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 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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

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 support our troops.

Hy on her knees 3
Imagine me with him.

Or “troop” as the case may be.

Captain was tall, 6’2″ and broad-shouldered.  He hunkered a little, as if to dodge something from overhead.  His texting cadence was respectful and succinct.  He was in town visiting his family on a pre-deployment leave and was going stir crazy at home.  Would I be interested in meeting up for a drink?

His Tinder profile ached with a Marine’s loneliness: he’s never around long enough to put down roots, always looking to meet new people.  My heart cracked a little.

“Yes, I’d love to meet you for a drink.”

We sat in the horseshoe-shaped booth for hours.  I drank my wine, he sipped his beers with measured resolve.  “I command 50 18 year olds.  I don’t drink like they do,” he explained.  I drank like a 40 year old who’d taken a Lyft to the bar to meet a 26 year old Marine.

He’d been deployed more times than I could keep track of and he was weary.  He felt a 100 years old and heavy.  I made jokes about nothing and flirted with his old soul, tickling him out from under the weight of the world.

Drinks gone I asked if he wanted to catch a ride home with me.

“I’d like that,” he said.

Minutes later we stood in the dark dog park behind my building and I teased him about the length of his jeans.  “Aren’t your ankles cold?”

I walked up to him, a building light cast a dark shadow along the right side of his face.  I grabbed his hips and tilted my head up.  I smiled at him and lifted up on my toes; the light glimmered in his dark eyes.

He tasted of the coffee I’d made him to perk him up and his lips were pliant.  I wanted to give him the best fucking night of his life.

Hy on her knees 2
Is my writing less impactful because my tits are out?

On my couch he pounced.  Passionately, with wild abandon.  I encouraged him with little whispered yeses and moans.  He pulled my skirt and panties off and roughly shoved my knees apart.  His clean shaven face crushed down on me and I felt his purr against my plump folds .  For a moment I felt as though he had dived into a deep well — he wasn’t there, but beneath the surface.

I dragged him up to kiss me and his fingers replaced his mouth.  He hooked into me and he was tough in that perfectly delicious way.  I gushed around his hand and I felt him freeze on my mouth as he realized I’d just ejaculated into his hand.  I nodded to answer his silent question and kissed him more.  He slammed his hand into me again and I came once more, drenching the poor motherfucking couch.

The next few hours of my life were a daisy chain of orgasms and puddles and trembling limbs.  His cock, a manageable size, found its way buried deep in my ass.  A first for us both.

I stood on splayed legs scrutinizing the sensation, begged for more lube, and then came like a mare.  My juices dumped from above as if from a bucket.

He fucked me over the toilet as I went to toss a condom, he lifted my leg on the counter and I watched us in the mirror, my hands pressed greasily against the glass.  I rode his face, his cock; I rode him backwards and upside down.  He was inexhaustible and I was not going to give up on him.  Occasionally I pleaded for a break and it seemed like he’d count to 15 in his head and then come at me like a rocket all over again.

Condom after condom slipped away, wrappers strewed about my room, my bedding soaked with our sweat and my juices.

Near 4 am he climbed on top of me, a familiar position, his weight heavy and slick on top of me and he finally came in a long, low grunt.  I trembled and fell limp, my hands prickled, my eyes filled with stars.

It had been months, many months, since a lover found such delight between me and him.  Captain, starved from months of duty, lusted for the release that civilians take for granted.  He drank every ounce of the moment of his effect on me and me on him.

We lay together panting and I immediately drifted off; I had work less than a handful of hours later.  He stirred.

“Hy, I’m really sorry, but I have to go home…” he seemed heartbroken.  “Can I call you in November when I get back?”

“You better, Captain” I said.  “And it’s ok, honey.  I get it.” I could barely open my eyes.

“Yeah, I just really need to be in my own bed.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself.  I’m ok.”

He got dressed and I staggered to my closet and put on my robe.

At the door I wrapped my arms around his waist and he stooped to kiss me.  Despite plans to see each other the following day I had a sinking feeling I wouldn’t be able to pull it off.  This would likely be the last time I’d see him for quite some time, possibly forever.

He thanked me again and walked outside.

“Goodnight, Captain.  Be careful.”

“I will.”

I wondered if he’d meant to add a “Ma’am” at the end out of habit.

I didn’t get to see him again before he went back to base.

Hy on her knees 1
Fuck the haters.

 

A ghost sneaked into my bed.

It’s been a little over one year to the day from when The Neighbor said he “didn’t want to do it anymore.  Meaning: date me.  I have never gone through such a brutal break up in my life; my divorce wasn’t this painful and I can’t quite figure out why.

Maybe it’s because I decided to trust an untrustworthy man.  Maybe it’s because I was truly me with him.  Maybe it’s because I loved him more.  I don’t know the answers.

The entire year of 2015 was spent working hard at healing and digging deep into my own psyche; what was wrong with me that I had allowed that to happen to me?  I had willfully ignored a frantic voice in me to end things with him the summer before he did.  I had been so desperate for it to be wrong I crushed any chance I had at listening to it.

Bereft and ashamed of myself I gave myself a couple of months to catch my breath before I began dating again.  I activated dating sites and met men with a clear idea of what I wanted: financially secure, smart, kind, funny, and hung.  Gee, Hy, would you also like a unicorn and mermaid with that perfect man??

It’s laughable only because it’s an impossible thing to look for, but I was intent nonetheless.  I believed with all my heart that he was out there and unless I put myself in front of him how else would I ever find him?

Tall men, short men, hung and average, smart to dim witted, I dated them all and even fucked a few, their differences from TN as much as a relief as it was a heartbreak.  Was he really so unique of a man??

Imagine my surprise then when Bones unbuckled his pants and I saw a penis much like my old love’s.  Same thickness, same length and the man attached to it is built in an eerily similar way.  Shorter and less stocky, but densely muscled and powerful all the same.

None of this registered in the heat of the moment as our clothes peeled off.  It wasn’t until he threw me down on the bed and pressed into me, his lead-like weight pinning me to the mattress and his giant dick entering me that I was reminded of what it used to feel like to fuck TN.

If Bones had somehow gotten his hands on some Chanel Blue for men and had a hairy-as -fuck chest I could have closed my eyes and thought it was The Neighbor.  But only for fleeting moments.  These two men don’t fuck the same, how could they?

TN knew every inch of me and Bones had only just touched me.  He didn’t know how to bring me to the heights TN did.

The second time he came over it was a similar experience and my sobriety only served to heighten the similarities until I looked at the whole picture.  Bones came over at 9:30 after Peyton fell asleep and stayed with me until the very last second he could.  The sun was barely up when he looked at me with puffy eyes and kissed me with his lips together to hide his morning breath.  “Bye, have a good day,” I said and then went and woke up my sleeping angel.

The third time he came over was after midnight on a Sunday.  He had been four states away for the entire week and wanted to see me, something about fucking the shit out of me.

He left in the afternoon, a little later than planned, and I was disappointed.  “You’re not going to be able to come over,” I texted.  “It’ll be too late!”

He told me he was coming over.

I don’t think I believed him until he called a little after midnight and woke me up.  I was groggy and discombobulated from a lucid dream.  “Hey, I’m on Cement Ave.  That’s near you, right?”

“Yeah, that’s really close,” I croaked.

“Are you ready to be fucked up against the wall?”

I woke up a little then and could hear his smile.  I laughed.

“How long have you been thinking about that?” I asked.

He paused, then, “Nine-hundred miles.”  We laughed together and I shuddered.  He was actually going to show up.  He made a promise and he was keeping it.  He seemed to understand the value of a woman willing to have sex with him.

There was a soft rap on my door a few minutes later and my heart skipped a beat.  I padded to the door.  He stood in the doorway with backpack and duffel bag and a crooked smile.  He kissed me, gum in his mouth, set his gear down, and turned to me.

I felt shy and awkward, makeup-less and sleepy.

We fell into each other’s arms and I was reminded of what an incredible kisser he is.  I got lost in his whiskers and lips and began to lead us to my candlelit room.

I kicked the animals out and shut the door and he pushed me against the wall and, just like he’d promised, fucked me up against it.  The cold sheet rock pressed against my warm palms as his hot hands twisted the flesh of my hips in his hands.

He slipped out and I ejaculated and moaned, ground back on him and writhed on my feet while he pumped into me.  He popped out again and again I squirted.  I needed something to grip and he turned me around to the footboard.  The bed immediately protested with loud squeaks.

His height was perfect for entering me from behind, not unlike TN’s.  I pinched my eyes shut and concentrated on the new man slamming his hips against the backs of my thighs.

On the bed he splayed my knees and slid inside, long and hard.  His arms were stiff beams on either side of me and the faster we clashed against one another the more my bed wailed.  Its screeching filled the room along with my pants and moans and cries for, “More baby, harder, faster, pleaaaaase…”

On my belly, my hands wrapped around the iron bars when I heard, “I’m gonna cum, baby!”  He pulled out and hot globs of jizz sizzled on my back.  TN didn’t do that for an entire year.

We slept comfortably in each other’s arms until our alarms began to chime.  His at 6 am on the dot, mine at 6:02.  We snoozed our phones and stretched into each other.  His warm, hairy arm flung over the dip in my waist.  The phones chimed again, this time one minute apart.  I felt a bump against my bottom, a little tap, tap.

I arched into the well of his hips and felt the fullness of his erection.  He squeezed a breast and pulled me closer as I reached behind me and stroked and squeezed him.  His hand slid down to my hip and buttock.  He lifted the meat so it would part for him and the tip of his cock found my hole.

He pushed in easily and the reverse curve of his cock hooked into me towards my belly button.  I groaned.  He thrust.

Morning sex is different.  I hesitate to call it special, per se, but it’s certainly nothing I’ve had much experience with in the last 5 years.  My lovers steal away in the middle of the night — or I do — and The Neighbor and I rarely fucked in the morning.  That would have meant he’d stayed the night and that was a rarity.  (Though, I would steal over to his apartment early in the quiet morning and suck on his monster cock until he awoke.)

He rolled me onto my belly and I raised my bottom to meet him.  He smacked my flanks and I fell back on him with all my might, the bed obnoxiously loud.  Faster, more furiously, more fiercely he pounded into me.  I came and twisted beneath him.  “I came, I came,” I panted.

He took it as his green light and came immediately himself and sprayed cum all over my back again.

He disappeared for a moment and returned with a towel and wiped me clean.  We lay sprawled next to each other, dazed and satiated.

Bones is a private man and rarely talks about himself.  Sometimes talking to him is an exercise in patience, but his energy is positive and he seems to be enjoying himself when we’re together.  He’s funny and distant, a combination I tend to like.  

It’ll be interesting to see just at what point the ghost of TN is completely exorcised from my bed because I know he still lingers in my heart as a smear of pain.  My reluctance to open up is evident every time I’m with someone; allowing Bones to come over and stay the night has caused me great panic and often regret at offering the invitation in the first place.  But his calm reserve and steady presence isn’t threatening and so I keep offering.

Also, there’s no fucking way I’m passing up time with this man.  I happen to be a big fan of unicorns and mermaids.

Four men, three days.

It’s not unlike what I imagine it’d feel to be warmly drunk on a carousel.  The melodies piping out of the organs in the middle, the slowly oscillating animals impaled on gilded poles, the streaks of light smearing across a park at night,  the captured smiles and snatched words as I slip past.

“You’re so beauti–”

“Yes, baby, that fe–”

“Can I kis–”

I returned from the mountains filled with the love of friends who’ve known me for half my life.  Who were there when my baby was born and when I left my husband.  Who knew me when I had just moved here, fresh-faced and intent on devouring the world.  They call me loving names and accept me for all that I am: ribald, intense, caring, loud, big, and dry when I’m not sloppy wet.

I let Petya go before the break.  We both agreed I deserved more than whatever hot mess it was that he was serving.  And though I haven’t made anything officially over with The Soldier, I’ve let him go, too.  Though because he is an injured soul, I figure the Universe might know what to do with the two of us.  “Happy New Year, you,” he’d replied after weeks of silence.

I don’t remember who else I was maybe kinda sorta talking to before I left, only the ones I’d met and touched: The bad Tuesday night lay who booty called me this weekend, but I was busy in bed with another man.  My old friend, Kevin, whose big, beautiful cock is attached to a guy who seems somewhat ambivalent about how he uses it; I was reminded of why we petered out before.  The fella who happens to be local, but knows me as Hy, and whom has a complicated entanglement.  Read: married.  We met on Instagram and decided we’d be assholes together, a roaring fire in a fancy hotel the backdrop of our first, chaste meeting.

And there were new men to look forward to.  Sex with one, lots of talk with two others, and an interesting combination of flirty, wicked-fast banter and some good ol’ fashioned titty-fucking with the fourth.  Thirty-two, 32, 26, 25.  My head spins even as everything around me is in sharp focus, the detail clear.

To my Saturday night date, the big burly fella with a dark beard and eyes to match, I explained that ultimately I was looking for a partner.  He misunderstood me.  “Hy, I might not be the man for you.  I’m not looking for a longterm relationship.”  I laughed and tossed my hair in that strategic way, pulled my boot-clad legs up under me a little more.  Clearly he had no idea who he was dealing with.

“No, that’s an ultimate goal, but I’m looking to have fun in the meantime, too.  I mean, how would you and I work, anyway?  You’re deathly allergic to cats.”

He laughed like I wanted him to and then he grabbed my face and kissed me passionately.

Later, in the dark, I awoke with his heavy arm flung over me.  The sex had been the kind of satisfactory that you might feel about the almost-fantastic massage you got that last time you went in for a treat.  I enjoyed myself.  I know he did considering his yells as I sucked him off and some kind words after I’d cum.

“Fuck, you’re fun to get off,” he whispered hotly into my ear, his hand filled with my ejaculate.

I’d rolled over drunkenly, sated, and fallen asleep, but now that I was wide awake I felt panicky.

I blamed the dog alone in my apartment for my pre-dawn escape, but truly it was because I don’t know how to have morning coffee with a man anymore.  Would he expect to have sex again?  Were we supposed to go to breakfast together?  Would he look at me expectantly to leave?  I couldn’t bear the unknown and so I dressed by the glow of his phone, kissed him warmly and promised to be in touch, and left.

Slipping through the dark, quiet city I wondered what I was running from.  The idea that he’d want to have breakfast with me or that he wouldn’t?  I couldn’t tell and ultimately decided it didn’t matter.  Both fucking sucked.

The next day, as yet un-showered, I met my complicated friend for ciders and to ostensibly watch football.  I stuffed my face with a hot BLT topped with an over easy egg.  I thought the yolk rolled between my fingers like cum.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

He couldn’t answer right away.  “Maybe I’m an asshole,” he finally said.  “Maybe I just need excitement in my life.  I don’t know.”

“Well I know why I’m here,” I said.  “Because you make me feel special and I appreciate the lengths you go to to see me and talk to me.”  I paused.  “But I’m still processing all this.”

He nodded.

He walked me to my car and the sun shone in my eyes.  I couldn’t see him as I leaned in and tilted my face up.  His beard scratched my face as he only pressed his lips against mine.  I smiled into his whiskers and pressed again.  We broke apart.

“I’m sorry.  I’m still not used to this,” he said needlessly.  Of course he isn’t.  He was an honest man before me.

I drove home, ran a hot bath and soaked away my sins.  The previous 18 hours tucked away on the other side of the carousel.

The blond man waiting for me at the bar was handsome.  I smiled and asked him what he was drinking.  “Club soda with lime.”  I suddenly remembered he didn’t drink.

I asked if he smoked and he said yes so we went outside where I watched him at once dance with the devil and fly with the angels.

With his sober recovery a binary lens for his life, he struggled to explain his feelings surrounding sexual relationships and intimacy since those are rarely black and white.  I smiled, adjusted my bosom to rest on the table top and forced myself to reveal my most newly realized and deep, dark secret: I have intimacy issues and I, too, struggle with managing it all.

His eyes twinkled and we high-fived over the table.  Oh, the irony to make a connection with a total stranger in under 2 hours.  I’m really good at those.

The truth is, there is a part of me that soars high above the fray.  The wind in my face, the ground below a beautiful patchwork of opportunity and hope.  I will find a partner some day, I think.  Then there is the other part of me, the one with no strategy whatsoever, the id which drives my daily search to have fun and be adventurous.  That seems like fucking fun.

The two coexist, they’re not mutually exclusive: I want a longterm, stable relationship.  I want to do whatever I want in the meantime.  Also, what if one of the “just for fun” men turns into the partner man??  I’ll never know unless I try.

He walked me to my car and we hugged.  I wasn’t sure how he’d fit into my life, what with his ambiguous feelings about pleasurable things — I need a man who can go all in with me and not pathologize the loss of control — but, because I am always open to surprises, I let him kiss me in the cold, night air.

He giggled and kept nibbling.  It was pleasant and sweetly intense.  His legs cut through the beams of my headlights as I watched him walk away.

The next day I met a different young man at the same bar.  He strongly resembled Clark Kent in one of his Tinder pics and I was a little disappointed he hadn’t worn his glasses.  Instead he had on a beanie and was painfully stylish.  All super hip kid, no nerdy Clark, but Clark was special in other ways.

Not only was he stupidly hot, but the banter I’d come to look forward to in our texts carried over seamlessly in person.  We parried zing for hilarious zing.  His Makers on ice impressed me for some reason and the fact that he was 25 made no difference whatsoever.

His legs lay in my lap by the time we finished our drinks and I traced his new forearm tattoo with a finger, though I wished it was my tongue.  “Wanna keep hanging out?” I asked.

“Yes.”

We had to park down by TN’s building and when Clark grabbed my hand to walk up the hill I wished with all my might we might be seen, but it was midnight on a Monday, a true pipe dream.  Instead I focused on a hot, intelligent, sexy boy grabbing my hand and my first reaction was to leave it there.

Clark was like me: he was open for anything in any form it might come.  “I don’t want to limit myself by having expectations.  I’m open to whatever happens.”  Hearing him say that after all the other limitations which had poured out of the other men’s mouths was like aloe on a burn.  Was I hearing him right??  Were we actually on the same page?

Back in my apartment, nervous, we fell into each other’s arms.  He peeled off my clothes, pulled me to my feet, and walked me to my room.  I grabbed a candle and set it down.  When I turned around he was naked and glowing, his muscles dark dips and bright swells of shadows and light.

I had the vague idea that I did not want to fuck him — not only was I emotionally exhausted, but I was bleeding — but I laid beneath his naked body and writhed and arched all the same.  I told him we couldn’t have sex and he bit my ear.  I pushed his head down to my breasts and coached him to suck and nibble until the pleasure ripped through me to my fingertips.

Instead of begging him to fuck me I said between pants, “Straddle my chest, please.”

He hopped up, smiling, and pinned me down in one smooth motion.  I took his cock in my hand and suckled and slurped, my other hand wrapped around and grabbed his bare ass and guided his thrusts into my open mouth.  He grew even more rock hard and I lost my shit.

“Titty fuck me,” I moaned.  “Please…”

He pulled back and grabbed, big, rough handfuls of my breasts and slipped between the mounds.  “Goddamn this is fucking hot,” he said.  I clawed his buttocks and closed my eyes and wished it was my pussy he was pile driving into.  He cried out and fell back.  The ceiling fan cooled the globs of hot cum pooled on my sternum.

He passed me a towel and I wiped my chest before he took me into his arms and held me.  We dozed in that peaceful place that two naked strangers share, the one where you don’t know each other’s last names — though, for the record, we knew each other’s names.

When we came to a little while later I tried to get him to stay, but it was 2 am on a school night.  It really wasn’t feasible.  I wrapped myself in a robe and watched him pick up the trail of his clothes.  Dressed and standing over me he pulled me in for a goodbye hug and kiss.  I staggered back to bed and slept through my second morning workout without regrets.

I always loved the carousel, the movement and motion, the streaks of color when you look out and the curiosities when you looked in, the rabbit with a saddle and the zebra with a bridle.  My life might seem like streaky chaos from the outside, but from my vantage point on my fiberglass steed it’s in motion, it’s twirling, it’s in a good place.  

The big difference between my life and the carousel — despite their many similarities — is that, like that scene in Mary Poppins where they break off the ride onto their own adventure, one day I trust mine will do the same.

And I have plans to see Clark again this Friday.

 

 

 

I fucked two guys on Christmas night: A continuing holiday tradition

For the 4th 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.  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.

He covered my face with kisses.

I understand that this post may seem like a 180 from the last [two] I’ve posted, but you have to understand that I am a master at juggling balls.

I couldn’t tell you if I am better at it than most or if it’s just simply a part of being an adult, but just because one aspect of my life might be ripping me apart, it doesn’t mean it necessarily bleeds into the rest.

I contain the damage, so to speak, batten down the hatches, seal the leaks and live my life.  Maybe it’s being a mother that’s helped me hone the skill; I’m not allowed to wallow, I have a life to nurture and have to keep my shit together, goddamnit.

In any case, despite the crushing realization on Friday that TN had fed me lies about the man he was and I had gobbled them up like a hungry street urchin, I went on dates and I danced in gay bars and I laughed so hard my sides ached and I got the shit fucked out of me and I fell asleep cradled in a young man’s arms.

This man is a stranger in a strange land, he’s young, he’s an entrepreneur, English is not his second language, it’s his third, and though he speaks in a perfect American accent he says things like, “You make my blood go faster,” which is decidedly not an American thing to say.

I met him on Tinder 10 days ago and he dazzled me with his odd sayings and strange behavior, like sitting on his porch and looking at the stars instead of going out on a Friday night.  He sent me pictures of beautiful ceramics he’d spun and fired himself.

The next night I was unexpectedly child free and I invited him over to hang out.  He arrived tall, disheveled, and dressed like the 25-year-old that he is — he’s way hipper than me.

He stooped to hug me and I felt him giggle into my neck.  “I’m so happy to meet you!” he said and giggled again.

I felt overwhelmed that night by his boisterous enthusiasm.  He sat too close and spoke too long about things a stoned hippie might.

“Are you high?”

“Me?” – long pause – “No…”

“You sure??”

“Oh, yeah.  I’m not high.  I want to be on point to see your beautiful face.”

Ok…

His own momentum of emotion carried him to my lips and in between excited, smiling kisses I said, “I’m not fucking you tonight.”

He fell away from me and with an easy smile said, “Oh, I know.  I didn’t even bring condoms!” and he patted his apparently empty pockets for emphasis.

We killed a bottle of wine over the next four hours and I was shocked to see it was nearly 3 am when I finally thought to check.  He looked at me sheepishly then and said he should go.

He hugged me again and got me to commit to a dinner date on Monday night.  I’m pretty sure I scratched my head as I locked the door behind him.  I felt like I’d been mauled by an overly affectionate bear cub.

Petya came to the US when he was 17 on a baseball scholarship from Russian.  He came alone and was somehow wise enough to know how to use his natural physical talents to squeeze out athletic scholarship after athletic scholarship and his classes weren’t wasted.  In addition to leaving college debt-free, he also left with a blossoming business.

Eventually he needed a business partner and moved here to be close to him.  He hates the heat and thinks it’s unnatural.  “I’m Russian.  This is ridiculous.”  I actually couldn’t agree with him more.

He owns a house a little south of the city and has a dog named Winter.  He works out every day and eats everything in the house multiple times a day.  “I am a barely domesticated beast,” he texted me.

He was a little late picking me up on Monday night and we went to an awful chain restaurant.  I picked at my steak and hid bitefuls in my black napkin.  When the flirtatious waiter came to take my plate away he pushed me to admit I didn’t like it.  “It’s comp’ed!” he declared and sped off.  A manager came and apologized some more.  I said it really wasn’t a big deal.  Petya watched me closely.

“I liked that you were so polite and courteous.  Let’s go.”  And with that we left the crew to their vacuums at 9:30.

At home on my couch he was more relaxed and less philosophical.  He smelled good and was soon nuzzling my neck.  I was tired and hungry still, but couldn’t resist his inertia, his pure enjoyment of me.  I opened my mouth to him and his beard scraped my face.  He bit my lips and I grabbed his wrist and brought it to my breast.

He groaned against my mouth and squeezed roughly.  I moaned into him, arched my back, and redirected his hand under my shirt.

My breast, big and heavy, spilled out of its cup.  He switched from my lips to my nipple and latched on and it hurt exquisitely, intensely.  I don’t like it when it’s soft; I can’t feel it.  My nipples are utilitarian, meant to withstand the life-or-death sucking of an infant.  FUCKING SUCK ON THEM.

He stopped then and stood up on his knees over me.  “Look at what you’ve done to me.”  My eyes fell upon a lovely bulge inside his fashionable pants; it pointed towards his right hip.

I rubbed it with my palm and looked him squarely in the eyes.  “You wanna go fuck?”

His face cracked wide with a smile.  “Yes, I do.”

We stood and in one move he picked me up and carried me to my dark room.  I clung to him and wondered why all these men keep picking me up.  David, The Soldier, and now Petya.  Are they fucking crazy?!  I am not a small woman, but I’m not complaining.  It’s unbearably hot.

He set me down and I ripped his clothes off and he mine.  He was sure of himself, passionate, beautiful.  With his cock safely wrapped in latex he pushed into me, my knees spread, my breath caught, my heart still.  And then we fucked.

We fucked and moaned and kissed and bit and I clawed at his sweaty flanks.  Our bodies ignited and sweat gleamed off of him from the light in the hallway.  My pussy rained down around him and my orgasms passed through one end of my body to the other.  I died a hundred little glorious deaths as I followed his light into the pools of our coupling, a shimmering mess caused by pure exertion and inhibition.  He was lost to his thrusts and I to his punishing hips.

He came with a quiet roar as I held on to his young body then he stilled and rolled off of me.  I lay there and panted, stunned at what had just happened to me.  One minute I was chillin’ on my couch with a weird Russian kid, the next I was being fucked to death by a weird Russian kid.

He was as out of it as me and when I peeled the condom off of him and took him in my mouth he shuddered.  I sucked and slurped and choked a little on his pretty cock and watched with closed eyes his body climb to its peak and crash down into splintered Russian-y bits.  This was not a quiet roar, it was a proclamation.

When he’d caught his breath he said, “Holy shit, that was as powerful as the first time I ever masturbated; I’ve never had better in my life.”  Whether either of those things were true mattered none.  My lips tingled from his semen and my smile was genuine.

He pulled me into his arms and kissed my temples, my eyes, my nose and lips.  I smiled again because I didn’t mind.  It felt appropriate, this bear cub licking me like this.

“Tell me something in Russian,” I said and then listened to the guttural, rolling, wavy words spill from his mouth.  “What’d you say?”

“I recited a poem to you.  It’s about faith.”

When he left he promised to see me soon, his tone relaxed.  “Don’t worry, that’s what texting is for, to string together the real visits.”

The rest of the week was busy.  Work, parenting, life.  Friday night I had my meltdown that I had so naively believed TN when he’d said, “I’m not that guy.  I don’t do social media, I don’t go out, I don’t do fun stuff.  I prefer to be at home!”  And the very painful realization that I had settled for so very little when all along he was more than willing — and capable — of doing all of those things.  Just not with me.

Saturday I limped through my afternoon and listened to my own voice half a dozen times, went on a ridiculous Tinder date, got stood up by date #2 and ended my evening with my favorite gays in a leather bear bar downtown.

Petya had checked in Friday to say he was looking forward to seeing me on Sunday and that it would be the highlight of his weekend.  No one has ever has said something like that to me in my life.  None of my old boyfriends, not my husband, certainly not TN and as I nursed hangover #2 Sunday morning I realized I was looking forward to seeing him again, too.  It would likely be the highlight of my own long, strange weekend.  Except it, much like the entire weekend itself, wasn’t all smooth sailing.

He was late and my risotto didn’t survive.

His apology was more of a defensive retort and I struggled to separate the baggage of TN always being inexplicably late and this isolated event.  He didn’t even know what risotto was, so when I told him that was for dinner how could he possibly know it was so time sensitive?

But we were eating this goddamned dinner regardless so I accepted the weak apology and set before him a perfectly cooked rare filet with herbed-butter, half a lobster tail left over from Thanksgiving, roasted asparagus, gooey risotto and a glass of red wine.

He smiled at me exuberantly as he cut into his steak and he froze.  “This steak is like butter!”  He quickly cut through and put the piece in his mouth, closed his eyes and said, “One, I’m never cooking for you and two, no wonder you couldn’t eat that awful steak the other day!”  We laughed and ate and all my irritation disappeared as quickly as the food.

I cleared the table and walked over to him and stood between his knees, grabbed his head and pushed his bearded face into my breasts.  It was my way of saying all had been forgiven.  We pretended to watch a movie for about 35 seconds before we raced into the bedroom.

It was a brutal coupling of gnashing teeth and loins, of him begging me to kiss him as he buried himself into me, his declarations of pleasure and of me pulling taught his heavy silver necklace as if to steer his passion.

I came to his urgent voice rooting me on.  “Cum for me, Hy.  Cum for me.  I want to feel your orgasm!”  His words, foreign in a familiar tongue, cradled me as I burned from the inside out and I squirted like a fountain in a museum hallway.  “Yes!” he yelled.  “Yes, yes, yes!”

Slick from nose to toes he had to stop to rest and flopped onto my pillows.  I wasted no time to work on him and suck every drop of semen out of his fine, long body.  He tensed and yelled and arched and lost himself to the deep recesses of my throat.  I hungrily guzzled every drop and flopped next to him, happy.

He scooped me up in his arms, tucked his knees beneath my bottom and hooked my knees over his hips.  He began to kiss my face again.  My ears, my cheekbones, eyes, nose, lips and his words spilled out as quickly as his kisses.  “I am so sorry for being late.  That was so inconsiderate of me!  You had this beautiful dinner planned and I was late and you had done so much!  I’m so, so sorry!”

I laughed, happy he had seen the light to a proper apology, satisfied that he certainly seemed to deserve more of my time.

I hugged him back and kissed his temples and forehead and he pressed his face to my warm, damp skin and kissed my breasts.  We lay like this for a little while until I found his sleeping cock and stroked it gently.  “Do you want to watch me masturbate?” I asked.

He handed me my Hitachi and suckled my breast and played his hands across the swells of my body.  I came quickly and hard.  He scooped me back up into the curve of his body, told me how hot and amazing I was, and then the candlelight faded into his even breathing and we fell asleep.

Minutes passed and we awoke together, surprised.  Almost simultaneously we said, “I never fall asleep with someone.”  And then we promptly fell asleep again.

The second time we awoke he dragged himself out of bed and got dressed.  “I have to get up at 6,” he explained.  “I wish I could stay.”

We hugged and kissed again before I let him slip out into the cold, dark night.  His hoodie pulled up over his head, his bear cub smile just barely visible.

I staggered back to bed and slept on my wet spot.