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.

 

The last time I went to England I fucked Peter the Swedish bartender. I wonder what will happen this time?

I'll definitely pack this for my trip.
I’ll definitely pack this for my trip.
In late spring of 1999 I flew to Heathrow International Airport and took one of those funny, old-fashioned looking taxis to meet up with my family at some flat my father had rented.  It was above a pub (everything seemed to have a pub below it) and within mere hours of close proximity to everyone I found myself downstairs without one cent of UK currency.

The pub looked like the Irish-themed bars in my city: dark wood, brass touches, a long, polished bar from years’ worth of elbow-rubbing.

I sat at a gap at the bar and listened to two ruddy-faced men with caps on.  Their accents lilted, their laughter rumbled.  The tall, curly blond bartender who looked to be about my age loped from one end of the service area to the other as they called out his name, “PEE-tah!  PEE-tah!” and he deftly filled their orders calling them by name with a foreign accent of his own.

His partner behind the bar was a short man with salt and pepper hair and darting eyes.  He missed nothing.  “How can I help you, miss?” he asked me.

I explained to him I’d just arrived and had no British money.  “That’s alright, I’ll give you one on the house.  What do you want?”

“Gin, please,” 24-year-old me answered.

He gave me a drink called the Virgin Mary, a triple gin and tonic in a very tall glass.

By the time I hit the bottom of it I’d tried to talk to the two gentlemen beside me in my best British accent but had failed miserably.  “Where are you from, lassie?” they asked.

“Guess!” I said coyly, worried they’d know I was faking.

They talked quietly amongst themselves for a few seconds before they began guessing out loud to me.  “Denmark?  Finland?  Sweden!!” they blurted all the Nordic counties.  They were convinced my bone structure gave me away.

I don’t remember which of those countries I picked — maybe it was Norway — but they were very impressed with my grammar!  (I still laugh thinking about it.)  I told them I’d spent a summer in Los Angeles recently to work on my English.  They bought it.

Peter, however, didn’t.  

He’d been hanging around our end of the bar and listening surreptitiously as he washed barware.  “Where are you from?” he asked me directly.

I didn’t even try.  “America,” I giggled.

He winked at me and I left.

A few nights later I returned with money in hand and a plan in mind.  I wanted to hang out with Peter.  Several days with my divorced parents, grandmother and judgmental sister had driven me to need time alone to be myself, to be Hy.

There were two American kids in the pub with me and the three of us chatted with Peter throughout his shift.  When it was over  they invited us to their rented flat across the street to get high.  Sure, why not go somewhere with 3 strange young men and smoke weed?  Sounds like fun!

The room was strewn with backpacks and travel guides and a little bong was on a coffee table.  We sat around and smoked and laughed and if my life depended on it I couldn’t tell you the names of the other two Americans; I only had eyes for Peter.

He was Swedish and well over 6 feet tall.  He’d been in England for several months while he tried to figure out what to do with his life.  His accent reminded me of snow and blonde braids and his smile was large and toothsome.

We decided to leave together and find another place to drink.  His pub had closed at 9 so we walked some distance to an even darker pub below street level.  We drank and made out, sloppy revelers in the bowels of a London neighborhood.

That pub closed at 10 and we staggered on to yet another and when that one closed at 11 — Why do all the pubs close at random times and so early?! I wondered noisily and repeatedly to Peter as we lurched down the street — he suggested we go home to his place.  Above the pub.

“I live there for free and work below and Jimmy my manager also lives there.  I’m not allowed to have anyone over.”

We sneaked through the darkened pub with only the shiny bits reflecting the street lamps outside as our guiding lights.  “Shhh,” he reminded me as I began to laugh.

“Here.  Get on my back.”  We were at the base of the narrowest staircase I’d ever seen, tucked behind the bar.  “He’ll only hear one set of footsteps.”

I jumped up and clung to him as he ascended each creaky, screaming step.  I nibbled his neck and he giggled, told me to stop.  He tripped and we muffled our laughs as he caught himself.  Up three flights of stairs we were at his carved, wooden door.

His room was dark and shadowy and his window was eye-level with the street lamp.  Light poured in and illuminated a window box with a cushion like a block of pale, artificial sun.

We were all over each other.  Drunken, half-strangers.  Our height difference made my neck hurt and he split his stance like a giraffe at a watering hole.  My face in his hands, his mouth on mine.

The window box was long and we moved to it.  I straddled him, the window to my right, and pulled my shirt off.  My little 34B breasts were pierced then, perky.  He moaned and took one in his mouth and I clutched his curls to me.

Our clothes peeled back to reveal our yummy bits and I sucked his deliciously uncut cock.  “They don’t do that in Europe,” he explained in his loopy Swedish sound when I remarked on it.  Literally drunk with lust I asked him if he had a condom.  He shook his head.

I thought for a split second about it and decided to throw caution to the wind.  I peeled off my jeans and pressed his naked body back on the cushion and sat astride him, his cock pressed against me, but not in me.

Above him like this I saw a beauty, a lithe young man heavy with passion — and me — bathed in light on his left side and melting into darkness on his right.  His nose had a bump in it, his mouth a Cupid’s Bow.  I cupped his face and felt his blond scruffy cheek against my palm.

I bent down and kissed him and wrapped my hand around his cock and slowly guided him in.  This was me, this was what I really wanted to be doing in London.

He gasped as I sat back on him, my mouth locked on his, his air mine.  I slowly sat up and wiggled him into me and he said, “Hyacinth, you are so beautiful.  You are like an angel spreading her wings.  I cannot bear it…”

I smiled and felt as though everywhere the light touched my skin and us I shimmered, and where we joined in the dark was cool and quiet.  I felt alive and humming, utterly beautiful.

Sadly, Peter couldn’t go much further than just that.  He was overwhelmed he said.

Instead, he pulled me down onto him and we cuddled in the window box beneath the city lamp.

Eventually, I had to head back upstairs to my family, but I gave Peter my email address before I left and for a number of years — nearly 5 — I would get an email from him saying he wanted to come to America and see me.

But I had moved on from that night and that place, though Peter would forever remain one of my fondest memories.

::

I’m returning to London in roughly a month for Eroticon where I’ll be speaking on a couple of panels.  I’ll be in Bristol for the first few days of my stay for the convention itself and then will flit about after that until it’s time to come back home on the very next Wednesday.  It’s not a very long stay, only a week, but I had less time than that my first time over.

I wonder if I’ll have as much fun this time around.

I told him I’m Hy.

His sphincter clenched around the middle knuckle of my index finger as I stroked the hot, puffy flesh inside.  He moaned and I pushed in all the way.

His wrists and ankles were bound to the bed with various scarves I’d kept in my trashy cardboard sex box.  I hadn’t tied anyone up since The Neighbor.

I nestled myself up between his long, pale legs and sucked on his great big hardon, cupped his balls, reveled in the spasms happening around my buried finger.  My eyes closed and I lost myself, drunkenly, to servicing this young, supine man.

The details of the evening are generally blurred, but altogether hedonistic.  I climbed up and rode him every which way, let him watch my bottom bounce on him, helpless to touch my warm, writhing body.  I kissed him everywhere and nowhere, whispered filthy nothings in his ear, and bore down on him in darkness until I exhausted myself.

We stood next to my bed and I took the long fingers of his right hand and gently showed him how to hook into me and beat my pussy until she wept.  I filled his hand almost instantly and he was pleased with himself, I was pleased with him.

He loomed above me, the movement from his pumping arm shook the bed, and I waited below until I felt the hot streams of his cum spurt across my closed lids and open mouth.  That was fucking hot.

Remington had resurfaced roughly 10 days before, single and available once again.  Our first date last summer ended with his fingers in me with my back against my car.  Dog walkers passed by unimpressed.  We’d tried to meet up again after that, but failed to launch.  And then he got a girlfriend.  “Well, when you guys break up, hit me up,” I’d said.  He hadn’t forgotten.

Our reunion was sweet; I was surprised by how good-looking he was.  A Malibu Ken doll sort of man, 25 now (not 24!), 6’4″, lean, dorky glasses that somehow intensify a man’s hotness.  We talked for hours and caught up and when one more drink would have tethered us there for the night I invited him to my apartment instead.

On my couch we talked some more until I could bear his flashing smile no more.  I leaned across and kissed him and was instantly reminded of that hot summer night in the street.  His hands crawled all over me and I straddled his lap, my breasts in his face.  He groaned and pulled one out and I let him suck and bite until he got it just right.

I led him to my bedroom, lit a candle and asked him if he had any condoms.  “Do you have any Magnums?” he asked.  Well, well, well!  As a matter of fact, I do!

Deep inside of me he moved and crushed me to the bed, filled me up.  We passed out in a heap even as his snores kept me up half the night.

The next morning the cardinals sang me awake and I accidentally brushed against his massive morning wood.  “Mmm,” I said.

“Mmhm,” he answered, nearly comatose.

I stroked it harder and told him to put on a condom and backed up into his big spoon.  I came, he came, I got up to make us coffee and we spent a pleasant hour or two together while he tried fervently to blink back the morning.

At my door he bent down to kiss me goodbye repeatedly.  “Let’s do this again,” he said.

“Yes, definitely,” I answered.

A week later I texted, “Hey!  Wanna hang out tomorrow night and drink in my hot tub then fuck the shit out of each other?? lol.”

His reply: “That sounds like a great idea!!”

That was the night I found myself drunkenly defiling him like a horny teenager.

I’d gone back and refreshed my memory of our first date together; he was curious about submission, something I had forgotten about him.  We met at a dive bar and he brought his guitar.  It sat beneath his legs like a sleeping dog as we joked and flirted.

When it was time we climbed into his convertible and raced back through the chilly night to my place, though our hot tubbing plans were foiled by large orange cones warning us of broken concrete and black, rancid looking water at the bottom of the tub.  We sat on the poolside chairs and drank wine instead.

Remington is different: he’s an artist, a virtuoso.  A musician who almost can’t enjoy music anymore unless it’s the product of another great artist.  As I recall, his profile on AFF spoke of his ability to find rhythm, harmony.  He’s trained most of his life to achieve his success and is on the brink of the next big chapter: a full ride to a very prestigious masters program in the fall.

As we talked over the course of our two dates I found myself longing to talk about my own art, of Hy and this blog, my writing.  I wanted him to know I knew — even if in the smallest of ways — what it was like to need to create something.  There was also something about his obsession with his own talent, his drive to succeed that spoke to a greater understanding about self-expression.  I knew he wouldn’t judge me.

The decision to tell him that not only do I have a sex blog, but that I am Hy, was an impulsive one.  As he spoke about his achievements I felt an all too familiar pull to share my own successes — a feeling I’ve spent 4 years repressing.  But I am tired.  I’m tired of the double life, the hiding, the allusion to my talents but no proof of their existence and so I decided to unhook my armor and open wide.

Click here for a litttle Snapchat Hy and Remington movie.

“So I have something I want to tell you and it’s a really big deal.”  We sat on the couch, hips to knees pressed against each other, the B.B. King station playing on Pandora, spent from our raucous fucking and just barely clothed.

I explained to him the danger of telling anyone what I was about to share (“It could ruin my career.”) and the significance of me sharing in the first place (“I have never told anyone like this before.”).

He listened with rapt attention and poured us yet more wine.  Good, I thought, that’ll make this less painful. 

When I was done he said, “What’s my name on there?”

“Remington.”  He remembered the joke from our first date about “Remington Steele.”

“Ok, do you say where I live?”

“No.”

“Then I’m ok with it!”

His smile took up half his face.

“Would you like to see what I wrote about our first date??”  I felt shy, expectant.

We sat on my couch and together reread our first encounter.

“Wow.   You’re really good!” he said when he was done.  I preened.

We scrolled through more recent posts and he saw the Top 100 logo.  He was duly impressed all over again and I blushed.  It felt like I had finally stepped out from the shadows into the sun — I was free! — and after years of hiding Hy from people in my life this moment stood out.  Yes, it was risky, but the bondage had dropped from my limbs, even if only for a short time.

I explained to him my ethical codes for writing about men on the blog.  “Since you know about it, I won’t post anything without your knowledge and you always have the right to veto.”  He nodded.  “But don’t worry, I won’t write ‘shit’ about you, just my feelings and stuff we do together.”

He took his guitar out of the case and played for me and the dog until it was time to sleep again.  I floated on Cloud 9 and sipped on red wine with my breasts hanging out like a true reveler.

The next morning he had to get to work by 10 and so we dragged ourselves out of bed by 8:30.  I made us breakfast and he got things ready for work.  I still felt comfortable with sharing with him, but in the glare of the day I wondered how much he remembered about Hy and the blog.  What if it had been lost in our cups?  Should I bring it up and remind him??

I’ve spent the last few days since our debauched evening feeling reclusive and busy with other men.  I’d told him I had 5 dates this week in order to illustrate the value of my time, not brag (he didn’t seem to hold it against me), but the distance from this young man who knows my deepest, darkest secret has been well-timed even if coincidental.

As each day goes by I feel more exposed, more vulnerable.  Not to attack or even judgment, but simply to the elements.  I do not share all the facets of my person with anyone.  People either get Me, the woman with the career and child, and the open-mindedness about sex and relationships (very humdrum, by all accounts) or they get Hy, the writer, the photographer, the exhibitionist, the lover of sex they can never have (which seems to be highly exciting to most).  No one gets both and I’m not even sure Remington will, that’s entirely up to him.  After all, TN had access to both, but didn’t want to read Hy because he felt it was too personal to him.  Perhaps Remington will be the same, I have no idea.

Not only that, but what if it was a mistake?  What if he tells everyone he knows it’s me??  Or even just one person that’s the worst person to know?  That’s the more deeply seated fear that prevents me from telling even my closest of friends that I’m Hy.  It’s not that I don’t trust them, but maybe they’ll tell their best friend in the strictest of confidence and so on until just one wrong person knows and decides to blow up my fucking life.  I can’t expect people outside of my therapist to not share their lives with those they trust, can I??

Ideally my worries will be moot and he and I will have an artist’s appreciation for what the other does; we will get to paint on the canvases of one another’s bodies until he leaves town and nary a thought to public revelation will be had.

All I really want to do, though, is fuck the ever-loving shit out of him until he’s in another time zone.  I wish I weren’t so complicated.

Hy and Remington on the couch
He gave me permission to put this on my Instagram.

 

I’m reminded of him.

I should have been writing, but took pics instead.
The morning after.

As my heart and I move further away from The Neighbor I feel the loss of the most special thing we shared: our chemistry. 

Together, in the middle of a dark and swirling relationship the two of us shone bright.  We fucking sparkled like goddamned diamonds.  Noodle saw it first hand, as did all my real life friends even if not that up close and personal.

I re-read old posts of our times together and I think, That was me?  That was us?  We did that??  It almost doesn’t seem real.

I was so madly in love with the feelings I had when I was with him it’s hard to sort out if it was the man I loved or how he made me feel.  It’s irrelevant now, seeing as how we’ve been over for more than a year, but despite the countless hot as fuck encounters I’ve had since our breakup, none have connected to me on the cellular level like his energy did with me.  And I miss it like a motherfucking limb.

Missing it means I’m reminded of him when I come close to it.  Missing it means I’m reminded of him when it’s a far cry from what I remember.  The feelings I had with him are an ever-present spectre in my life and I am confused and sad.  It’s so hard to detangle the feelings from the man, from our stupid, sad “relationship” I constructed out of nothing but tenuous hope and sheer will power.

Bones came over for dinner last night.  I made us lobster risotto with a homemade lobster stock and an arugula salad tossed with olive oil, salt and toasted almond slivers.  We flirted in the kitchen and he was more open.  He grows funnier each time we see each other.  It was easy and sexy and he joked about the workout he’d give me later since I’d missed my morning class.

His willingness to come over and spend time with me is so different from most men, certainly from TN, that it pulls up the hurt I felt for years to spend time with the man I loved.  If that isn’t irony, I don’t know what is.  TN is long gone from my life and a happy, pleasant, eager man is right in front of me and who can I not help but think of??  It’s embarrassing, frankly.

On my couch, brownies eaten with guilty smiles, I leaned in for a kiss.  He is by far one of the best kissers I’ve ever encountered in my life and I’ve never looked forward to a makeout session with anyone like I do with this short, muscled man with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Before long I was on his lap naked, save but for my black lace panties, and breasts shoved into his smiling face.  I unbuckled his pants and pulled his big cock out and pulled the crotch of my panties to the side and pushed him in and rode him like a mustang and goddamn it if the fucking couch didn’t make as much obnoxious noise as my bed.

We laughed and I panted and squirmed around the shaft in my middle.  He hit my thighs gingerly and I told him to hit me harder.  He did and I smiled, but it wasn’t hard enough, not like what he used to do.

I raised up off of him and his wet cock flopped on his belly.  “C’mon,” I said and pulled him up behind me and led him to my room and bent over the bed, feet wide.

He buried himself in me from behind as I gripped the bedding for purchase and locked my knees against the bed frame.  Stars burst up through my limbs and rolled over my shoulders and through my skull.  I lifted my feet off the ground and suspended myself on the edge of the frame, the perfect height to his as he slammed into me.  He wedged his thumb into my asshole, his moans of pleasure mixed with the squeaks of the bed and my cries.

I came again and little sobs tried to escape.  I held them back, the similarity to what I felt with him too much to bear in the moment.

I begged him to cum but he pummeled me instead.  I climbed up on the bed and he followed me.  Two bumping, humping pale figures serenaded by a rudely moaning bed.

I called him baby, moaned about his big cock, my orgasms, general nonsense.  My words incoherent at best, muffled groans at worst.  He pulled out and tipped me over and lay beside me.  I panted and closed my eyes.  My hands tingled like the were pressed on the tips of needles.

I pulled my Hitachi out from under my pillow and swung my legs over his.  “Come here,” I instructed and pulled him towards me, his cock bobbed in agreement.  His motions were confused.  He didn’t know what I wanted.  This was a favorite thing for me to do with TN and I hadn’t done it with anyone since him.

We reconnected and he pushed in deeply, thrust a few times for good measure.  I clicked the wand on and pressed it bare against my skin. He began to move and he lit me up from within as the wand drilled down from without.  I climbed and burst into flames in under a minute and his hips ground into me, so different from him whom I made hold still.

Sobs bubbled up and two tears, one from each eye, squeezed out and pooled in the shells of my ears.  I came dangerously close to the feelings I had come to seek with him every time we were together.

I threw the toy away and he swung my leg around him to nestle between my thighs.  His face was alight with a smile and I closed my eyes so as not to connect.  I never look into a lover’s eyes.  Just, never.  Even with him, I’d flutter my lashes and only peek at his intense, icy gaze.  It was no different with Bones’ dark blue stare, it was like peeking at the sun; I simply can’t bare it.

Still not writing.
Should have been writing about all of this.

His smile was the same, though.  That grin of total power when I began to toss my head from side to side as his gigantic cock filled me up and choked me from the inside of my belly.  He slowed his tempo when I begged him to speed up, just like TN would, and he watched with pleasure as I began to twitch and choke on sobs that refused to be kept at bay.

Legs over his shoulders, folded up under him, wrapped around him.  He murdered my pussy until I was a rag doll and tapped his shoulder for respite.  He stopped and rolled off.

“Are you going to cum?” I panted.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Will you jerk off on me?”

“I will certainly try.”

Again, so much like him.

He got up and found some lube and stood over me beside the bed.  I put the toy on me again and came quickly watching his hand make a dark blur of his groin.  Instead of finishing on me he climbed back on top of me and fucked me until we were exhausted.  Still no orgasm for him.

Unfazed — or deterred — I crawled between his legs and sucked and slobbered on him until I heard his voice tremble and his breathing jerk, his thighs tense.  He cried out as I gobbled down his cum and wiped my lips on my arm.  TN couldn’t do this for me for an entire year.

I climbed up and lowered down into his arms.  We kissed and smiled and fell asleep shortly after, comfortable in each other’s presence.  I didn’t have to say goodbye wrapped in a robe or see him slip out into the balmy night.  I got to fall asleep to the sounds of his breathing and feel his occasional twitch into slumber.

When the storm the weather men had predicted hit 3 hours later we awoke and moved closer to one another then fell back asleep.  When the dog cried to be let back in he got up and opened the door for him.  When we overslept we laughed and put pillows over our heads and slept for yet another hour together.

When the growling in my stomach forced me from bed I finally put on my robe and got up to make myself some coffee.  “Would you like some?” I asked not at all expecting him to say yes; he never did.

“Sure.  I’d love some.”

Then later, an almost sheepish request for me to make him an egg sandwich before he left for work.

We sat at my kitchen island drinking black coffee and sharing old pictures of ourselves from high school.  I didn’t particularly like that he was scrolling through his phone instead of talking to me, but I suppose it’s just more information to have about him.  He likes to check The Chive while he eats breakfast, apparently.  Maybe all men do this?  I have no frame of reference.

It was a little past 9 when he gathered up his things and kissed me goodbye.  My heart felt still, neutral.  Neither full, nor empty, just waiting.  As he passed around the corner into the morning light I thought about the clench in my chest every time The Neighbor would leave, the pull to wish him back into my arms for yet another minute, another hour, another night.  I don’t know if I’ll ever feel that way about another man again.  I don’t know if I’m capable anymore, frankly.  Or maybe I’ll just never meet another man whose chemistry is such a match to mine.

Either way, the stillness makes me believe I am either healed or broken, both of which I’m ok with.  What continues to be a struggle is that feeling of loss, either of what we had or what I wanted to have.  It’s like the fading of a scar: eventually, I’ll have to squint to see it, but for now, it’s still visible — he’s still on my mind — and I don’t know how to make that stop except to keep moving forward without him.  Just keep on moving.  Without him.

 

Definitely not writing.  It's been harder for me lately for some reason.

e[lust] #79

Elust 79 headerPhoto courtesy of Marie Opens Up

Welcome to Elust #79

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #80? Start with the rules, come back March 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

The Joy of Sucking Cock

Making Porn

My Valentine

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The One

Midweek Fantasizing – The Portrait

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Marionette
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

A kiss is just a kiss
Turning Corners
Another Day, Another Planned Parenthood Visit
My first vanilla date
Want, Need the Power of your Masculinity!
I don’t know how to date.

Erotic Fiction

Soft Lips
The Introduction
Erotic Fiction: “Words”
Darkness and the Rose
Taste
The Session That Went Wrong
Be Careful What You Wish For
Motivation
porn
The Tube

Erotic Non-Fiction

For You, It’s Always Yes
Gawan: Intro to Flogging
The Talker: An Introduction
My wildest fantasy: Ship slut
Marionette
Time for something quick…
Spread Legs and Open Mouth
My Girl in Havana
Let’s Watch some Porn

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

An Artist’s Story: Tails and Portholes
Sleeping With Our Future President
To Dude Who Was Offended By Lack of Escort
Try Love, Not Anger
Risky Sex
Why Cosmo is the worst (again!)

Writing about Writing

Condoms: fictional contraceptive of choice
Writing Fat Characters In Erotica

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Masochistic Mastermind
Take me to where I need to be.

 

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