enough to share a little bit about who I am sexually.
“So, I’m doing ok,” I start, “last week was pretty good. Things are going well with The Neighbor. I feel balanced.” As I sit and talk, my eyes roam about the room, skitter across book titles like Pathology, The Neurotic Child and Adolescent, Inner Torment. I feel like I’m in good company. My face cracks into a smile as I finish my thought, “But I don’t know how I’m going to recreate that feeling. I mean, I had, 8, maybe 10 interactions with men, a great week at work and with my friends. It was magical, but even I know it’s a lot.”
My therapist, a man of about 60 with a salt and pepper goatee and floppy hair, put his hand to his chin and quietly looked at me, said nothing.
“I feel more — ‘stable’ isn’t the right word, nor is ‘secure’ — I feel, calmer. More in control. Ever since TN said the “6 Strikes” thing I feel better about losing him, less on the receiving end. More empowered.” I pause and look at more books: Jung, Freud, Rogers, my friends and mentors. “And I’m certain now that TN is in love with me. He may never tell me, he may not even admit it to himself, but I know he does. There’s no way he can’t. And knowing it for myself makes me feel amazing. I have the love of this young, Midwestern boy next door and I still get to go out on dates and fuck whoever I want.”
Finally, he decides to speak. “It’s interesting to me that you don’t seem interested at all in developing that part of you that is ok being alone with yourself. You describe a life that sounds chaotic to me, but you don’t think so. You are in control, in your element.” I quietly listen and give a small nod.
And he’s right. The thing I’ve worked so hard on the past year and a half is balance and acceptance. My entire life has been comprised of fighting my core urges, and to what end? The demise of a marriage, strained relationships with my parents and sister, heartbreaking disappointments. And all because I was working harder than everyone else in the room just to be accepted. Well, fuck that and fuck everyone else.
“I’m tired of subscribing to this American ideal that you are only enlightened if and when you love being by yourself all the time. I want to run head first into being me and see where that leads me. I don’t not like being alone, I just struggle with it when I don’t want to be alone. I get tired, I need time outs, I need to be left alone. But on those nights when I want contact and I can’t get it, I’m frantic. It’s true. That’s the only thing I’m trying to work on changing.”
“But all these dates,” he counters, “you put yourself out there and, I can’t help but admit again, it just all sounds so chaotic.”
“No. I love it. I love people, I love the energy. And what’s so different from having three dates on Monday from having three friend commitments on Sunday?? It’s still a lot and I can handle it. Driving from one to the next I feel more alive, like I have a purpose, like I’m really me.”
Comfortable silence hung in the air and the red digital numbers on the clock ticked by; that indoor ivy plant everyone has languished in a beam of sunlight to my right.
I sometimes wonder if I should tell him everything about my sex life and if I’m doing myself a disservice by keeping my proclivities a secret. I’ve opened up to him about Troy, but not the group sex or MMFs; he knows that TN and I have an active sex life, but no clue to what deeply penetrating degree. But it’s not the acts that are relevant, it’s the feelings behind them. And I’m completely open about those.
So, I feel strangely balanced after a week filled with dates, sex, blowjobs, desire, wanting, emails, laughs, friends, activities, accolades at work, drinks with friends, and tons of quality time with TN. We talked for hours, flirted, kissed, petted and played. He surprised me multiple times with sweet words and kind gestures, a desire to stay with me longer than even I wanted. And all without sex. All without me wanting it.
I’m happy to feel this empowered calm, but I’m fighting a knot of nervousness that it will melt under the bright sun of my exposed week without my child by my side. My life is cyclical: non-custodial weeks find me frantic and scrabbling for things to fill me and my time, custodial weeks I am soft and centered. Having an awesome non-custodial week, while exciting, is also generally a fluke. And I’m a little worried, though I wish desperately I wasn’t. But again, it’s me, so I’m going to walk right into it and see what happens.
Last night after I’d read Little Critter and Spider Man books and tucked in my sleeping babe I went back out to my couch. I text some friends, catch myself giggling and realize I was in that place within me: I wanted company. So, instead of fighting it, I texted TN this with a note that said, “They’re lonely.”:
I hit send and then realize I was actually goddamned exhausted. Hmm. Fancy that. But, I’m going with this shit, so I get up, put the leash on the puppy to take her out one last time before I went to bed and literally ran into TN on my way out the door.
“What are you doing here?”
“You said your tits were lonely.” The puppy wraps her leash around his legs and wriggles against his shins.
Bent over untangling him I look up at him, “They are still lonely. Stay here, I’ll be right back.”
We lay on the couch and he curls into me, a yang to my yin. He discovers I’m insanely ticklish and makes me squeal and plead. How could it be that after 7 months he doesn’t know this about me? It’s telling. Then he pulls down my tank top and suckles on my breast. Heat floods to my core. I haven’t been touched, really touched in days. I stroke his hair, we chit-chat between his suckles, he rubs my legs, my mound over my little pajama shorts. But I didn’t touch him.
I’d made a bet with him on Friday on our date that I wouldn’t touch his cock until he asked me to. His bump-condition-thingy (and no, it’s not an STD, just an unfortunate rash for those of you who have been wondering) was torturing the both of us, causing him anxiety and me frustration, so the bet was to alleviate both for us. Of course I lost the bet two hours after I made it because he caught me completely absent-mindedly massaging it as he stood behind me. Talk about fucking stupid. It had taken the both of us a few seconds to even realize what I was doing! Oh well. But I had reinstated the bet and last night I was sticking to it. I wanted the control. He had other ideas, however.
And because my rule is to do whatever it is I feel like doing in an attempt to appeal to whatever thing it is inside of me that drives me, I let him lead me into my room and pull the sticky door shut with a squeak and lock the handle.
He peels off his clothes and his erection springs out and down like a falling tree, bobbing and swinging under its own weight. I snuggle up beside him and pull my covers closer to me. I don’t know what to do. He tells me to hold it.
I feel shy, but do as he says. In my hand it’s thick and hot, a beautiful dusky pink. I slide the skin up and over the head and back down again. He rolls onto his back and I climb up on top, spread his knees with my own and watch him tug on his meet, his balls bouncing as if on a blacktop.
I lean over and breathe hotly on the head, let spit slip out of my mouth onto the head. I look at him and his light blue eyes are boring into my own darker ones. “Ok. Just the tip,” I say. “Don’t worry, you’ll still be a virgin when I’m done.” He laughs, but cuts it short as I take him into my mouth. His hand rests on the back of my head and I never get “just the tip,” as he eases his cock as far as I can take into my face. My pussy pulses. He just took control.
I lave his cock with my velvet tongue and grip the shaft with my left hand, bracing my weight with my right. His thighs tense and relax in rhythm to my ministrations. He is close. And fast. He grabs me and hauls me up his chest. I’m still clothed, but he’s buck naked, his chest hair springy against the cotton of my tank top. He kisses me hard, I beg him to let me finish, but he instead he orders me to roll over onto my back. “But, why? I don’t understand.”
“I don’t want to cum, yet.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Do you understand now?” he asks as he shifts my shorts to the side and presses the head of his cock into my hole.
“Yes. Yes, I understand,” I moan as he slowly pushes all the way inside of me. My pussy weeps with joy, my chest swells. I feel one with the primordial loam, all woman-kind, the sun and moon and stars. There is nothing more pure, more me than this moment of being filled with the perfect partner.
I am overwhelmed with a sense of balance I can’t create by myself. The sounds of sex, of his breathing, his taste in my mouth and the stretching of my center by him. I cry into my hand, my arm, anything to stifle the noise from my slumbering child in the next room. I grip the wire head-board and push back with all my might. He mewls his own passion, losing control.
He flips me over, pulls my pants off. “Mmm. I haven’t seen you from this angle in too long, Hy.” I can’t speak. I only raise my bottom higher for him. He slides back in and roughly pushes my shoulders down, grabs both my arms and yanks them back. Both my wrists are held tightly, painfully, in one of his. With his other he grabs my hair and pulls my face up out of the mattress. His cock rams into me. Tears run down my face, gasps are all that escape me. I rock my hips back on him.
“You love that, don’t you, you dirty little slut. You fucking slut.”
“Mmmhmm,” I manage to reply. “Yes.”
“Yes, you do, you slut.” He roughly shoves my head down and pins my arms down by side and slams into me. I’m sobbing dryly into my white sheets. My center is blooming. This is the first time it’s more than I can handle.
“Roll over again, Hy. I want you on your back.”
“TN, you’re killing me. I want to die,” I say as I comply.
“You’re not going to die. You’re going to do as I say.”
What little protest I had in me was lost into his crushing mouth and his hand buried in my cunt. He began to stroke. I whimper and grasp at shoulders, hang on for dear life. The climax swells up and over me in a thunderous crash. My ejaculate spills into his cupped hand and splatters all over us. My center is now flaming so brightly it’s painful.
I grab his wrist panting and pull it away from me. “No, really. Please,” I look into his eyes, hold contact. “We have to stop. I’m going to fucking die. I’m going to die from sex. Truly. My belly hurts.”
He chuckles and kisses me softly. “Ok, sweetie. I’m sorry for breaking you.”
“It’s ok. I think it’s my cervix. And I have to pee.” I stagger into the toilet and relieve myself. When I return to the dimly lit room he’s mostly clothed, he’s trying to figure out how to stuff his giant cock into his jeans.
I feel embarrassed that I had to cry uncle and I feel supremely stupid, like Sex Stupid, which happens frequently with him. I can’t remember my name. “What’s the capital of Peru?” he asks.
“No it isn’t.”
“Yes it is!”
“What’s the capital of Honduras?”
“Dude, no one knows that shit even on a good day! What’s the capital of Canada?”
“Canada City??” he says wryly. We laugh and I walk him to the front door.
“Fuck, that was awesome. Thanks. It’d been way too long,” I say with a shy grin.
“Yes, it had.”
“I’m sorry I had to stop. Maybe my body forgot how to fuck you.”
“It’s ok, I had fun. We’ll practice some more.” he replies as he pulls me close for a long, slow kiss. And then he leaves and I shuffle off to bed. Feeling balanced, feeling nervous, feeling sore, but mostly, feeling happy.