I love big, fat dicks.

Sue me, I do.  I love the way they stretch me and fill me, the way they pick me up from the inside and move me from this place in time to that place in time like a fleshy warp drive.  I love fearing them, sucking on them, and weeping upon them.  I revel in their rarity and their beauty.  I’m an unapologetic Size Queen: big, fat dicks are my friends.

And so is Remington.

After being a proper 25-year-old shit back in July he reached out and apologized and my old 41-year-old ass accepted.  Life’s too short for not forgiving someone with whom you really click.  Proper grammar, too.

He was right on time, all smiles, like a coat hanger stretched his face.  We had much to catch up on, some shit talking to do.  Long and lanky, goofy and sexy, he lay on my couch as I fed him wine and thought disgusting things about his body.  His soft skin, his big, fat cock, his youth.  Fuck: his youth.

Yet Remington is wise beyond his years somehow.  His drive, his ambition.  It sets him apart from other dipshits his age.  I mean, he’s still a dipshit — only dipshits don’t show up to things he’s promised to do– but he’s a brilliant, savage, delicious young man and it somehow makes it all part of the man.

We played Mastermind and when he knew he’d lost, instead of going down in flames he leaned across the table and kissed me.  Deeply and passionately with his coat-hanger smile.

I smiled back into him and climbed onto his lap.  We quickly removed my clothes and pressed my breasts into his face then I slid quietly between his legs, unwrapped his goodies and began to suck.

The glans’ ridge caught on my lips while I serviced it like an obedient piston; the warm, round helmet hit the back of my throat and I fought the gags with great pleasure.

We stood almost as if we shared a mind and stumbled into my candlelit room hand in hand.

I rustled in my drawer since he’d left his condoms in his Mustang convertible until I found some condoms.  “Do you need Magnums?”

“Yes.”

Rip, peel, roll, push, ahhhhh.

We nipped and kissed each other’s lips, jaws, and necks.  I greedily held his hips against mine.  “No.  Stay,” I whispered, desperate.  He held still and we breathed each other’s breath.

We moved and flipped, groaned and gripped, and all too soon it was over with a mad bashing against my ass.

We collapsed on the bed and moved to the pillows and quickly fell asleep.  I was vaguely aware of his soft snores and his hand on my hip.  I wondered if he fit in my bed, but fell back asleep before the worry fully woke me.

Some time in the night, long before dawn, I reached for the soft, warm meat between his thighs and felt it grow turgid in my grip.  The Christmas lights in my window cast a warm glow over the swell of his hip and legs, his cock pulsed and twitched in my hand.  And then I fell asleep and the tickle of his retreating, shrinking cock shivered me out of my slumber for a second or two until he — and I — were both fully asleep again.

I did not get to stuff his beautiful largeness back inside of me.

The morning was a mad dash because he overslept.  He shoved his feet into his leather boat shoes, grabbed his bag, pulled on his crumpled jeans and kissed me once, twice, three times before rushing out the door.

Later, he informed me he’d beaten his CTO to work so it was as if it’d never happened.  I might have congratulated him on his good luck and silently lamented at my own bad luck.  I had really wanted more of him.

He’s so much more than just the good fortune between his legs — he is not reduced to only his penis — but I would be lying if I pretended it wasn’t a cherry on the Young Man Sundae that is Remington.   A delicious, big cocked, smiling man-dessert.  And fuck… I do love me some fat, yummy man meat.

I fucked two guys on Christmas night: A holiday tradition

I love reposting this year after year.  It’s now the 5th year in a row I’m posting my magical Christmas night story.  It was the first time Troy and I met Jack and it was the launch of a beautiful friendship between the three of us.  It was also the launch of my sex positive journey, a true freeing of a soul.  This was originally published 12/25/11 and when I read it it’s almost like someone else wrote it.  Crazy how time will do that to a person.  I hope you’re all having a lovely holiday season with your loved ones!  xx Hy

Tonight is my one-year anniversary of becoming a libertine and creating a left-of-center, non-vanilla lifestyle. For real.

Prior to a year ago, I was a newly single woman embarking on a non-monogamous dating path. That much I knew. But I didn’t know how far I swung out of the mainstream until a surprise package landed in my lap late December 25th, 2010. That’s when I knew I was forever changed.

Troy was a man I’d men in early November and our sex was electric. I made him cum 4 times our first time and he’s the one who opened my body to wonders I didn’t know existed. He was a demanding, gentle, talented lover, but out of bed he was cruel, punitive, and dismissive. Our sexual affair lasted as long as I could stand until he betrayed me with a friend. I mourn the loss of his cock and skill, but celebrate the freedom from the bullshit.

One of the many things that Troy and I bonded over was our shared fantasy regarding a third man. He wanted to suck a huge cock and I wanted to watch men suck each other. So we embarked on a hunt via AFF to find a third. Man after man didn’t pass muster. Troy would routinely meet them first to make sure they weren’t creepy, then I’d meet them, but no one clicked. We were becoming discouraged.

Then, it all came together. Like the twinkle in Santa’s eye. It wasn’t planned, it was a happy accident. Suddenly I had two men before me, a fire in my hearth, and cocks all over inside me.

Here’s the story as I documented it one year ago today:

The other night I was suddenly and unexpectedly childless. I invited Troy over for companionship since a trip he had planned for fell through (a wild jaunt in the mountains with an Amazonian Russian doll, no less). I surprised him with my childless status to which he immediately jumped and texted Jack, a 20-something computer-systems-IT-type dude; European in stature and British in intonation, to come to my house instead of his for an initial meet and greet.

Troy was agitated and nervous as we waited so I pushed him down on my couch and sucked and stroked his cock for a few minutes with expertise, then climbed on top and drenched his hips with my pussy juices as he pile drove into me and came like a rockstar.

Finally Jack arrived. Tall, pale, polite, floppy-haired and bespectacled. The perfectly innocuous third to our fantasy.

I sat on the couch next to Troy. Jack sat in a chair. We chatted. Then someone suggested Jack sit next to me, essentially sandwiching me between them. The men began discussing auto-oral stimulation and I mentioned I loved to sit and hold my breast in my hand like this. Then I asked if Jack would like to hold it. Then I told Troy to hold the other one.

I sat there in stillness. The universe swirled around me as two large, warm male hands each cupped a heavy breast tenderly, eagerly.

“What do you want us to do next, sweet Hyacinth?” Jack asked.

“Kiss my neck,” I firmly replied.

And they did. Two pairs of soft lips on balanced sides of my neck, nibbling away. Their hands kneading and strong on my tits still.

With locks of soft hair brushing one side of my neck and the fine stubble of a shaved head on the other I tell them, “Now unbuckle your pants.” They do and I reach into each of their laps and hold giant, rigid cocks. Jack is 8″+, Troy is close to 8″.

All salacious hell breaks loose and the next 3 and a half hours or so are a fucking blur. Literally.

If memory serves me, Jack flipped me on my back, hefted my knees high and peeled off my panties. He fell onto my pussy with gusto while Troy kissed me deeply. It hurt for a few strokes and I had to say, “Flatten your tongue, Jack, flatten it,” to which he did immediately. This went on for a few minutes before things switched gears.

I sucked Jack first. Troy wanted me to lead the way, to break the ice, and I was more than willing. I kneeled before him and spread his legs wide, gripped the base and licked from balls to stern. Jack is thick and my hand was filled with his heat. He was shaved clean, which I don’t ordinarily like, but with the contrast of Troy’s trimming I found it intriguing, titillating, lovely. I deep-throated him like Troy had taught me a couple of days prior but I was sorely lacking so he took over.

I watched in awe as this powerful, 6’6″, broad-shouldered, and athletic man gently took hold of another man’s 8″ cock and tenderly put it in his mouth and. bore. down. Like he was born to it. Someone was probably touching me somewhere — I have no clue — I was spiraling up and up as my fantasy manifested before my eyes.

Things switched again. Jack started fingering me, someone was kissing me, someone was licking my pussy and I was squirting. And squirting. And squirting.

My brain began to shut down and be replaced by my glorious cunt, my nerves, my sensations.

Minutes, hours, an eternity? later I found myself fucking Jack – something neither Troy nor I thought I’d do. He pounded into me. Maybe Troy was there licking my clit? I don’t know. Maybe we were in my room, maybe the living room. God, I have no fucking clue, even now. I only know that at some point my vibe entered the equation and I was prone over my ottoman in only a bathrobe and two long, naked men at my head and rear. Jack was under me with three fingers curled deep inside, the vibe held tight to my clit. Troy was at my face, kissing me, whispering how beautiful I was, this was, and his fingers trailed lightly along my back and face as I whimpered and shuttered and cried and came and came and came and poured juices all over Jack’s face beneath me.

They talked about me like I wasn’t there; marveling at my body and its responses to them. I loved hearing every word. They compared their sensations at “bottoming out” with me, how amazing it was; how eager I was; how incredible I felt and how good I tasted.

And I came some more.

Then I sucked Jack with Troy burying himself deep inside of me, essentially controlling Jack’s blowjob with his thrusts. As Troy so aptly pointed out later, I was, literally, a FUCKING COCKSUCKER.

Later, I lay on my back in my bed with Troy to my left and Jack over me and deep inside of me, the vibe at my clit. Jack had never fucked with a Hitachi before and he kept up a steady stream of comments, “Oh my God. She’s clenching. I can feel her. It feels so good. Oh, Hyacinth…” And then as he came he pulled out, stripped off the condom and Troy sucked him dry, then was suddenly looming over my face, blocking out the light, and snowballing Jack’s yummy, tangy cum into my eager mouth.

I finished myself off with the vibe, Troy’s hand on my throat, Jack quietly waiting at my feet. My mind fragmented. Then Troy says hoarsely, “Hyacinth, I need you to suck me like only you can.” And I did. And he came brilliantly in my mouth, warm and delicious, like heated vanilla.

There were times during the night when I could hear them wondering aloud whether or not they’d “broken me” as I lay trembling and gasping in a literal puddle of my own making. I always said, “NO. Just give me a minute. Don’t stop.” And they didn’t. They kept going and going, playing off of what each other was doing to me, juxtaposing their strokes, their styles.

The strongest two snapshots I have in my mind from that night are 1) of my face pressed into the ottoman with unimaginable sensation skyrocketing out of my pussy through every vein of my body and Troy’s breath mingling with mine as tears slipped over my cheeks from the sheer magnitude of it all, and 2) of me on my back in my bed, Jack silhouetted to the right, Troy on the left. They’d asked me what I wanted them to do as I held the vibe desperately to my clit, and I’d whispered, “Touch each other,” and they simply did. Just them on their knees, I think they might have touched their chests or maybe just a hand, I don’t know, but it was enough for me to explode in orgasm through every cell of my body.

This event is important for a couple of reasons.

First, my self-esteem seems securely anchored not in the fact that men want me, but that I am, indeed special. Other women are not like me. I have something to offer that few do. Gone are the days of me feeling lacking because I don’t cum easily with men — lo, I’ve only clitoraly orgasmed with four lovers ever and two of them I loved (my only two loves, actually, one by accident and Troy was the 4th). Men should feel lucky to come across a woman like me who loves sex, loves men, is open-minded, kind, intelligent, fun, and really fucking sweet in her pursuits to be the best lover possilble.

Secondly, I feel like I’ve been given the most precious gift ever: attention. I never, in a million years, expected Jack and Troy to focus all their attention on me. Never. It was the most brilliant gift I’ve ever received. I hope I accepted it with whatever grace and humility I could possibly muster at the time. After so many years with no attention even remotely charged with sexual energy and then to be the sudden and unexpected recipient of loads of it healed wounds I didn’t know could be healed.

Lastly, It was the beginning of the rest of my sexual life. It opened me to experiences, people, and possibilities I never knew could exist. It was my final puzzle piece. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the launching point for a titillating, salacious year of sex. A brilliantly difficult, but passionate year.

Best Christmas present ever.

 

I still have hope.


I have been sick for most of 2016. It began in January with a fever of 103 and is ending with laryngitis and tight lungs, the diagnosis of which will be determined this afternoon in the doctor’s office.

I am exhausted.

I have lost my muse, my cat, by many accounts even my dignity — let’s not even discuss the White House — but I haven’t lost my hope.

I hope 2017 is better than ever.

I hope that little ember I feel continues to grow.

I hope my heart continues to swell with love and light.

I hope to grow my bank account.

I hope to build stronger bonds with my loved ones.

I hope we fight to keep the world progressing.

I’m not hiding anymore pretending to have it all figured out. I’m struggling, working hard, fighting back. Everything has burned to the ground, but there is new life. It’s the way of things.  I’m still alive.  I’m still doing the things I love.

I gripped the balcony railing on the 21st floor as the owner of the condominium buried his face in between my cheeks. The city lit up below me and the cold breeze swirled around us, his wet tongue and puffs of breath hot on my skin. His moans of pleasure matched my own.  I imagined it was Luke and smiled.

I enjoy men in new ways, brighter ways now. There are no ties which bind, no words that bond. I am free as a bird and light as a feather.  This is fun again and without the stench of desperation flogging me on.

He had me keep my boots on when we came inside and made sure I noticed the sliding closet doors which were mirrors when I undressed and laid down.

He was hard and felt good; he loved my pussy, came quickly, and promptly fell asleep. I did too.

Just before dawn I crept out of bed and opened the blinds which faced east and watched the rose gold light spill into downtown like phantom lava. The reflection on the buildings sparkled and where the light met the night was a beautiful dark hue of blue, like my eyes in the dark I imagine.

I redressed and woke him up to say goodbye. “I have to take care of the dog,” I explained to his unasked question.  He’d mentioned earlier in the night that he wanted to have champagne and brunch with me.

In the long elevator ride back down I looked at my reflection. I saw a woman who never stops looking, who never gives up. I saw her hope.

I also saw a woman who lives her life as largely as possible.

This year may have tripped me up and beat me down with all its curve balls, but it hasn’t erased the core of me: an artist, a lover, a good woman.  I am tougher than 2016.  I am still here and I’m not going anywhere.

I might be too hard.

The script was the same, yet different.

I sat on his lap, naked and spent, resting in the cradle of his big arms. He stood and turned and gently lay me down on the crisp hotel bedding. I promptly fell into a demi-sleep, drunk off the $350 bottle of wine we’d split and the dozen orgasms.

His giant paw had slammed into me as I urged him on and I came in great rushes and filled his hand; his white mustache had crushed against my lips as he breathed in my orgasm like a drowning man. He hadn’t touched a woman in 5 years.

Franklin almost hadn’t come to meet me, he’d confessed. When I shared my pictures with him on Seeking Arrangement he’d found a couple of them to look “hard.” “Like you were a retired dancer.”

“Gee, well thanks for taking a risk on me.”

“You’re much more beautiful than your pictures, Hy. I was very happy to see you walk into the bar.”

He was an enormous man — more bear than human — and more than a foot taller than me, possibly a hundred pounds heavier.  He wore a brown houndstooth blazer, those type of 1980s metal glasses that all business men used to wear, and smelled delicious.

He’d been conned at least twice in the six weeks since joining the site, but the few hundred dollars he’d given away were such an inconsequential amount to him he laughed it off as a learning curve.

After cocktails, dinner, wine, and dessert, we headed to the lounge of a nearby hotel where he grabbed me and kissed me.  It turned me on that he’d told the servers and wait staff to pay attention to us and they’d be rewarded for their attentiveness.  It turned me on that he oozed power and confidence.  It turned me on to feel so small in his presence, taken care of.

He insisted I get whatever I wanted at dinner and urged me to not think of cost.  How different life must be to not have a care about money.  Everything I do from eating to dressing myself passes through the “Can I afford this?” filter.  It made me giddy and nervous.

“I think what you want is a boyfriend,” he’d said over dessert.  “You want to hang out with someone you like and who likes you and to not always rely on him for money.  That sounds like a boyfriend.”  I was too embarrassed, too afraid to answer.  Is that even true?  I couldn’t say and I quickly changed the subject.

At the copper bar in the swanky hotel, my lips swollen and my belly buzzing he leaned in.

“Wanna get a room?” he murmured hotly.  I nodded.

At the front desk I held his hand and giggled.  In the elevator he cornered me and smashed me against the mirrors with his weight, his hands roamed like a lech and I arched into him.

We left the room in a tangled, wet mess two hours later; I had to relieve the dog who’d been cooped up for 12 hours.  He didn’t need to stay without me and I suppose $500 for a couple of hours wasn’t a big deal.  He walked me to my car, kissed me again and sent me on my way.

It’s unclear if he is interested in me beyond our night together.  I have thrown my hat into the ring, but he has yet to respond.  The entire transaction, the entire night and ensuing days, have felt like they happened to someone else.  His lack of response has not affected me; he will either want to see me again or not.

His tender post-coital care came close to cracking me.  Kindness is my kryptonite, it’s the big spoiler.  Use me, fill me up, leave me and I will stand tall and still.  Show me a soft side of you and it is my undoing.  His distance since the date has allowed me to shore up the hardness he said he saw in my images.  Perhaps he was right.  I have been in the trenches for so long…

The story could end there, but it doesn’t.

Enter stage right a British expat who lives 1000 miles away, Luke.  He’s my age, tall, beautiful and neglected by the woman in his life.  We stumbled upon each other – as people do – completely by accident and have found in one another a salve to the wounds we carry.  With him I admit to even having them.  He knows me as Hy.

He’s realized he’s a man who is alive and not a martyr searching for meaning in the drudgery of his life and I have realized (again) that I want to be cared about and accepted.  Cherished.   Ben first lit me upon this notion and I have had a wobbly several months since our time together.  I’ve fucked and frolicked, but as usual have kept to myself emotionally.

Luke is literally in my pocket and is the last person I think about and the first when I wake up.  I want to make all his dreams come true then set him on a plane stuffed full of affection and sex.  I want the person sitting next to him on the plane to look at him and think, “That guy looks goddamned happy.”

He’ll arrive home satiated knowing he’s not alone and that someone sees him and I can be safe from long-term vulnerability even while feeling the ghost of his arms around me.  I fully recognize the irony of this, but it feels like a step in the right direction.  At least I’m trying.

Ben is across an ocean and so busy I don’t hear from him for weeks at a time.  Our distance (among other things) was the golden key to unlock my own secret yearnings for deeper, softer, kinder things in my life.  I was forced to admit to having a heart again, but not suffer the vulnerability of trying to maintain the exposure.

Luke is closer, can see me more easily than Ben, but he is still far away both literally and figuratively.  He has commitments at home that would forever prevent him from being nearby long-term.  We will always be apart even if our feelings are together.

And yet, I want him all the same.

I imagine waiting for him at the airport. He quickly closes the distance between us when he sees me standing there nervously, wraps me in his arms and kisses me deeply and passionately.  I hope everyone around us is jealous as they see our affection and joy in one another’s arms.

It feels like we’d be stealing a moment, but I can almost taste him I want it so badly.  I want to be a fucking thief because with him I don’t feel hard.  I feel soft and real, nearly a whole woman with an entire back story.  Not just some sex-kitten ready and willing for anything.

“I’ll let you fuck my face, my ass, my pussy, all of it.  You just can’t leave for 3 days and you have to hold me close and look at me like you’re the luckiest man alive,” I texted.  Tears filled my eyes.  My biggest fantasy and my darkest secret is to be cherished while I am ravaged.

“You are, without any doubt, the sexiest woman I have ever seen or spoken to.  There’s something about you.  I’m getting butterflies…” he replied.  And later, after he picked his name for the blog, encouraged me to lay it bare for him in this post when I told him I was feeling overwhelmed.

“I like what I see,” he said again.

::

How could anyone find me aloof?  How could anyone think I was unaffected by men??  I am avoiding pain and searching for myself.  I’m not trying to hide.  Clearly I’m a walking contradiction: I’m hard, I’m a puddle; I’m distant, I’m a shadow; I’m bold, I’m bashful.

I have successfully managed to untie my self-worth from the behaviors of men, but have I let loose of the ribbon entirely?  Does my understanding that I have no control somehow translate to apathy?  I don’t think I’m apathetic — Luke proves that, Ben proves that — but I am terrified of the closeness and now I worry that it’s trickled out and changed colors in the light of day.  It’s ugly out there.

Franklin’s silence is logically frustrating, but emotionally I am a flat line.  Never mind I think we could be great friends and have a very mutually beneficial relationship.  I feel a distant stillness about his non-response  He’s just yet one more man who wasn’t right for me for one reason or another.  I let go of any kind of “us” the day after I lay naked beneath his great bulk and didn’t hear from him.

There are so many others that I never bothered to include here, men whose time on the stage of my life was so brief, their impact on me negligible, that they are included in the credits as “Crowd Member.”  They’ve contributed to the story, but only as moving props.  Or as fucking ones, as the case may be.

And I largely felt nothing for any of them.  Just blips on the radar regardless of how they behaved afterwards.  It bothers me how little I feel sometimes for these local men, but it’s effortless.  I come by it naturally.  Perhaps after years of mistreatment I have become a product of it.   No wonder the prospect of Luke’s affections and attention is so utterly irresistible.

He says he has hazel eyes with green in them.  I imagine they’re like a sun-dappled forest, both deep and light, waiting.  I want to lie down on the forest bed and melt into the leaves and moss.

I want to look deeply into those eyes as I breathe his breath and hold him in my hand, feel him beneath my fingertips.  He won’t leave me because he can’t stay.

I may have overshot my target and accidentally convinced men that I don’t need them or want them, but the truth is I used to be open and I was punched again and again like a soft-bellied idiot.  No, Hy.  Goodbye, Hy.  I don’t want you, Hy.  It was fun while it lasted, Hy.  You’re all wrong, Hy.  I chose poorly again and again until I finally wizened up and took my soft self to a higher place where no one could touch me and when I’ve come back down I am no longer soft.  It’s not untrue.  But is it wrong?

A savvy, keen-eyed reader lovingly bludgeoned me in emails for months about how imbecilic I was with men.  She wasn’t wrong.  I grew hardened, memorized my lines, set my sights on the end of the story and skipped over sagging, boring plot lines.  I don’t regret it.  I’ve done what I needed to do, but now in the face of pure kindness I am forced to peel off a layer or two of armor and slow down.

I don’t want to be so hard that I miss opportunity, but nor do I want to be so soft that I am beaten to a pulp.  My friends come to me with all manner of dating questions, their hearts on their sleeves and I chuckle.

I remember when not hearing from a man after a date used to hurt.  I remember when long delays between correspondence bothered me.  Today, those are failings I don’t tolerate and I quickly move on to the next.  No fuss, no fight, just go.  Whether that’s emotionally or physically doesn’t matter.  I’m gone.

This push-pull of hard and soft is the battle between my sense of independence from the pitfalls of dating while my need to simultaneously flex my heart.  I may have stated it before, but it has become increasingly clear to me that my next relationship may very well have to start here.  As Hy.  How else can I possibly get past my own fear and armor?  My very soft underbelly is always exposed here and I am all of me: sentient and sexy, longing and lascivious.

Since I’ve come to realize I am more Hy than anyone else, it may also be time for Hy to be the star of the show.

 

 

 

 

 

 

So many friends with benefits.

“I’m here.  Tell me No if you can’t.”

I read David’s text and squealed with both fear and anticipation.

“Fuck. Ok.  Only if you’re really here,” I wrote back.

Seconds later he was through my door with his hand wrapped around my neck holding me on my tip toes, his mouth oddly gentle, his tongue soft and sweet.

My towel dropped to my feet when his fingers dug inside of me as if searching for a lost object.  My legs trembled and I gushed into his hand; my juices made a long trail down my legs to the crumpled towel below.

I hadn’t heard from David in months and we hadn’t seen each other since October.  Last year we met in April when I was still completely heartbroken over The Neighbor.  His big, fat cock and transgressive style of fucking were welcome distractions as I limped along away from TN.  However, pillow talk between us — or talk in general — was not very rewarding.

I found myself wrapped up in ridiculous arguments or defending my thoughts and feelings about personal matters.  I eventually went to some lengths to avoid such arguments, but after a disagreement about dogs of all things, I gave up even trying and accepted that we were better lovers than “friends.”

Over time our schedules intervened and we saw less and less of each other and last fall he witnessed me a hot, sobbing drunken mess.  The Soldier had stood me up that night and I’d spent a retched day with an old high school friend and being sexually harassed by him and his knuckle-dragging friend s we day drank.

David came over and pounded my pussy as hard as my heart hurt and spent and used I cried as I knelt over his splayed knees.  His cum mixed with my tears.  I was embarrassed to be so exposed in front of this big, hard man, but there was nothing for it.  It happened.

In January he texted to say his New Year’s resolution was to fuck me in the ass.  My response was something along the lines of, “Good luck with that beer can dick of yours and never seeing each other.”

We texted once or twice more this year until early last week when he reached out again and then Friday when he asked if I were home.

I have no hard feelings towards David.  That’d be like being upset with a wild animal for being wild.  Our friends with benefits relationship is one of mutual satisfaction and convenience.  It doesn’t involve sharing feelings or activities — a ridiculously boring hiking date proved that one — it’s sex and sex only.

I went to my friend’s birthday party with David’s cum dried all over my tits and when the breeze shifted it wafted up to my nostrils mixed with my perfume of hyacinth.

He came on my in great gobs because I begged him to.

After he’d licked me from top to bottom and worked me with his hand again.  After he’d pushed me forcefully to my knees and told me to lick his tight little asshole.  After I’d suckled his balls and choked on his massive piece of flesh and heard him croon, “That’s a good little slut.”  After he’d turned around and spread his cheeks for me and jerked himself as he purred at my warm, wet tongue on his hole.  And after he’d thrown me back on the bed and hitched my ankles up on his shoulders then flipped me around and wailed on my flanks as he buried himself in me.

After all of that he came on my face and tits and neck.  I slumped up onto the bed and laid there with him until it was time to get dressed for the party.

David was there for all of 30 minutes.

How different a “friend” he is than The Artist.  Though similar in age and height as David, he is worlds apart energetically and emotionally.  He’s sensitive and sweet and we have lengthy conversations about life and love and Domination and submission.  He is a neophyte dom himself and also a writer.  He wants to go to writers workshops with me and read my work.  He wants me to critique his.

I’ve resisted sharing Hy with him; he’s too loose, too wet.

Our first night together was drunken and fierce(ish).  His cock curves away from his body and when he mounted me from behind on my squeaky couch I burst into orgasm instantly.  That was his second orgasm of the night and my umpteenth.

We’ve texted consistently throughout the weeks and gone to dinner twice.  I am open with him about my other other lovers and I know of a couple of his.  I like him, though quickly learned that my sexual volume is much higher than he thinks his is.  Despite being dominant I am even more dominant; a moon in a planet’s presence.

Our hookups have been hot and quick.

There was the time he came over and though he promised to fuck me when he walked through the door we ended up chit chatting at my kitchen island for 10 minutes before he grabbed me and fucked me on the counter top.

And the other time I blew him for a minute or so and I had to choose to let him blow his wad right then or let him fuck me.  I chose the latter.

Or the other time I let him spank me until his erection returned and he jizzed all over me.

I have coached him and supported him as a friend would — I enjoy the mentoring space — and I have even spent time guiding him on what to do with his other FWB when he asked.  We are solidly “friends with benefits,” but the benefits are beginning to be in his favor, not mine.

Sunday morning he texted, “Hey I’m feeling pretty sad still and I don’t think I’ll be able to get off if we have sex. It’s up to you if you still want to hang out. I’m just not feeling up to fooling around hon.”

“What are you sad about?”

“Still bummed over that girl you know?”

“Ah, I see.  Well, as much fun as it would be to hang out with you while you’re bummed out by another woman, I’m really ok just chilling alone.”

His response was a favorite of mine:  :/

I’m not interested in being a shoulder cry on about someone else while sex is on the table.  Shoulder cry on as just friends?  Yes, 100%.  As a lover who doesn’t get fucked?  No.  That would wring me out because that doesn’t feel all that good.  There’s no benefit there; I’m just being used.

Talk to me and ask for advice about a death, a shitty boss, a bad day, bad friends, your mother and also fuck the ever-loving shit out of me?  Yes.  Complain to me about another woman and not fuck me?  No.  Absolutely not.  I expect my lovers to have their shit together.

Part of being friends with benefits is the suspended belief that we’re all we have for the time we spend together.  It allows it to be fantastic while practical and uncomplicated.

Bumping around with these two make me miss Ben in a wistful, fantasy way.  He’s been busy lately.  So, so busy.  I don’t remember the last time we spoke but the time I showed him my pussy has long since passed.

“Yes, Hy.  God, you’re so beautiful.”  I can hear the words perfectly now, like a moment frozen in time.

We talk still about a visit, but as each week goes by I have less hope.  There’s a story line for us in my mind that we will see each other for years until we no longer are willing or able.  Long distance lovers with a bond across the sea.  No one ever gets mad at each other and time and space are natural wedges between us so reunions are passionate and snorted into our bodies like so many lines of cocaine.

We become high on one another until the crash of departure.  We are perfect because we are virtual strangers and dream fuck buddies.

Our coupling at the beginning of the summer is as fresh in my mind as if it happened yesterday.  I can feel his body on mine and his thick flesh pushed against me as it slid deep inside.  His timbre smooth as were his hands which rested on my hips as he pumped into me like a little stallion.

Sometimes I think we should leave well enough alone with the dream.

My other friends are virtual.  Men whose words and kindness reach through the ether.  Their voices are unknown, their scent and taste a mystery.  I don’t know the feel of their crush.  One or two want to come see me.  Less than that are welcome to.  Besides, once you close the gap and touch me it seems to become a game of loss.

How much longer until it’s run its course and the benefits are gone?  FWBs is a short game, no matter what kind it is.  It’s a filler, a distraction, a fun ride until you find the mini-van you want to buckle yourself into forever.

After all these years I’ve finally figured out that friends with benefits means truly having no expectations beyond the moment of the ride, that moment he’s inside of me.  Gah, that fucking magical moment of being filled by another human body. What a joy that is!  What a gift!

If I could I’d have a hundred friends with benefits of all kinds.  The ones only good for sex, the ones who are mooshy and eye-rolling, the ones who are dreamy and perfect and everything in between.  Men are fascinating, exhausting, thrilling creatures and I want to gather them all up and give them pats and kisses and wag my ass in front of their drooling faces.   I’ll manage any loneliness at weddings and birthdays on my own.

What I really want to do is play, to shove the biggest piece of cake in my mouth, swallow it, reach for more and wait for the next knock on my door.  I wonder who it’ll be next time.

 

I am on occasion plagued by mediocre sex.

On my couch, exhausted, wrapped in nothing but my new pink, silk robe I sat. The man whom I’d just fucked was likely the first person to see me in it.

I looked to my right, into dark brown eyes and said with a sigh, “I love you.”

Our gazes locked.  We blinked.  I felt safe and accepted.

“I’m so glad you can’t talk,” I added.

The dog lowered his head to his paws and blinked some more.

“No, really.  I’m so glad you can’t talk.”

 

The dog has seen me with 3 men in the last 5 weeks or so. He missed the one in a hotel on the north side of town.

Each tryst filled with promise instead fell flat.  Or soft, as the case may be.  Or uninspired.  Whatever: wholly unsatisfying.

Mediocre sex doesn’t mean I didn’t cum.  It doesn’t mean I didn’t have chemistry or titillating conversation.  It means I never lost myself.  It means something didn’t work right, either me or him or both.  It means I went through the motions and worked hard after the fact to make him feel ok because I felt like he deserved a pat on the back since a hug and a quick goodbye would have been too obvious.

When I was in London with Ben we stuffed his meat in me as much as we could in 36 hours.  Not only did we have chemistry and a special connection, but his deliciously big cock worked like we wanted it to and I was able to completely lose myself in the act itself.

The act where I fell down a rabbit hole of pleasure and felt like my skin was lathered in peppermint in a cool breeze and my insides turned out, my body covered in salty sweat, tears in my eyes, my face pink and blotchy, and mascara smeared to my temples.  That’s great sex.  That’s magical sex.

It’s what kept me bonded to The Neighbor for so long and it’s ironic because that feeling, while bonding, is the epitome of letting go, like being bound by a gossamer thread.

But I have not been having that kind of sex.

Ben was the last great sex I had.  Before that Bones was ok — not fantastic, not horrendous.  His big dick took center stage, though he wasn’t the most creative lover.  There was Remington, The Welder, Captain.  As I push the calendar back my memory fuzzes.  There was Petya and The Soldier, David, TN — always TN, the man who blew my mind, body and heart to smithereens.

Try as I might I can’t seem to shake him from the number one spot.  It kills me, digs my heart out with a spoon, that he is still one of the most spectacular sex partners of my life.  He’s not alone, though — Troy shares the honor to a large degree — but the fact that our sex was so incredible from day one and continued to be pretty pussy-fucking awesome until the very end feels more like a curse than a gift.  No one ever stands a chance.

The men I’ve dallied with recently were good men, decent fellows by all accounts.  One was an Eastern European man I met on AFF who drove 3 hours to see me.

He took me to a very nice dinner, we flirted over drinks, and we kissed gently on a rooftop.  I marveled at his beautiful naked body back at his hotel, but he struggled to stay hard and instead of switching to focus on me he was obsessed with his erection instead.

I became a live Fleshlight as he pumped into me and sweat dripped from the tip of his pretty nose onto the bridge of mine.  He complained I was hard to make cum.  I ignored the passive insult and kept my legs spread willing him to get hard enough to cum.

I sucked him, I jerked him, I performed as if this were the best night of my fucking life.  Eventually he came on my tits and we were done with it.  I politely — and quickly – said my goodbyes and left.  He wanted to see me again, he said.

Another was a tall glass of water I met on Tinder.  After our first date he came clean about having a girlfriend, but we remained friends nonetheless. When he came over during a rainstorm one day he had mechanical issues, but we made out and his enthusiasm was contagious so I let him titty fuck me and spray me with his hot ropes of jizz as a consolation to a real fuck.

When I invited him over months later to go swimming we rolled around like puppies, but I was dismayed to see his cock was hiding from us again.  However, he didn’t miss a beat and immediately went down on me and with deft fingers and mouth made me cum like a geyser.

The next night, a beautiful blond man from AFF came over.  Nervous, yet virile, we flirted slowly all night over a game of Scrabble.  I soundly beat him and then he ripped my shirt off and sucked on my nipples until I cried out.  His cock refused to show up, but like my tall glass of water from the afternoon before he immediately switched to his hands.

I came with my vibrator pressed against me while he finger-banged me from behind and he jerked off all over my white, upturned ass and back.

And most recently I met a man who’d pursued me for a year on various dating platforms.  It wasn’t until we crossed paths on Match that I relented to his date requests.  He was confident and sexy and when I found his lips on my neck in my kitchen I was impressed with his moves.

Then things began to unravel: we lost a condom in me and, unbeknownst to me, he had cum and not knowing this I continued to try to get him back up which created greater frustration in me and possibly embarrassment in him.

If a man makes no noise or motion whatsoever to indicate his orgasm, how on earth is a woman to know the show is over??  It’s infuriating.  It’s  like sitting down to watch a movie and the very next thing you know it’s over, you’ve missed the show entirely, and your date thinks it was the best movie he’s ever fucking seen.  Fucking bullshit, man.

None of these men are bad men, none of them are even necessarily bad lovers, but what happened between us was royally mediocre, the pinnacles of mediocrity to varying degrees, and it’s highlighted how much I miss great sex.  The kind where I am transported to a field of poppies in the sky and can’t walk straight the next day and where I smile secretly as I think of the filthy things that we did to one another.

I’ve admitted to dialing it in before, but I didn’t any of these times.  I was game, I was on fire, I was fucking ready to be fucked to the moon, but for whatever reason shit went sideways and with each one it was a Whoopee Cushion blart instead of angels crooning.

I don’t have the answer to any of this.  I don’t know how to make sure I have great sex or how to even avoid the bad.  It’s all a crap shoot.  If you know the answer, please share (not really).  For the time being, I’m just going to cuddle up with the one male in my life that I know is a sure thing: the dog.

 

 

 

 

 

 

You go on a date filled with another man’s semen.

Needless to say, Date #1 today was quite eventful.  

Bent over my front seat, the passenger side door opened to provide side privacy and a giant, naked cock rammed inside of me as I gripped the console and he kept modestly pulling my skirt down over my bottom and panties which were shoved to the side as if that would save my virtue or something.

I can smell his cum and feel it ooze out of me even as I park outside the coffee shop for Date #2.

I don’t dare to hope that this or #3 will hold a candle to him, but you never know.

Sometimes it’s a strange path to learn to trust.

I pinched my eyes shut and silently moaned with embarrassment.  I didn’t think I could do it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said.  His English accent made it seem more official.  “God, so beautiful.  Yes, just like that.”

I adjusted the laptop between my bare legs and my naked pussy and looked down the length of my pale body.  The screen was of him, his large erection and stroking hand, his dark grey eyes riveted on me and then, near the glowing green light of the camera, a smaller box of me.

In it my legs formed a sort of low-M where the downward point was the dark line which drew up from the bed to my center to end in more darkness.  I thanked God I couldn’t see it with more definition.

Above that a smattering of short hair, a soft belly, two mounds of jiggly flesh and beyond that my blonde head peeking down at all the action.  I groaned my discomfort even as his words spelled out enthusiastic approval.

He asked for me to spread my lips for him.

Humiliation isn’t the right word for how I felt.  Yes, there was certainly some of that, but I couldn’t locate the source.  There was also shame, embarrassment, worry, flagrant bashfulness.  I have made it a policy of mine to never send pics of my pussy unless and until I deeply trust the man which means 3 men have gotten pictures of me.

It’s not because my pussy is extra special — though, of course it is! — it’s because I am awash with such emotions it becomes devoid of fun.  I have to beat down half a dozen complicated feelings just to send one pic of my vulva.  It’s an exhausting endeavor.  But here I was, legs splayed, all my bits on an iPad in London with a rapt audience of one.

Two hours earlier I’d come home alone from a pleasant enough date with a man who was a big believer in thin pants and no underwear and wanted to just be alone.  It was a boon to find Ben online and awake at 2 am his time.

He was naked in bed with his big cock in his hands.

“Hello, Hy!” he said.

Our smiles were big.

Soon I had stripped down for him and swiveled the laptop around so I could stand and twirl for him.  I felt silly, out of control, and struggled to remind myself that he had seen me in real life, that I had nothing to hide.

“You are so gorgeous, Hy!  Look at your body!”

I squinted at the little square of me and didn’t see what he did, but I believed how he felt about it and pushed on.

“Bend over for me,” he said.

I giggled nervously and did as he asked, my panties around my ankles.

“More, bend all the way.  Please,” he urged.

I bent more and felt my face turn red from embarrassment.  I thought about how differently boys and girls are with their sexuality.  Even after years of trying to reprogram myself I found myself a slave to my earliest insecurities about my body, such as there’s such a thing as a “good angle.”

Men* have proven to me time and time again that they don’t believe in a “good angle,” they adore them all.  The ones where my ass looks “bad” or my pussy looks however-a-pussy-isn’t-supposed-to-look or my tits hang long and torpedo like.  The assumption I carry there is clearly faulty — that there’s a “right” way to look — so when Ben asked me to contort my body in ways in which I couldn’t control the visual outcome I had to trust his tastes… and him.

I had to trust that he wouldn’t say, “Oh fuck, stop it! That’s horrible!” which is the other side to the “good angle” belief.  I had to trust that he wouldn’t judge me.  I had to trust he was enjoying himself.  I had to trust that he was being honest.

At an extremely formidable age, on two separate occasions years apart, boys I liked and trusted ripped the rug out from under me and I have only just recently begun to realize that though I felt at the time I had moved on and not let it affect me that it became an important part of my programming when it came to men: They are not to be trusted.  Ever.

So even before I began to make questionable choices in mates, partners, and lovers, I already had an infected belief.  How self-fulfilling that has been I can’t quantify, but it has surely affected me deeply and profoundly.

I can get naked for a lover in person, because I believe my charisma will overcome any physical limitation or shortcoming they might discern.  I can suck them till their eyes cross and get him to lose himself inside of me, but what can I do an ocean away?  I can’t make him not see me.  I have to trust him.

And so it came to pass that I was spread wide with his watchful gaze on me and his kind, lustful words emboldened me.

I grabbed the Godemiche dildo Adam and Monika had given me at Eroticon — the longer one, of course.  Still bashful I squeezed some lube on it and began to work it in as Ben moaned his approval.  I added the buzz of my Hitachi and the boom of my orgasm laid me out like a pancake.

“That was fucking hot, Hy.”

“Next time we’re together, I’ll do that with you in me,” I said breathlessly.

“Good.”

“I want to go again, though I really wish it was you.”

“Me, too.  Do as I say then.”

He told me to slowly push the dildo in and out.  It was complicated and naughty and I felt like at any minute someone would burst through my door and catch me while I had an open laptop between my legs, my left hand operating a giant and magical dildo, and my right hand pressing a Magic Wand on me.  But no one did and Ben coached me to go deeper.

I did.

Then faster.

And I did.

Yes, he liked that very much.

The orgasm came up and fucking punched me, turned me inside out and left me like a wrapper beside the dumpster.  I yelled out and began to sob.  I clenched and bore down on the cold ting inside of me as the waves tore through my body.

I heard Ben’s voice in the distance beyond my cries.  I convulsed and shivered and felt that keening, soulful pain I always feel with this kind of orgasm; something is just out of reach.  This time, it was literally him.

I turned off the wand and gently pushed the dildo out, swung my legs over and pushed the laptop to the side, and tried desperately not to cry with very little success.  I didn’t know how this would translate and didn’t want to completely lose my shit when he couldn’t hold me or see all the nuance in my sobs.

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “That was really intense.  I haven’t felt that since…” I searched for the last time.  “Since TN.”

It was a strange sensation to have that intense of an orgasm with a dildo and not a man and though I did love the dildo very, very much, the truth is it was Ben.  His voice, his energy.

“You did that to me,” I explained in case he was thinking I had just given myself the greatest orgasm ever and he had nothing to do with it.

Spent, I asked him what I could do so he could cum finally.  It had been nearly 2 hours since I’d stripped down and we’d begun our camming fun.  “I don’t think I can cum,” he said, disappointment in his voice.

“Well, try, please.  For me.”

Roughly 25 seconds later he was showing me the globs of white he’d shot onto his belly.  “Oh shit!  It’s in my hair!” he laughed.  “And on my chin!  Oh my god!”  We laughed at how wrong he’d been.

We said our sweet goodbyes and hung up.  I washed the dildo and wrapped it in a cloth and put it back in my super fancy cardboard sex-box, put the lube away.  I felt raw and sad, distantly happy.  I had a moment of panic that what if he’d recorded it?  What if he’d try to sell it?  Or hurt me with it?  But quickly realized it was my old pain rearing its ugly head.  Ben would never do that.  I trusted him.

I found the panties I’d discarded over the side of the bed as if I’d had an in-person encounter and crawled under the covers.  I fell asleep dreaming of a sweet British man and hoping I was starting a new trend: to trust again.

 

*I say “men,” but I can expand this to all lovers I’ve ever had, male or female, and I certainly can attest to feeling similarly about all the lovers I’ve ever had.  I think they’re all stunning in their unique ways. 

London crows and London kisses.

On the curb outside Departures I bent a little to hug him.  His arms opened like wings and wrapped tightly around me; we held each other fast.

“I’m going to miss you, Ben,” I said.

“I’m going to miss you too, Hy.”

I leaned in for a kiss and and breathed him in.  This might be the last time I’d ever taste him.  I thanked him again for everything he’d done for me and walked away.

I had barely gone through the automatic doors when the tears started.

::

I cried in the line to get my ticket, as I ate my toast and texted with him, as I searched for my gate.  I cried as I pressed the keys on my laptop and reached deep inside of me for words that would do him justice.

To know that this human being exists fills me with hope, with faith in humanity.  I knew he was different — which is why I accepted his offer of hospitality though he was a stranger — but I had no idea how much he’d touch me, move me.

Tears rolled down my cheeks and my mouth quivered as I texted:

I can’t believe how sad I am to leave.  You are such an incredible person and man and I can’t believe how lucky I am to have met you.  Hi, Ben, I’m Blanche Devareaux.  It was lovely to meet you.

An hour later he texted back and I cried yet more as I told him how grateful I was, how special he was, how I truly hoped we could see each other again one day.  “You are so beautiful,” he replied when I told him of my tears.  “Just everything.  You’re amazing.”

The thing about this young man is he glows and quivers with light.  He’s suffered heartbreaking loss and health issues as a child; is fiercely loyal to friends and family; has chased his dreams and caught them.  His life is nearly exactly as he wants it.  Relatively speaking, he’s a very happy young man and it was like nibbling ambrosia to be with him.

As we drove in to the airport my last morning a 747 came in for a landing, low and massive.  “Look!  Look at that beautiful girl!” he exclaimed.  “That’s my baby!  That’s exactly what I fly!”  Sheer joy bubbled in his voice.

From the moment we met we talked, laughed and teased.  On train rides, through emptied bottles of wine, on car rides, while naked, in London.  We never stopped.  I wanted to share everything I could possibly share, to show him who I really was.  I wanted him to know me.

I listened avidly as he shared tales of adolescent debauchery and of his recent, heart wrenching loss and I asked endless questions about flying.  I might never fear a plane ride again now thanks to him.

The first night on his couch I sat with my feet on his lap and wondered about later, about how we would fit together.

He was built like a jockey, a beautiful little bird with dark grey eyes with inner rings of gold and blue.  “Greyzel,” I said to him, though more accurately they looked like some precious stone polished and mesmerizing.

Exhausted from my magical weekend in Bristol — and particularly my day of travel — I ground down to a stop.  “I’ve got to sleep, Ben,” I said apologetically.

In his bed, with his slender arms wrapped around me and his lithe body pressed against my backside, I felt safe.  Warm, welcome, unbelievably happy, a woman with her face turned up to the sunrise.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” he said and squeezed me and nuzzled closer.

“I know.  Me either.”

His hand stroked my hip and he nibbled my neck.  My body flared awake.  

We kissed and tangled and pulled our clothes off.  I gripped the hot meat jutting at me and he groaned.  He moved to mount me, but I stopped him.  

We laughed when I dug my EroticonLive condoms out of my bag and we had to choose between glow-in-the-dark, dots-and-lines, and some other one which seemed normal.

We ripped open the third package and laughed again.  It was black.

And we laughed yet again that once on we could only get it down half way before it was too tight and too short.

Dots and lines it was.

We moved like old friends reunited and I held him close as he first pushed in.  Long, deep, eternal.

His warm touch thrilled me and I kissed him as if this were our last night on earth.

He didn’t cum that night, but he would the next morning when I took him in my mouth.

“How far down can you go?” He whispered, my mouth and hand full of his cock.

To answer I dove down and got to within an inch of his pubis, but it took some effort.  He was too big.

“Holy fuck,” he said.

I continued my work and slurped and sucked; the hair caught in my hands began to knot.  I kept going.  

He tensed then and shoved my face down and reared up into the back of my throat with a cry.  I choked and swallowed then gently released him.

He shivered as I climbed up to lay beside him.  We dozed intertwined like a braid for hours.

That night on the train home — after a day spent at the Tate, crossing three London bridges in my pursuit to buy Union Jack souvenirs, a kiss on the Tower Bridge near where the crows used to pick flesh from the bones of the punished, and eating fish and chips at The Hung, Drawn, & Quartered pub — I rubbed the hot bulge in his pants, openly daring anyone to bother to look.  No one did.

It grew handsomely large and I told him again how much I was enjoying my time with him.  In total it would be only 36 hours.

Back on his couch I opened the little box of condoms we’d bought on the way home and rode him, my black-haired steed, naked and golden.

I bounced and flounced and poured my breasts into his hungry, eager mouth.  He came with a beautifully noisy cry.

Upstairs I sucked on him again and pressed his hips down into the mattress with my arm and — knowing how much he loved to bury himself into my face — impaled myself on him.  

He dragged me up and kissed me.  I asked him why he’d made me stop.

“I don’t want it to ever end.”

I crawled back down and slowly brought him back to me.  His milk tasted of sunshine.

I flopped down next to him and listened as his breathing steadied.

“I want you to cum too, Hy.”

I showed him how to hook in and slam me to climax.  My ejaculate sprayed on the both of us as he slapped my mound.  I squirmed away panting.  

“I’m going to ruin your bed!  You have to stop.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

He went at me again and watched my face intently.  I cried out and released into his palm.  Once, twice, three times.  My orgasms an English daisy chain of pleasure.

Spent, I begged him to stop and pulled him on top of me and held him there memorizing how he felt.  How this felt.  I never wanted to forget.

We fell asleep on a towel.  I dreaded leaving the next day.

This young man, 16-and-a-half years younger than me, unlocked something in my dark heart.  I want this, this thing I felt with him during our short time together: utter and complete acceptance, passion and appreciation, friendship.  

I want a man like him who wants his own independence and respects mine but still can’t wait to see me because it’s not an everyday experience, because I’m fucking special.  I never want to feel taken for granted ever again, not after this.  It’s like I’ve seen how the other half live.  I’ve been eating dry cereal when I could have been eating filet.

I want a man who is proud of my writing and life as Hy, but who also loves and appreciates me.  Ben gave me a glimpse of the future I want.

The morning dawned too soon and I curled into him and pulled his arm around me.  “I don’t want to go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

I ripped off another condom and he finished in me doggy style as we cried out our orgasms together.  Tears pricked the backs of my lids.  This might very be the last time I’d ever be here.

We’d talked the night before about seeing each other again.  His status as a pilot means that he could come see me almost any time for any length of time.  Neither of us can imagine not continuing our friendship, but it’s not realistic to think it will be like this always.  I recognize the magic of the moment and love it even more for that, but of course want more of it.

In the car on the way to the airport I wanted to tell him with my own voice who I really was, but I never got the chance as we animatedly shared yet more of our lives with one another.  Plus, I didn’t want to cry in front of him.  I might not have stopped.

Strapped in and headed home I cried again and choked back sobs as I watched London recede into the distance.  A little bit of my heart forever there, happy and safe with Ben, my beautiful little grey-eyed  bird.

I would cry the entire flight home.  

My heart turns blacker: The new rules

I am at that place again.

That place of keening frustration and battered ego, hopelessness.

I had a magical night with a beautiful, charming man Thursday night.  A tall, lean welder.  I leaned in for a kiss at the bar and breathed in his woodsy soapy scent.  “You’re a good kisser,” he said smiling, his eyes locked on mine.

“You’re not half bad yourself.”

“Wanna get outta here?”

I texted him my address and we jumped in our cars.  Back at my place he stooped to kiss me and turned me around and pressed his body against my back.  His hands reached around and squeezed my breasts and I pushed my bottom into his hot jeans.

He pulled down my panties and curled his fingers into me.  “Harder,” I coached.  “More, faster!”  His hand obediently slammed against me and I filled his hand with my juices.  He groaned and ground his mouth down on mine.

We half-assedly pulled our clothes off and let them hang on our ankles and waddled awkwardly and hornily into my dark room.  He said he had rubbers except we didn’t use any.

I sucked on his chubby — it was only two-thirds hard, I could tell.  I was shocked that he could possibly be intimidated, he was stunning.

Six-foot-three, loaded with muscle, bald as a cue ball with a trimmed beard.  This man had no reason to be afraid and yet there he was at half mast.

To take the pressure off — and to possibly turn him on more — I sucked and slurped on him.  I stuffed all of him in my mouth, a very full mouthful.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a Magnum condom in his hand.

He pushed me off of him and spread my knees apart.  “Please don’t suck,” I told him.  “You suck on me and I’ll die.”  He tried it anyway and I yelped and pushed him away.  “You can only lap at me.  Like an ice cream cone.”

His bald head shone from the moon outside and he lapped willingly at me.  He slipped a finger in me and I educated him to a climax – twice – then hauled him up and grabbed my Hitachi.  He still wasn’t 100% hard.

His pretty face latched on my nipples and I rode the vibrations to a crushing orgasm.  He rolled on top of me and began rubbing his bare cock on me.

“No,” I panted.  “Don’t do that.  It’s not safe.”

“But oral sex is ok?” he countered.

I was out of my mind from orgasm and lust and wondered if forcing him to wear a condom wouldn’t kill the rest of the night.

“Ok,” I relented.  “Do it.”

He pushed into me and instantly got hard as steel.  And big.

We fucked and panted, gripped each other’s pale skin and I came and came again.  I writhed on him, willing him to lose his shit, and suddenly he did in a long, low, undulating orgasm unlike any I’ve ever witnessed.

He shuddered and humped and groaned and cried out and finally fell limp.

“Holy fuck,” he panted.  “That’s… that’s never happened to me before.”

“What?” I asked, my arm covered my eyes and chest heaved.

“I never lose control like that.  I can always wait to cum, but you…” he searched for words.  “You have a magic pussy.”  I laughed.  I’d never heard that before, but ok.  “You wanna take a shower?”

I was startled.  No one has asked me to do that in a decade.

In the shower we kissed and held each other.  I noted his back tattoos and felt shy in the light of the bathroom until he kissed me harder and turned me around.

I spread my feet and let him reenter me, 100% steel once again.  I came with my hands on the cold tile, his hot cock pushing into my body.  “Will you cum?” I asked, my head hung low.

“No.  I’ll have to wait until morning.”

I hardly slept.  The animals decided to make every obnoxious noise in their repertoire and I never sleep well with a stranger in my bed.  Before dawn his alarm went off and he rolled over and fondled a breast and fell back asleep.  I was happy he was able to sleep, the bastard.

But I wanted more and so I stirred and he rolled onto his back.  His abs were hard and rippled even asleep and I marveled at this warm, marble statue beside me.  I dipped my hand below the covers and felt his hardon which jutted almost past the waistband of his underpants.

“Mmm,” I said.

I kissed his nipple and stroked the heat beneath the cotton.  He was fully erect this time, way more than I could fit into my  mouth.  I lathed on him and he moaned and said beautiful things.

I crawled up on him and sunk gingerly down and immediately came.  He gripped my hips and we moved together and I came like a monster on crack, his cock hitting me in all the right spots.  My hands went numb and my hair swung in long blonde sheets, my breasts bounced like manic beach balls and I cried out along with my squeaky bed.

Twice, three times.  Each time I collapsed on him and heaved for breath in his neck.  The fourth time I sat up and giggled, bashful and greedy.

“Do it again,” I said sheepishly.  I felt like a child asking for yet another scoop of ice cream, more sprinkles.  Just more. 

He laughed and bucked into me while his hands pushed my hips down and back and forth.

I came with a hot blue swell and fell forward and half-sobbed into the pillow as he continued to fuck me from below and then with a long, protracted moan, peppered with shudders, he came deep inside of me once more.

He had to be at work by 7 and it was at least a 30 minute drive so while he showered alone I made him coffee.  I debated on what mug to send him with and landed on a travel mug I’d brought home from my folks’.  I’d be seeing him Saturday night and could get it back then.

::

The next day was Saturday and I texted good morning.  He texted back an hour later saying how busy he was at work and how they’d worked until 10 pm on Friday.  A few hours later I texted again to ask if we were still on for 7.  He didn’t say yes or no, but said he was currently “stuck at work.”  It was 5:30.  I told him my night was his and I was happy to be flexible.  If he was too tired to go out after work (whenever that was) we could chill at my place.

I never heard from him again.

::

The night I met The Welder I had a date that nearly cancelled on me.  I’d yelled at him about trying to bail 40 mins before a date and he’d agreed to one beer.  He stayed for 2 then left.  The second he left a short, older, round man invited me to sit at his table where for the next hour or so they grilled me about my dissolute life and then he asked me out despite knowing I was waiting for Date #2.

The following night I went out with a 21-year-old who’d also tried to cancel on me due to cold feet.  I’d told him to go to hell and he’d begged me to meet him after all.  I couldn’t call him a man unless you judge maturity solely on how big one’s Polo shirt is.  I sent him home with apologies, but I wasn’t able to bridge the age difference gap.  He was too childish.

An old friend, a man whose wedding I’d attended 9 years ago, was at the bar where we’d met with a work colleague and so I went and sat with them.  They were drunk and became increasingly inappropriate with me; their jokes thinly veiled sexual advances and filthy innuendos.  I felt masochistic sitting there wedged between them and then I began to receive texts from the rebuffed 21 yo.

Honestly I couldn’t stop thinking about fucking your tits the whole time [sly winky face]  Sorry for being young.

I responded with, “Well, I’m flattered, but I can’t get beyond the age thing.  I am impressed with your gumption, tho.”

The men I was with howled with laughter.  “He’s propositioning you!” they claimed.  I didn’t believe them until he sent this:

As a 40 yo you need to figure out how to get past [the age difference] so you can be sexually satisfied.

Lol [crying upset emoji]

[cry-laughing emoji][devil mask]

I kid btw… But really I would like to have some fun sexually [eyeballs looking left] IM 21!!! Plenty old [indignant-huffing emoji]

I didn’t respond until the next morning to give another hard NO.

::

This morning I felt wrung out.  I’d spent my Saturday night quietly optimistic about The Welder and filled with hope that he wouldn’t do exactly what he did to me.

Last Monday Bones “got lost in a book” and forgot to come over when he said he would.  I told him he was a dick and he agreed.  We haven’t spoken since.

Remington hasn’t returned my texts in days despite his last text being an emphatic “Yes, please!” to hanging out this week.

Men fall into two columns in my life.  In one, they utterly disgust me.  I am buried under an avalanche of men’s lust and equally repulsed by their methods.  The equivalent of them hunchbacked and jerking off all over me like fiends with their foul words and hideous pictures.  Unsolicited dick pic after another, gross come-ons and pathetic attempts to hump me virtually from all sides.  Me, Hy, just my very person in any incarnation I have.

And in the other they use me and lie.  My attempts to counteract such abuse are pointless, however.  The second I step outside the safety of my home I am contaminated.  The Welder claimed to be a human male, but was actually a fucking punchline for online dating and hope that anyone around here besides me acts like a grown up who respects others.

 

Hy & The Welder chat 1

Hy & The Welder chat 2

Hy & The Welder chat 3::

I fought tears as I purged the darkness of my feelings to a friend earlier.  Surrounded by hipster coffee-drinkers I tried to be invisible.  I feel trapped and hopeless; I can’t not be me, but this level of disregard is more than I can bear.

There is no “fix” to this other than never dating again.  This is dating.  It’s a fucking war of the senses, of the heart, against the clock and all rational thought.  You’d think that finding a man who’d like to be cool and fuck would be easy, but it’s about as equally hard as finding love.  If I wanted to find callous, greedy men then I’d be in luck.  Those are everywhere.

I am distant, I am private, I have issues with intimacy.  I am not looking for a boyfriend.  I am asking to be acknowledged as a human being who doesn’t want anything serious. Why do men think it must be either a serious relationship or a one-night stand?  Why is there nothing in between?? 

I don’t want to be cast away again and again and yet I am.  Repeatedly.

My new approach will be less subtle: Some hoop-jumping and Magnums.  No exceptions.  Since I’ll be used up and tossed in the bin regardless of what I do I will no longer suffer through inflexibility or soft, little dicks.  I will demand what I want and move on, expect only one night with each man who meets my criteria and put my hook back in the water the following day like a good littler fisherman.  And lord knows that I seem to have the fattest and juiciest worms, so I’ll have no shortage of men flopping into my bed, their dead fish eyes staring back at me.

These are the new rules.